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THE 

WORKS 


OP 


ROBERT    BURNS 

CONTAINING  HIS  LIFE; 

BT 

JOHN    LOCKHART,    ESQ,. 

THE   POETRY  AND  CORRESPONDENCE 

OF   DR.  CURRIE'S  EDITION; 

BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES    OF    THE    POET, 

BY  HIMSELF   GILBERT  BURNS,  PROFESSOR  STEWART,  aND  OTHERS; 

ESSAY  ON  SCOTTISH  POETRY 

INCLUDINO 

TIIE  POETRY  OP  BURNS,  BY  DEt  CUltlUE; 

BURNS'S  SONGS, 

FROM  JOHNSON'S  "  MUSICAL,  MUSEUM,"  AND  "  THOMPSON'S  SELECT  MELODIE&  . 

SELECT  SCOTTISH  SONGS  OF  TIIE  OTHER  POETS 

FROM  THE  BEST  COLI^ECTlOKSi 

WITH    BURNS'S    REMARKS. 

BXIXG,   IV   ONE    WOIIK,  TIIE   TRUF.ST    CXHIBITION    OF  THE    MAN  AND  THE   POET,    AND  THE 
FULLEST  EDITION  OF  HIS  POETRY  AND  PROSB  WRITINGS  HITHERTO  PUBLISHED. 

NEW  rORK: 
LEAVITT  &  ALLEN  BROS., 

No.  8  HOWARD  STREET, 


PREFACE  lO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 


Tns  fofiOKing  trifles  are  not  the  production  of  the  poet,  who,  with  all 
Jie  advantages  of  learned  art,  and,  perhaps,  amid  the  elegancies  and  idle- 
ness of  upper  life,  looks  down  for  a  rural  theme,  with  an  eye  to  Theocritus 
or  Virgil.  To  the  author  of  this,  these  and  other  celehratcd  names  their 
countrymen  are,  at  least  in  their  original  language,  a  fountain  shut  vp,  mid 
a  book  sealed.  Unacquainted  with  the  necessary  requisites  for  commencing 
poet  by  rule,  he  sings  the  sentiments  and  manners  he  felt  and  saw  in  him- 
self and  rustic  compeers  around  him,  in  his  and  their  native  language. — 
Though  a  rhymer  from  his  earliest  years,  at  least  from  the  earliest  impulse 
of  the  softer  passions,  it  was  not  till  very  lately  that  the  applause,  perhaps 
the  partiality,  of  friendship,  wakened  his  vanity  so  far  as  to  make  him  think 
any  thing  of  his  worth  showing;  and  none  of  the  following  works  were  com- 
posed with  a  view  to  the  press.  To  amuse  himself  with  the  little  creations 
of  his  own  fancy,  amid  the  toil  and  fatigues  of  a  laborious  life  ;  to  transcribe 
the  various  feelings,  the  loves,  the  griefs,  the  hopes,  the  fears,  in  his  own 
breast ;  to  find  some  kind  of  counterpoise  to  the  struggles  of  a  world,  al- 
ways an  alien  scene,  a  task  uncouth  to  the  poetical  mind — these  were 
his  motives  for  courting  the  Muses,  and  in  these  he  found  poetry  to  be 
its  own  reward 

Now  that  he  appears  in  the  public  character  of  an  author,  he  does  ii 
with  fear  and  trembling.  So  dear  is  fame  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  that  even 
he,  an  obscure,  nameless  bard,  shrinks  aghast  at  the  thought  of  being 
branded  as — An  impertinent  blockhead,  obtruding  his  nonsense  on  the 
world  ;  and,  because  he  can  make  a  shift  to  jingle  a  ^ew  doggerel  Scotch 
rhymes  together,  looking  upon  himself  as  a  poet  of  no  small  consequence, 
forsooth ! 

It  is  an  observation  of  that  celebrated  poet,  Shenstone,  wnose  divine  ele. 
gie:  do  honour  to  our  language,  our  nation,  and  our  species,  that  "  HumUiti,^ 
has  depressed  many  a  genius  to  a  hermit,  but  never  raised  one  to  tinne  !" 
If  any  critic  catches  at  the  word  genius,  the  author  tells  him  once  ^or  /iH. 
that  he  certainly  looks  upon  himself  as  possessed  of  some  poetic  abilities, 
otherwise  his  publishing  in  the  manner  he  has  done,  would  be  a  manoeuvre 
below  the  worst  character,  which,  he  hopes,  his  worst  enemy  will  ever 
give  him.  But  to  the  genius  of  a  Ramsay,  or  the  glorious  dawnings  of  the 
loor,  unfortunate  Ferguoson,  he,  with  equal  unaffected  sincerity,  declares, 
that,  even  in  hi*  highest  pulse  of  vanity,  he  has  not  the  most  distant  pre- 
tensions. These  two  justly  admired  Scotch  poets  he  has  often  had  in  his 
sye  in  the  following  pieces  ;  but  rather  with  a  view  to  kindle  at  their  flame, 
Uian  for  servile  imitation. 


iy  PREFACE  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION. 

To  his  subscribers,  the  author  returns  his  most  sincere  thanks .  N-t  the 
mercenary  bow  over  a  counter,  but  the  heart-throbbing  gratitude  of  the 
bard,  conscious  how  much  he  owes  to  benevolence  and  friendship  for  gra- 
tl'''«-ing  him,  if  he  deserves  it,  in  that  dearest  wish  of  every  poetic  bosom- 
V  je'distinguished.  He  begs  his  readers,  particularly  the  learned  and  the 
.■<  Jite,  who  may  honour  him  with  a  perusal,  that  they  will  make  every  al- 
lowance for  education  and  circumstances  of  life  ;  but  if,  after  a  fair,  can- 
did, and  impartial  criticism,  he  shall  stand  convicted  of  dullness  and  non- 
Bense,  let  him  he  done  by  as  he  would  in  that  case  do  by  others— let  hi<iS 
be  oondjmned,  without  mercy,  to  contempt  and  oblivion. 


Ik  the  Dedication  of  the  Life  of  Burns  by  Dr.  Currie  to  his  friend  Cap 
tain  Graham  iMoore.  the  learned  Doctor  thus  expresses  himself  as  to  his 
Editorial  office : — "  The  task  was  beset  with  considerable  difficulties,  and 
*■<  men  of  established  reputation  naturally  declined  an  undertaking,  to  the 
"  performance  of  which  it  v/as  scarcely  to  be  hoped  that  general  approoa- 
"  tion  could  be  obtained  by  any  exertion  of  judgment  or  temper  To  such 
"  an  office  my  place  of  residence,  my  accustomed  studies,  and  my  occu- 
"  pations,  were  certainly  little  suited.  But  the  partiality  of  Mr.  Syme 
*'  thought  me,  in  other  respects,  not  unqualified  ;  and  his  solicitations, 
•<  joined  to  those  of  our  excellent  friend  and  relation,  Mrs.  Dunlop,  and  ot 
•'  other  friends  ©f  the  family  of  the  poet,  I  have  not  been  able  to  resist." 

These  sentences  contain  singular  avowals.  They  are  somehow  apt  to 
suggest,  what  we  have  all  heard  before,  that  some  are  born  to  honour, 
while  others  have  honours  thrust  upon  them.  The  Doctor's  squeandshness 
in  favour  of  persons  of  established  reputation,  who  might  be  chary  of  a  tick- 
lish and  imoracticable,  if  not  an  odious  task,  is  in  ludicrous  contrast  with  the 
facts  as  they  have  since  fallen  out.  Have  we  not  seen  the  master-spirits 
of  the  age,  Scott,  Byron,  Campbell,  honouring  in  Burns  a  kindred,  if  not  a 
superior  genius,  and,  like  passionate  devotees,  doing  him  homage  ?  They 
have  all  voluntarily  written  of  him ;  and  their  recorded  opinions  evince  no 
feelings  of  shyness,  but  the  reverse  :  they  not  only  honour,  but  write  as  if 
honoured  by  their  theme.  But  let  us  leave  the  subject,  by  merely  pointing 
attention  to  the  Doctor's  mode  of  treating  it.  as  a  decisive  test  of  the  evil 
days  and  evil  tongues  amidst  which  the  poet  had  fallen,  and  of  the  exis- 
tence of  that  deplorable  party-spirit,  during  which  the  facts  involving  hia 
character  as  a  man,  and  his  reputation  as  a  poet,  could  neither  be  cor- 
rectly stated,  nor  fairly  estimated. 

It  is  true.  Dr.  Carrie's  Life  contained  invaluable  materials.  The  poet's 
auto-biographical  letter  to  Dr.  iMoore, — indeed  the  whole  of  his  letters, — 
the  letters  of  his  brother  Gilbert, — of  Professor  Dugald  Stewart, — of  INIr. 
Murdoch  and  of  Mr.  Syme,  and  the  other  contributors,  are  invaluable  ma- 
terials. They  form  trulv  the  verv  baclfrbone  of  tl.e  poet's  life,  as  edited  hi 


V   "   ) 

Dr  Cunic.  They  must  ever  be  regarded  as  precious  relics ;  and  howevei 
largely  they  may  be  used  as  a  part  of  a  biographical  work,  tliey  ought  also 
to  be  presented  in  the  separate  form,  entire  ;  for,  taken  in  connection  with 
the  general  correspondence,  they  will  be  found  to  be  curiously  illustrative 
of  the  then  state  of  society  in  Scotland,  and  moreover  to  contain  manifold 
and  undoubted  proofs  of  the  diffusion  and  actual  existence,  amongst  Scots- 
men of  all  degrees,  of  that  literary  talent,  \;hich  had  only  been  inferred^ 
hvpothetically,  from  the  nature  of  her  elementary  institutions. 

v\'e  have  no  wish  to  detract  from  the  high  reputation  of  Dr.  Currle. 
It  will  however  be  remarked,  that  the  biographical  part  of  his  labours, 
as  stated  by  himself,  involve  little  beyond  the  office  of  reducteitr. — He 
was  not  upon  the  spot,  but  living  in  England,  and  he  was  engaged  with 
professional  avocations.  If  truth  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  well,  he  had  nei- 
ther the  time  nor  the  means  to  fish  it  up.  Accordingly,  it  is  not  pretended 
that  he  proceeded  upon  his  own  views,  formed,  on  any  single  occasion,  after 
a  painful  or  pains-taking  scrutiny ;  or  that,  in  giving  a  picture  of  the  man 
and  the  poet,  he  did  more  than  present  to  the  public  what  had  come  to 
him  entirely  at  second-hand,  and  upon  the  authority  of  others  ;  however 
tainted  or  perverted  the  matter  might  have  been,  from  the  then  general- 
ly diseased  state  of  the  public  mind.  The  Life  of  the  poet,  compiled  undei 
such  circumstances,  was  necessarily  defective, — nay  it  did  him  positive  in 
justice  in  various  respects,  particularly  as  to  his  personal  habits  and  mora' 
character.  These  were  represented  with  exaggerated  and  hideous  features 
unwarranted  by  truth,  and  having  their  chief  origin  in  the  malignant  viru 
lence  of  party  strife. 

The  want  of  a  Life  of  Burns,  more  correctly  drawn,  was  long  felt.  This 
is  evident  from  the  nature  of  the  notices  bestowed,  in  the  periodicals  oi 
the  time,  upon  the  successive  works  of  Walker  and  Irving,  -.vho  each  ol 
them  attempted  the  task  of  his  biographer ;  and  upon  ti.e  publications  of 
Cromek,  who  in  his  "  K cliques,"  and  "  Select  Scotti&h  Songs,"  brought  to 
light  much  interesting  and  original  matter.  But  these  attempts  only  whet- 
ted and  kept  alive  tlie  general  feeling,  which  was  not  gratified  in  its  fuil 
extent  until  nearly  thirty  years  after  the  publication  of  Dr.  Currie't  work. 
It  was  nut  until  18"^7  that  a  historian,  worthy  of  the  poet,  appeared  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  John  Lockhart,  thv»  son-in-law  of  Sir  \Valtcr  Scoit,  and  (ra- 
ther a  discordant  title).  Editor  of  the  London  Quarterly  Review.  He  in 
that  year  published  a  Life  of  Burns,  both  in  the  separate  form,  and  as  a  part 
of  that  excellent  repertory  known  by  the  title  of  CousUihles  31/ sec/ /a hi/. 

It  is  only  necessary  to  read  Mr.  Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns,  to  be  satisfied 
of  his  qualifications  for  the  task,  and  that  he  has  succeeded  in  putting 
them,  alter  an  upright  and  conscientious  manner,  to  the  proper  use.  Jt 
certainly  appears  odd,  that  a  high  Tory  functionary  should  stand  out  the 
ciiampion  of  the  Bard  who  sung, 

"  A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that :" 

and  who,  because  of  his  democratic  tendencies,  not  only  missed  of  public 
patronage,  but  moreover  had  long  to  sustain  every  humiliation  and  indirect 
persecution  the  local  satellites  of  intolerance  could  fling  upon  him.  But  the 
lapse  of  time,  and  the  spread  of  intelligence,  have  done  much  to  remove 
prejudices  and  soften  asperities;  to  say  notliing  of  that  independence  of 
mind  which  always  adiieres  to  true  genius,  and  which  the  circumstances 
in  the  poet's  history  naturally  roused  and  excited  in  a  kindred  snirit.    Mr 


f         ••• 

(   1"   , 

Lockhart,  it  will  farther  bo  observed,  besides  having  compiled  his  iv-ork  vr. 
der  circumstances  of  a  general  nature  much  more  favourable  to  accurate 
delineation,  likewise  set  about  the  task  in  a  more  philosophical  mannci 
than  the  preceding  biographers.  lie  judged  for  himself;  he  took  neither 
flicts  nor  opinions  at  second-hand ;  but  inquired,  studied,  compared,  and 
where  doubtful,  extricated  the  fiicts  in  the  most  judicious  and  careful  man 
ner.  It  may  be  said,  that  that  portion  of  the  poet's  mantle  which  invested 
his  sturdiness  of  temper,  has  fallen  upon  the  biographer,  who,  as  the  poet 
did,  always  thinks  and  speaks  for  himself. 

These  being  our  sentiments  of  Mr.  Lockhart's  Life  of  Burns,  we  have 
preferred  it,  as  by  far  the  most  suitable  biographical  accompaniment  of  the 
present  edition  of  his  works.  It  has  been  our  study  to  insert,  in  this  edi- 
tion, every  thing  hitherto  published,  and  fit  to  be  published,  of  which 
Burns  was  the  author.  The  reader  will  find  here  all  that  is  contained 
in  Dr.  Currie's  edition  of  1800,  with  the  pieces  brought  to  light  by  all  the 
respectable  authors  who  have  since  written  or  published  of  Burns. — The 
following  general  heads  will  show  the  nature  and  extent  of  the  present 
work. 

1.  The  Life  by  Lockhart. 

2.  The  Poems,  as  published  in  the  Kilmarnock  and  first  Edinburgh  edition, 

with  the  poet's  own  prefaces  to  these  editions,  and  also  as  published 
in  Dr.  Currie's  edition  of  1800;  having  superadded  the  pieces  since 
brought  forward  by  Walker,  Irving,  Morison,  Paul,  and  Cromek. 

3.  Essay  (by  Dr.  Carrie),  on  Scottish  Poetry,  including  the  Poetry  of 

Burns. 

4.  Select  Scottish  Songs  not  Burns's,  upwards  of  2U0  in  number,  and  many 

of  them  having  his  Annotations,  Historical  and  Critical,  prefixed. 

5.  Burns's  Songs,  collected  from  Johnson's  Musical  Museum,  the  larger 

work  of  Thomson,  and  from  the  publications  of  Cromek,  Cunningham, 
and  Chalmers,  nearly  200  in  number. 

6.  The  Correspondence,  including  all  the  Letters  published  by  Dr.  Currie, 

besides  a  number  subsequently  recovered,  published  by  Cromek  and 
others. 

The  whole  forming  the  best  picture  of  the  man  and  the  poet,  and  the  only 
complete  edition  of  his  writings,  in  one  work,  hitherto  offered  to  the  public. 
Besides  a  portrait  of  the  poet,  executed  by  an  able  artist,  long  familiar  with 
the  original  picture  by  Nasmyth,  there  is  also  here  presented,  (an  entire 
novelty),  a  fac-simile  of  the  poet's  handwriting.  It  was  at  one  time  mat- 
ter of  surprise  that  the  Ploughman  should  have  been  a  man  of  genius  and 
a  poet.  If  any  such  curious  persons  still  exist,  they  will  of  course  be  like- 
wise surprised  to  find  that  he  was  so  good  a  penman. 

Mew  Yokk,  Sept.  11,  1832. 


CONTENTS  OF  BUUNS'S  WORKS. 


OF  THE  LIFE. 


Page 
Chap.  I  —The  Poet's  Birth,  IJSO— Circumstances  and  peculiar  Character  of  his 
Father  and  Mother — Hardships  of  his  early  years — Sources,  such  as  they  were,  of 
his  i\Iental  Improvement — Commenceth  Love  and  Poetry  at  10, ^        i — viii 

Chap.  II — From  17  to  24 — Robert  and  Gilbert  Burns  work  to  their  Father,  as 
I^.bourers,  at  stated  AVages — At  rural  work  tlie  Poet  feared  no  competitor — This 
period  not  marked  by  much  iMental  Improvement — At  Dancing-School — Pro- 
gress in  Love  and  Poetry — At  School  at  Kirkoswald's — Bad  Company — At  Ir- 
vine— Flaxdressing — Becomes  there  Member  of  a  Batchelor's  Club, ix^— xu 

Chap.  Ill — The  Brothers,  Robert  and  Gilbert,  become  tenants  of  Mossgiel — 
Their  incessant  labour  and  moderate  habits — The  farm  cold  and  unfertile — Not 
J'rosperous — The  iMuse  anti-calvinistical — The  Poet  thence  involved  deeply  in 
local  polemics,  and  charged  with  heresy — Curious  account  of  these  disputes — 
Early  poems  prompted  by  them — Origin  of,  and  remarks  upon  the  Poet's  prin. 
cjpal  pieces — Love  leads  him  far  astray — A  crisis — The  Jail  or  the  \\'est  Indies 
— The  alternative,  ,„-„ — — xx — zxxiv 

Hhap.  IV — The  Poet  gives  up  Mossgicl  to  his  Brother  Gilbert— Intends  for  Ja- 
maica— Subscription  Edition  of  his  Poems  suggested  to  supjdy  means  of  outfit — 
One  of  COO  co])ies  printed  at  Kilmarnock,  IJUtJ — It  brings  him  extended  repu- 
tation, and  £20 — Also  many  very  kind  friends,  but  no  patron — In  these  circum- 
stances,  Guaging  first  Imited  to  him  by  his  early  friends,  Hamilton  and  Aiken — 
Sayings  and  doings  in  the  first  year  of  liis  fame — Jamaica  again  in  view — Plan 
desisted  from  because  of  encouragement  by  Dt.  Blacklock  to  publish  at  I'^din- 
burgh,  wherein  the  Poet  sojourns, „„ „^  xxxv — Ixils 

Chap.  V — The  Poet  winters  in  Edinburgh,  1780-7 — By  his  advent,  the  condition 
of  that  city — Literary,  Legal,  Philosophical,  Patrician,  and  Pediintic — is  lightc-l 
up,  as  by  a  meteor — He  is  in  the  full  tide  of  his  fame  there,  and  for  a  while  ca- 
ressed by  the  fashionable — \Vhat  happens  to  him  generally  in  that  new  world, 
and  his  behaviour  under  the  varying  and  very  trying  circumstances — The  tavern 
life  then  greatly  followed — The  Poet  tempted  beyond  all  former  experience  by 
bacchanals  of  every  degree — His  conversational  talent  universally  admitted,  as 
Slot  the  least  of  his  talents— The  Ladies  like  to  be  carried  off'  their  feet  by  it, 
while  the  nhilosopliers  hardly  keep  theirs — Edition  of  1500  co])ies  by  Creech, 
wliich  yields  mucn  money  to  the  Poet — Hesolves  to  visit  the  classic  scenes  of  his 
own  country — Assailed  with  thick-coming  visions  of  a  reflux  to  bear  him  back 
to  the  region  of  poverty  and  seclusion,  „,^„.^ ^ ^-„.,„.,  Ixiv — Isxi 

Chap.  VI — flakes  three  several  pilgrimages  in  Caledonia — Lands  from  the  first 
pf  these,  after  an  absence  of  six  months,  amongst  his  friends  Li  the  "  Auld  Clay 
Biggin" — Finds  honour  in  his  own  country — Falls  in  with  many  kind  friends 
during  those  pilgrimages,  and  is  familiar  with  the  great,  but  never  secures  one 
effective  patron — Anecdotes  and  Sketches — Lingers  in  Edinburgh  amidst  tl-e 
fleshpots,  winter  1787-!5 — Upset  in  a  hackney  coach,  which  produces  a  bruised 
liinl),  and  mournful  musings  for  six  weeks — Is  enrolled  in  the  Excise — Another 
crisis,  in  which  the  Poet  fuids  it  necessary  to  implore  even  his  friend  Mrs.  Dunlop 
not  to  desert  him — Growls  over  iiis  publisher,  but  after  settling  with  him  leaves 
Eilinburgh  with  £500 — Steps  towards  a  more  regular  life, „ Ixii — Ixxv 

Chap.  VII fliarries — Announcements,  (apologetical,)  of  die  event — Pemarkr, — 

Becomes  C17U8)  Farmer  at  Elliesland.  on  the  Nith,  in  a  romantic  vicinity,  six 


n  CONTENTS. 


Pa^ 


miJes  from  Dumfnes — The  I\Iuse  wakeful  as  ever,  while  the  Poet  mainuiiiis  a 
varied  and  extensive  literary  correspondence  with  all  and  sundry — Remarks  upon 
the  correspondence — Sketch  of  his  person  and  habits  at  this  period  by  a  brother 
poet,  who  shews  cause  against  success  in  farming — Tlie  untoward  conjunction  of 
Gauger  to  Farmer — The  notice  of  the  squirearchy,  and  the  calls  of  adniirir.g 
visitors,  lead  too  uniformly  to  the  ultra  convivial  life — Leaves  tlliesland  (17'Jl) 
to  be  exciseman  in  the  town  of  Dumfries, — IxxSii  — 5V 


CiiAP.  VIII Is  moreheset  in  town  than  country— His  early  biographers,  (Dr. 

Currie  not  excepted),  have  coloured  too  darkly  under  that  head — It  is  not  correct 
to  speak  of  the  Poet  as  having  sunk  into  a  toper,  or  a  solitary  drii.ker,  or  of  his 
revels  as  other  than  occasional,  or  of  their  having  interfered  with  the  punctual 
discharge  of  his  official  ckities — lie  is  shov/n  to  have  been  the  aft'ectionate  and  be- 
loved husband,  although  passing  follies  im])Uted  ;  and  the  constant  and  most  as- 
siduous instructor  of  his  children— Impulses  of  the  French  Eevolution — Synip. 
toms  of  fraternizing — The  attention  of  liis  official  superiors  is  called  to  them — 
Practically  no  blow  is  inflicted,  only  the  bad  name — Interesting  details  of  this  pe- 
riod—Gives his  whole  soul  to  song  making — Preference  in  that  for  his  native 
dialect,  with  the  other  attendant  facts,  as  to  that  portion  of  his  immortal  lays, x.n— cil 

Chap.  IX The  Poet's  mortal  period  approaches — His  peculiar  temperament — 

Symptoms  of  premature  old  age — These  not  diminislu-d  by  narrow  circumstances 

Chagrin  from  neglect,  and  death  of  a  Daughter— Th.e  Poet  misses  public  pa- 

tronage:  and  even  the  fair  fruits  of  his  own  genius — tlic  appropriation  of  which 
is  debated  for  the  casuists  who  yielded  to  him  merely  the  shell— His  magnani- 
mity when  death  is  at  hand ;  his  interviews,  conversations,  and  addresses  as  a 
dying  man— Dies,  21st  July  179o— Public  funer;.l,  at  wl-.ich  many  attend,  and 
amongst  the  rest  the  future  Premier  of  England,  who  had  steadily  refused  to  ac- 
knowledge the  Poet,  living— His  family  muniScently  provided  for  by  the  public 

Analysis  of  character— His  integrhy,  religious  state,  and  genius— Strictures 

upon  him  and  his  writings  by  Scott,  Campbell,  Byron,  and  otiiers,  . — „ cx-.cxxxiv 

Verses  on  tlie  death  of  Burns,  by  ]Mr.  Roscoe  of  Liverpool, cxxxv 

Character  of  F>ums  and  his  Writings,  by  Mrs.  Riddell  of  Glenriddell, c\xxvii 

Preface  to  th.e  First  Edition  jf  Burns's  Poems,  printed  in  Kilmarnock,  ..„„-  cLxiii 

Didlcalion  to  the  Cdedonia-"  Hunt,  prefixed  to  the  Edinburgh  Edition,  .  dn% 


vii 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  POEMS 


\  Bar(?  s  Epitap.i,  ~ 

Address  to  a  Hoggis, 
o  a  Lady, 
to  a  Louse, 
to  a  Mouse,--  -     -     - 
to  Colonel  de  Peyster, 

to  Edinburgh,  -~- 

to  General  Demourier, 

to  J.  Syme,~v 

to  Mr.  Mitche   , 

to  Mr.  William  Tytler, 

to  Robert  Graham,  Esq. 

to  the  Deil, 

to  the  Owl,-, , 

to  the  Shade  of  Thomson, 

to  the  Scotch  Representatives,- 

to  the  Toothache,- 

to  the  LTnco  Guid,  

A  Bodication  to  Gavin  Hamilton, 

,\  Dream  (a  Birth-day  Ode  to  the  King), 

A  Grace  before  Dinner,-™. 

Ansiver  to  a  Tax  Surveyor, . 

A  Prayer  in  Piospect  of  Death, 
in  Anguish, 

A  Sketch, 


A  Winter  N'ight,-. 
A  Yision,-~~w~~. 


— -    55 

40 

T.' 

42 
'.'9 
7-1 
4.1 
S5 
17 
71 
Gl 
51 
14 
S2 
55 
4 


41 

IS 

75 

72 

.-fi,  7S 

.  58,  78 

.-,     82 

t'9 

—    69 


Death  and  Dr  Honibook,- 
Despondency,  an  Ode, 


a  Hymn, 

Elegy  on  Captain  Matthew  Henderson, 

on  William  Creech, ~ 

on  Peg  Nicolson,— ..,.- — -... -. 

Tarn  Samson, 


on  the  Year  1788, . 


9 

32 
78 

40 
76 
77 
t'3 
68 


Ipistle  to  a  Voung  Friend,  . 
to  Captain  Riddel, - 


to  Davie,  a  Brother  Poet  (1), . 
to  Cavie,  a  Brother  Poet  (2), 
to  Gavin  Hamilton, 
to  J.  Lapraik,  a  Scots  Poet,- 
to  J.  Rankin  with  Poems,- 

to  Mr.  .Macadam,  

to  Terraughty,  . 


to  the  Reverend  Mr.  M'Math, 
to  \V.  S.  Ochiltree,  —— — ~™ 
Epitaph  on  a  Friend, 


on  a  Noisy  Polemic,- 
on  a  Ruling  Elder,^ — 
en  Gavin  Flamilton, . 
on  R.  .\itkcn, . 


39 

81 
50 
59 
79 

45,  45,  79 
47 
81 
81 
79 
46 
75 
55 


on  tlie  Poet's  Father,  . 
or.  VVee  Johnny, . 


Extempore  Effusions  in  the  Court  of  Session, 
on  Falsehood,- 
to  a  Friend, 
to  Mr.  Syme,  , 


Refusal  to  Dine, 
when  at  Carlisle,  - 


Halloween,  ...-....■. .,„..,.„. 

Holy  Fair,  ™ "' 

Impromptu,  a  Lady's  Birth-day,—— 
Inscription,  Altar  of  Independence,-. 

Lamcnt  of  Queen  Marj-, 


55 
55 
55 
55 
82 
85 
hS 
74 
71 
85 

24 
6 

73 

72 

50 


Lament  for  James  Earl  of  Giencairn, 

for  a  Scotch  Bard  gone  to  the  West  1 
Lines  left  at  a  Friend's  House, 

left  at  Carron,  ~ 

left  at  Friar's  Carse  Hermitage,  „ 

left  at  Tavmouth  Inn,  — . 

on  a  Posthumous  Child,. 

on  a  Wounded  Hare, 

on  Bruar  Water, 

on  Captain  Grose 

on  Mi-;s  Cruikshanl<s, 

on  Religion, 

on  Sensibility,  to  Mrs.  Dunlop, .— 

on  Scaring  some  Water-fowl  in  Loch  Turit, 

on  the  Death  of  J.  Maeleod, 

on  the  Fall  of  Fyers,  —- 

on  the  Highland- 

on  William  Smellie,. 

to  a  Mountain  Daisy 

to  an  Olfended  Friend, . 

to  an  Old  Sweetheart  with  his  Poems 

to  a  Voting  Lady  with  Books,  . 


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7J 
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52 


to  Mis  L.  with  Heattie's  Poems,- 

to  Robert  Graham,  Esq 

to  Ruin, 

to  Sir  John  Whitefoord,  — . 

M.an  was  Made  to  Mourn,  a  Dirge,  — 
Monody  on  a  Capricious  Female  and  Epitaph, - 

New- Year's  Day,  a  Sketch, . 

Ode  on  a  Miserly  Character,, 
on  my  Early  Days, 
on  Pastoral  Poetrv,  . 
on  the  Death  of  Sir  James  Hunter  Blair, 
to  Liberty,- 

Poor  Maillie's  Elegy, . 

Scotch  Drink,- 

Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Riddel, 
Stanzas  on  Death, . 
Strathallau's  Lament,- 

Tam  o'  Shnnter, - 

Tam  Samson's  Elegy  and  Epitaph, 

The  Auld  Farmer's  New-Year's  Salutation  to  his 

Briis  o'  Ayr,  ,™~ — — ™ 10 

Calf,  — ; ~— '■ ™~ —    i< 

Cotter's  Saturday  Night, .-— ^-     53 

Death  and  Dying  VV  ords  of  Poor  Maillie,  _     16 

First  six  Verses  of  9Uth  Psalm,  58 

Henpecked  Husband, — —„—..-- — ->     68 

Lament  on  a  Friend's  Love  Disappointment,     51 

Ordination, ^     '3 

Twa  Dogs,  — -..- -. — ~-       I 

Whistle,  — L— -^ — .- 59 

Vision, „— — — i'O 

™, 81 

53 


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7fl 
61 

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52 


Vowels,  a  Tale, 


Winter,  a  Dirge,— 


Essay  on  Scottish  Poetry  iDr.  Currie), . 


84-33 


CONTENTS  OF  TIIE  SELECT  SCOTTISU  "SONGSL 


imircw  and  his  Cu.ty  Gun,, 
^nnie  Lawrie, 


fts  I  wfiit  0!it  in  a  May  Morning, , 
AuM  Rub  Morris, . 

Robin  Gray,~. 
Aye  wauki})'  0,~~~ 
A  waulirife  Minny,  . 
Awa  Whigs  Awa,  „ 


Deds  of  Swe;t  Roses, 

Beis  the  Gaikie 

Bessy  Bell  anl  Mary  Graj 
Hide  ye  Vet  1 2  sets). 


Blink  o'er  thi  Burn  Sweet  Hetty 
Blue  Bonnet?  over  the  Border,-. 
Bonnie  Barbara  Allan,  . 

Dundee, 

Mary  Hay,- 


Came  ye  o'er  frae  France, 

Carle  .-.n'  the  King  come, 

CaulJ  Kail  in  Aberdeen,-, 

Ca  the  Kwes  to  the  Knowes,  — 

Charlie  is  my  Darbrig,  - 

Clout  the  Cau'dron,. 

Cofkpc-n, 

Come  under  my  Plaidie, 

Comin'  thro'  the  Rye,  „ 

Com  Rigs  are  Boniue,  -. 

Crail  Town  (Iram  Coram  Dago), 

Cromlei's  Lilt,  ..,. 

Dinna  think  Ronnie  Lassie,, 
Donald  Coupar, 
Down  the  Biun  Davie,- 
Dumbarton's  Drums,—-. 
Dusty  Miller,, 

Ettriek  Ranks,  .^..^ 


Fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan, . 
F'airly  Shot  of  Her,  ».— ~— . 
False' Love  and  hae  ye  Played  Me  This, . 

Farewell  to  Ayrshire, 

Fare  ye  weet  my  Auld  Wife 

For  Lack  o'  Gol  I  She's  left  me. 
For  the  Sakeo'  Somebody, . 
rye  gar  rub  her  o'er  wi'  Straw,-, 


Gala  Water,™— ^,. 

Get  up  and  Bar  the  Door  O,  . 

Go  to  Berwick  Johnic,  - „-. 

Ciude  YiU  Comes  and  Gude  Vill  Goes,-. 

Ilame  never  cam'  He, 
Haud  awa  frae  me  Donald, 
Hap  and  row  the  Feelie  o't,- 
llere's  a  Health  to  them  that's  awa,- 
Hey  ca'  through,—-. 
Highland  Laddie, 
Hooly  and  Fairlie,. 
HugKic  Graham,-, 


I  had  a  Horse  and  I  had  nae  mair, 

I'm  o'er  N'oung  to  Marry  Net, . 

I'll  never  leave  \e,  - 

I  loo'd  nae  a  Laddie  but  anc,  —.-, 

Jenny  Dang  'he  Weaver,  —-. 

If  ye'll  be  my  Dawtie  and  sit  on  my  I'laid, 

In  the  Garb  of  Old  >-a"i.  , 


Page. 

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Jockey  said  to  Jenny,—— 
John  Hay's  Bonnie  Lassie, 
John  o'  Badenyon, 
Johnny  Copo,- 
Johnny  Faa, 


Johnr.y's  Gray  Breeks, 
Jumpin  John,  ,.—---. 

Kale  of  Aberdeen, - 

Kathrnie  Ogie, 

Keep  the  Country  Bo.mic  Lassie, 

Kelvin  Grove, 

Kenmure's  on  and  awa  Willie, 

KiUycrankie  (the  Battle),  - 

Killyerankie  O  (the  Braes), 

Kind  Robin  loes  nie, . 

Lady  Mary  Ann,- 

Lass  gin  ye  Loe  me  tell  me  now, 

Lassie  lie  near  me,- 

Lewis  Gordon,  — - 

Little  wat  ye  wha's  comin', 

Lochaber  lio  more, 

Lochnagar, 

Logan  Braes,  (double  set),- 

Logie  o'  Buehan,, 


lis 

144 

136 

ms 

159 


Lord  Ronald,  my  Son, -— 
Low  down  in  the  Broom,  , 

JIacpherson's  Rant,  — — — - 

Maggie  Lauder,  

Mary's  Dream, - 

Mary  Scot,  the  Flower  o'  \arrow, 

Merry  hae  1  been  Teething  a  Heckle, 

Mill,  Mill,  0,_. 

My  Auld  Man, . 

My  Dearie,  if  thou  Die, . 

My  Jo  Jiuiet, . 

M y  Lo\e  she's  but  a  Las,sie  yet,  — ,-, 

l\ly  Love's  in  Gcrmanie, 

My  Mither's  aye  Glowrin  o'er  me, 
My  Native  Caledonia, 


in; 

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H7 

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163 
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119 
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l5i) 
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119 
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My  only  Joe  and  Dearie  O,  ~ — . 
My  Wife's  a  Wanton  Wee  Thing 
My  Wife  has  taen  the  Gee,  . 

Neil  Gow's  Farett'«ll  to  Whisky  O,  . 

O  an'  ye  were  Dead  Gudeman,- 
O  can  ye  labour  Lea  Voung  Man,. 
Och  hey  Johnny  Lad,, 


O  dear  Minny  what  shall  I  do, . 
O  merry  may  the  Maid  be. 


O  on  oehrio  (the  Widow  of  Gleneo;, 
Old  King  Coul,- 
OurGuidman  cam'  Hame  at  E'en,  . 
O'er  the  Muir  araang  the  Heather,  . 

O'er  Bogie  v\i'  my  Lo'e - -— 

O  Waly,  Waly  up  yon  Bank,— 


Polwarth  on  the  Green, 

Poverty  parts  Gude  Comp;uiy,- 


Ro.'ilin  Castle,- 
Roy's  Wife,. 

Sae  Merry  as  We  hae  been, 

Sandy  o'er  the  Lea,  .. .. 

Saw  ye  Johnny  ('omin',  — ^ 
Saw  ye  my  Father,  — 


21 
12 
21 
64 
23 
65 
18 
'.3 
65 
74 


53 
66 
66 


170 

167 
139 
161 
160 
183 
119 
163 
161 
150 
1S3 
128 

185 

le^ 

103 

170 

_-  116 
_  165 
-  103 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


^av/  ye  ti<ip  niy  PeR^V. 

She  r(V^<^  and  let  me  in, ,^^,*** 

J^tecr  Ikt  uj)  riiiil  haiul  lier  ;;aun, 
Stre])lH)n  nnd  Lyi''  ■ 
Symon  Droitie, . 

Tak'  your  AiiUl  Clo.iK  about  you, 

Taiii  o'  the  Balloch, 

Tarry  Woo,. 

The  Auld  Mans  Mare's  dca^l, 

The  Auld  Wile  ayoiit  tlio  Kire, 

The  Hattle  o'  Slierra-miiir, 

The  lianks  o'  tlie  Tweed,  _ 

The  Beds  o'  Sweet  Roses, . 

The  Uirks  of  Invermav, . 

The  Hlvthesome  Briilal,- 

The  Blathrie  o't,. 

The  Bnatie  rov«'s, 

TheBobof  Dumblaiie,, 

The  bomiie  bruckct  Lassie, 

The  boniiie  Lass  o'  Branksome, 

The  biinnie  Lass  that  made  the  Bed  to  me. 

The  Brae-;  o'  Ballendean,  -. 

The  brisk  young  Lad,  ,. 

The  Biume  o'  the  Cowdenkuawcs, 

The  Bush  abnon  Traquair, 

The  Campbells  are  comin', 

The  Carle  he  cam'  o'er  the  Craft, 

The  Coallier's  boniiie  Lassi 

The  Ewie  wi'  the  Crookit  Horn, 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest, 

The  Flowers  of  Edinburgh, 

The  Foray,  ~. 


The  Gaberlunzie  Man,. 
The  happy  Marriage,  ~ 
The  Hishland  Queen,  , 
Tie  Jolly  Beggar, -™„ 

The  Lammie, 

The  Landart  Laird, 

The  Lass  of  Peatie's  Mill,  .^ 

The  Lass  o'  Liviston, ,.. — .~~-, 

The  Last  I  ime  I  cam'  o'er  the  Muir,, 
The  Lea-Rig,^,^.^,,,^.. ...., 


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The  Life  and  Age  o'  Man, 

The  Maid  that  tends  the  Goats,  — 

The  M:iltm;m, 

The  merry  Men  O, 

The  Miller  o*  Dee, 

The  Minstrel  (DonoLhthead), 

The  muckin'  o'  Geordie's  Hyre,  . 

The  Old  Man's  Song,. 

The  Poets,  what  Fools  the're  to  Deave  us 

The  Poesie, . — ~ — 

The  Bock  and  the  wee  pickle  Tow, — 

The  Soutois  o'  Selkirk, 

The  Tailor  fell  thro'  the  Bed, 

The  Turninspike ~~,. 

The  weary  Pund  o'  Tow, 
The  wee,  wee  German  Lairdie, 
The  Wee  Thing,. 


The  Wee  Witikie, 

1  he  White  Cock.ade,  „ — 

The  Widow,   „ 

The  Yellow-halr'd  Laddie, 

I  he  Young  Laird  and  Edinburgh  Katie, 
There's  nae  Luck  about  the  House, — ™~ 
This  is  no  Mine  Ain  House, 
Tibbie  Fowler, . 
Tibbie  Dunbar,„„„ 
To  Daunton  Me, 


To  the  Kye  wi'  Me,  (2  sets), 
Todlin  Haine, 
Tranent-Muir, 
Tullochgorum, . 

'  P>"»is  within  a  Mile  o'  Edinburgh  iown, 
..'side  (.'  sets),. 


„  ,,  ana  Warn  a'  Willie, 
Up  in  the  Moruin'  early,. 


Wandering  Willie, 
Waukin'  o'  the  Fauld, . 
We're  a'  Nid  Noddin,, 


Were  nae  my  Heart  Light  I  wad  Die, 

Willie  was  a  Wanton  Wag, > ., 

Woo'd  and  Married  and  a',  . 


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in 

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182 
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121 

if;9 


CONTENTS  OF  BURNS'S  SONGS. 


Aaieu,  a  Heart-warm  fond  Adieu,, 
Ae  fond  Kiss  and  then  we  Sever, 

Afton  Water, • 

Again  rejoicing  Nature  sees,  

A  Highland  Lad  my  Love  was  born,~~- 
Ara.uig  the  Trees  where  humining  Bees, 

A  Man's  a  Mau  for  a'  that, 

Anna,„~. 
Annie,  ., 


A  red  red  Hose, 

A  ll.Kse  Hud  by  my  early  Walk, 
A  Southland  Jennie, 
Auld  Lang  Syne, — ~- 
Auld  Rob  Morris, 

Bessv  and  her  Spinning.  Wheel, . 
Behold  the  hour  the  Boat  arrives, . 
Beware  of  Bonnie  .\nn. 
Beyond  thee.  Dearie, 
Blythe  hae  I  been  on  yon  Hiil,. 

BIythe  was  She, 

Oonnie  Bell, -^ 

Jean,  . ~~ 


Lesley, 
Wee  i'hing, . 


jJruce  at  Bannoukburn, 

I'Talcdonia— (their  Groves  o'  Sweet  Myrtle),, 
Cau'it  thou  leave  me  thus,  Katy, 
Reply, 

Ca*  the  Ewes,~.,  ,   .,..» — ~ 

Chloe, 


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1,02 
193 
192 
195 
195 
193 
194 
194 
194 
194 
195 


195 
195 
196 
195 
196 


Chloris,~ 

Clarinda, 

Come  let  me  take  Thee  to  my  Breast, 

Contented  wi'  LittVi 

Country  Lassie, 

Craigieburn-wood,, 


Dainty  Davie, — 
Deluded  Swain, 
Does  haughty  Gaul,, 
Down  the  Burn  Da\ie, , 
Duncan  Grav,~ 


Evan  Banks,  „. 


Fair  Eliza, 


Fairest  Maid  on  Devon  Banks,. 
Fate  gave  the  Word,  ~, 
For  the  Sake  o'  Somebody, . 
Forlorn  my  Love,. 
From  thee  Eliza,~. 


Pagt. 

^  197 
™  197 
197 
197 
193 
193 


Gala.W'atcr,, 
Gloomy  December,  ,., 


Green  grow  the  Rashes  0,~~ 
Gudewife  count  the  Lawin',., 


Had  1  a  Cave  on  someAVild  distant  Shore, 
Hands'ime  Nell,  . 


Her  flowing  Locks,  ~- — «. — ~ 
Here's  a  htallh  to  Ane  1  loe  dear,  . 
to  Them  that's  awa. 


198 
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99 

lys 

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200 
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2!)  I 
201 

201 

201 
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2(i3 
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204 


CONTENTS. 


Hole's  a  Bottle  and  an  Honest  Frieml, . 

Hi^hlaml  Harry,- 
Highliinrt  Mary, 

How  Cruel  are  the  Parents, 

How  lang  and  dreary  is  the  Night, 


1  am  a  Son  of  Mars,. 


Panf. 

2il4 

20.) 
205 
204 
201 


Jamie  come  try  me, 


c.ream'd  I  lay  where  Flowers  were  springing,- 
ni  aye  c,i'  in  by  yon  Town, 
I'm  o'er  Voung  to  Marry  yet, 
it  is  nae  Jean  thy  binnie  Face,. 
Jookey'i  ta'en  the  Parting  Ki^s, 

John  Anderson  my  jo, 

John  Barleycorn, 

Last  May  abraw  Wooer  cam'  down  the  Lang  Glen, 
Lassie  wV  the  Lint- white  LockS; 

Lay  thy  Loof  in  mine  Lass, 

Let  not  a  Woman  e'er  complain,-. 

Logan  ISraes, 

Long,  long  the  Night, 

Lord  Gregory, 

jord  Daer, 


Macplierson's  Farewell,, 

Maria's  Dwelling, 

Mark  yonder  Pomp  of  costly  Fashion,. 

llary  Moriion, . 

Meg  o'  the  Mill,  - 

My  Honnie  Marv. 

M,'  Heart's  in  tlie  Highlands, — 

My  toady's  Gown  there's  Gairs  upon't, . 

My  Nannie's  awa,. 

Mv  Nannie  O.  — . 

My  Peggy's  Face  my  Peggy's  Form, 

My  .SpGu^e  Nancy, 

My  Wife's  a  winsome  Wee  Thmg, 

Musing  on  the  Roaring  Ocean,—™ 


Naebody, 
Nancv, 


*  '"■  ■^.'  »-"'■'— "■ • 

Now  Itanks  and  Hracs  are  clail  in  Green,  ~. 
Now  Spring  has  clad  the  Grove  in  Green,™- 
Now  wesllin  VVin.ls  and  slaughtering  Guns, 

O'  a'  the  airts  the  Wind  can  blaw,- 

O  ay  my  Wife  she  dang  me, 

O  bonnie  is  yon  Rosy  Brier,-. 

O  lor  Ane  and  Twentie  Tarn, 

O  gin  my  Love  were  yon  Red  Rose, 

O  leave  Novelles  ye  Mauchlin  Belles, 

O  let  me  m  this  ae  Night, 

O  Love  will  venture  in,  -.,—  .. — «— — , 

O  May,  thy  Morn,- 

()n  a  Bank  of  Flowers, 

On  Cessnock  Bank, . 

On  the  Seas  and  far  away,- 

Open  the  Door  to  me  O,- 

O  Pliilly  happy  be  that  day,- 

O  stay  sweet  warbhng  Woodlark,  . 

O  wat  ye  Wh.a's  in  yon  To^n, 

O  were  I  on  Parnassus  Hdl,  -_ 

O  wcrt  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast, - 

O  wha  is  She  that  Locs  me,. 

Out  over  the  Forth,- 


Pcggv  .\lison. 

Philiis  the  Fair, 

Powers  Celestial  wnose  protection, 

I'uirtith  Cauld, - 

Rantin'  Roarin*  Willie,-. 


20.5 

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205 

211.5 
205 
i'06 
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2!17 
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£08 
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2in 

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21G 

2ie 

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220 
t'2ii 
2i.>0 
1.21 

ile 

216 
£16 

221 

£22 

222 
292 


Raving  W'inda  around  her  blowing,-^— ~——~—~  2i3 

Saw  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose, ..,— .  22.1 

She's  Fair  and  She's  Pause, 2-'.^ 

She  says  she  Loes  me  best  of  a', , 22.1 

Sic  a  Wife  as  Willie  had, — „  ■J'-Ji 

Steer  her  up  and  haud  her  gaun, 221 

Sweet  fa's  the  Eve  on  Craigieburu-vvood, .-  2.'4 

Tarn  Glen 

The  .\uld  Man 

The  Banks  o'  Castle  Gordon, 

o'  Cree 

o'  Devon, 

o'  Ooon, 

o'  Nith,_ 
The  Bard's  Song, 
The  Battle  o'  Sherra-Muir, 
The  Big-bellied  Bottle,-, 
The  Birks  o'  AberfeldiC; 
The  Blue-eyed  Lassie, 

The  bonnie  Wee  Thing, 

The  Braes  o'  Balloehmyle, 

The  Carle  o'  Kellyburn'-Braes 

"The  Chevalier's  Lament, 

The  Day  Returns, 

The  Death  Song,  . 

The  Deil's  awa  wi'  the  Exciseman, 

The  Election 

The  Gallant  Weaver 

The  Gardener, 

The  Gloomy  Night  is  gatherin'  fast. 

The  Heather  was  bloomin' 

The  Highland  Lassie  O, — 

The  I.ad  that's  far  awa,  — 

The  Lass  o'  Balloehmyle, 

The  Lass  thit  made  the  Bed  to  me, 

The  Lazy  Mist, 

The  Lea-Rig 

The  Lovely  Lass  o'  Inverness, 

The  Lover's  Salutation 

The  Riggs  o'  Harley 

The  Soldier's  Return, 

The  stown  Glanceo'  iviudness,— . 

'I'he  Toast 

The  Tocher  for  Me, 

The  Woodlark, 

The  "\'oung  Highland  Rover, 

There'll  never  be  Peace  till  Jamie  cmnes  ha;nc,~ 

Thcre's  a  Youth  in  this  City, 

There's  News  Lasses, 

There  was  once  a  Day, 

This  is  no  mine  ain  Lassie,  — — — . 

Thou  has  left  me  ever  Jaime,  — 

Tibbie  1  haescen  the  Day, 

To  Mary  in  Heaven, 

True-hearted  was  He, 


Wae  is  my  Heart  and  the  Tears  in  my  Ee,  „ 

Wandering  Willie,——. — ~ ,- 

What  can  a  Voung  La-sie  do  wi'  an  Auld  .Man,  -. 

Wha  is  that  at  my  Bower  Door,  -— ~— — — — . 

When  Guildford  'Goc<l, , 

Where  ate  the  Joys  I  hae  met  in  the  Morning,  -, 
Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  ye  my  Lad 

Wdlie  brew'd  a  Peck  o   Maul,  „ 

Will  ^'e  go  to  the  Indies  my  Mary,, 
Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie, 

Von  Wild  Mossy  Mountains, 

Voung  Jockey  was  the  biythest  Lad, 
Vounp  f  eggv,  .■„»>,——.—.. — . 


225 
225 
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226 
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CIO  J 

256 
226 

226 

227 
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229 
2J9 
25C 
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251 
231 
232 
£32 
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255 
233 

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234 

255 
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257 

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257 
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£37 
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239 

2'iO 
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210 

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212 

245 
2U 
21,' 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  CORRESPONDENCE. 


17S3,  1784 


Page 


Lcn  {yCtters,  at  2i?,  in  good  English,  but  unavail- 
ing.   ^ — _„  2i7_9 

To  Mr.  Murdoch— state  ot  the  Poet  and  liis  Opi- 
nions, ~ — .^^^ — ^-„,~-„„„.„,.„.,,„  249 

Extracts  from  the  Scrap-book,  „,.„„ 250-2 

1786. 

To  Mr.  John  Richmond,  Edinburgh— first  pub- 
lish in<;,  „ , 

To  Mr.  Macwhinnie,  Ayr— same  topic, 

To  Mr.  James  Smith,   Mauchline— route  for  Ja- 

T<i  Mr.  David  Brice  — same — about  to  become 
Poet  in  print— ihe  last  foolish  action  he  is  to 
commit,  ~~— «-«»-.„„„„„.,„„,.,.,.„„, , , 

To  Mr.  Aitken,  Ayr — Authorship — Excise — a  fu- 
ture state,  ~~~ ...„„,.,.^»,.„,„„„ .„,„ 

To  Mrs  Dimlop— first  Letter— her  order  for  Co- 
pics — his  early  devotion  to  her  ancestor.  Sir  W. 

To  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair — introductory— hurry — 
f;oin£;  abroad -sends  Songs, „,„„„ 

From  br  Blacklock  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  G.  Laurie— 
witli  just  estimate  of  the  l-'oet's  merits— which 
puts  an  end  to  tlie  West  India  scheme,  and  brings 
liim  to  Edinburgh,  „„ ........„„„,.,.,.,„..„ 

From  Sir  John  Whitefoord — complimentary,-,—- 

From  the  Rev.  Mr.  G.  Laurie — pressing  interview 
with  Dr.  Blacklock — good  advice, 

■R)  Gavin  Hamilton,  Mauchline — from  Edinburgh 
— the  Poet  eminent  as  Thomas  a  Kempis  or 
John  Bunvan— favours  of  tlie  Edinburgli  public. 

To  Dr.  Mackenzie,  Mauchline — with  the  Lines  on 
Lord  Daer,  r,^.,,,,,.,,,,,,^,.,,,,^,,,,,,,^ 

1787. 

To  Mr.  John  Ballantine,  Ayr  —  occurrences  at 
Eduiburgh,  ^-^^ ~-»™™„l_„„„,.».„„„„.„,.,„ 

To  Mr.  William  Chalmers,  Ayr — the  s.ime,  and 
humourously  apologetical.  .^^ .„,„,„..„„ 

To  Mr.  John  Ballantine — Fanning  projects  and 
farther  mcidcnts  at  Edinburgli, .. 

To  tne  Earl  of  Eglinton— a  thaiikful  Letter, 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop— tre.its  of  Dr.  Moore  and  lils 
Writings  —  critic.il  remarks  on  his  own — and 
upon  himself  at  the  height  of  popular  favour,-. 

To  Dr.  Moore — introductory — the  Poet's  views  of 

V'ro'ii  Dr.  Moore — thinks  the  Poet  not  of  the  ir- 
ritab'ile  genus — admires  his  love  of  Country  and 
independent  spirit,  not  less  than  his  Poetical 
Beauties— sends  Miss  Williams  Sonnet  on  the 
Mountain  Daisy, „. ,„  t'60 

To  Dr.  Moore — general  character  of  Mi.ss  Wdliaras' 
Poems,  „-„„-„,„-„, 26'J 

To  Mr.  John  Ballantme — printnig  at  Edinburgh, 
and  getting  \\\i  phiz  done, -. . 261 

From  Dr.  Moore — with  his  View  of  Society — and 
other  Works, .,. 261 

To  ihe  Earl  of  Glencairn — with  L,ines  for  his  Pic- 

To  the  Earl  of  Biieian — as  to  Pilgrimages  in  Cale- 
donia.   ,,,,',,,,,.,,,,„   262 


2.52 
2J2 

2.33 

255 

251 

255 

2,55 
256 

256 

256 
257 


-'j7 

257 

25S 
258 

259 
259 


Proceedings  as  to  the  Tombstone  of  Fergjss'm,  2Ci-i 
To  Mr.  James  Candlish,  Glasgow — the  Poet  clings 

to  Revealed  Religion,  leaving  Spinosa — but  still 

the  Old  Man  with  his  deeds, 261 

To  the  same — first  notice  of  Johnson's  Musical 

Museum, ..„„„„,^ ,„„„„  364 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop,  from  Edinburgh— the  Bard— his 

situation  and  views, , , „„. 264 

To  the  same, .„-„„„ . „, ,  265 

To  Dr.  Moore — leaving  Edinburgh  for  his  first 

Pilgrimnge,  - -„,..„, „,„-^ .„, 265 

To   Mrs.  Dunlop — sore  under   her   literary  criti- 

To  tlie  Rev.  Dr.  Hugh  Blair — leave  taking,„ . 

From  Dr.  Bl.air — who  notices  hi-^own  claims  for 
first  introducing  Ossian's  Poems  to  the  world — 
gives  the  Poet,  at  parting,  »  certificate  of  cha- 
racter, with  much  good  advice,  both  wordly  and 
poetical. 


265 
265 


266 


To  Mr.  Willi.im  Creech— with  the  Elegy  during 
the  first  Pilgrimage, ..„„ .-„„„  263 

From  Dr.  Moore — sparing  use  hereafter  of  the 
Provincial  Dialect  recommended — more  valua- 
ble hints  also  given,  ,.., „„„,..„„  267 

To  Mr.  William  Nieoll — the  Poci's  Itinerary  in 
braid  .Scots,-—™ , , , .„  2d7 

From    Mr.    John    Hiitcheson,   Jamaica  —  Poems 
excellent — but  better  in  the  English  stvle— Scot-    ■ 
tish  now  !)ccoming  obsolete — dissuades  from  the 
West  Indies — "  there  is  no  encouragement  for  a 
man  of  learning  and  genius  there," — -  26S 

To  Mr.  W.  Nieoll— on  arriving  at  home— morali- 
zes over  the  Scenes  and  Companions  of  his  re- 
cent elevation— gloomily  a>  to  the  future, 268 

To  (iavin  Hainilton — occurrences  of  the  second 
Pilgrunnge. _— - -„^— — 269 

To  Mr    Walker,    Blair-in-Athole — the  s.ime — the 
Duke's  family,-, 270 

To  Mr.  Gilbert  lUiriis-furth^'r  adventures, — „-  270 

From  Mr.Ramsay  of  (Jchtertyrc — with  Inscriptions 
—Tale  (>f  Oiven  Caineron^hints  for  a  Poetical 
Coinpositioti  on  the  grand  sc.de  and  other  taste- 
ful and  interesting  m.ittL'r.- 271-2 

From  Mr.  Walker,  .-Vthole-llouse— particulars  of 
the  Poet's  visit  there — female  contrivances  to 
prolong  his  say,-, .— — „,  273 

Ftom  Mr  A.  M.  an  admiriUif  I''riend  returned 
from  abroad — with  tributary  Ver.se>, t'?j 

From  Mr.  Ramsay  to  the  Re  .  William  Voung — 
introductory  of  the  Poet,  -. „— „-„  2H 

From  the  same  to  Dr.  ulacklock — with  thanks  for 
the  Poet's  ac(|uaintance  and  Son.;s— .\nec<lotes,    274 

From  Mr.  Murdoch — a  kind  Le'aer  from  an  old 
Tiit.ir,  rejoicing  in  the  fruits  of  the  genius  he 
had  helped  to  cultivate,  ~ „ — ^— „,  275 

From  Mr    R ,  from  Gordon. Castle — incidents 

of  the  Poet's  vi.sit  there, -—„— „  275 

From  the  Rev.  John  Skinner — jirefers  the  Natural 
to  the  Classical  Poet — his  own  Poesy — contri- 
butes to  the  Song-making  cnterprize,  — „— „„  27fl 

From  Mrs.  Ross  of  Kilraivach — Gaelic  airs — the 
Poet's  .''Jorthern  Tour,, ,.  .,  ,,,^„  277 

To  Mr.  Dalrymple  of  Orangefield— lihymes, 278 

Fragment — Letters  to  Miss  Chalmers, 278-81 

To   .Miss  M an   Essay  on  the  complimentary 

style,  — .-. ■  ,,,,,  281 

To  Mr.  Robert  Aiiislie — friendship,-, ,—,.- 281 

To  :Mr.  John  Ballantine— with  Song,  \  e  Banks 
and  Braes  o'  Bonnie  i  .onn,  „-,,,  ,.,.....jj.,  , , , ,  ,,,,  231 


XI. 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 


Page. 
Sketch  of   his 

.  281-6 


To   Pr.  Moore,  from  tlie  Poet- 
Life „„„ _„, 

From  Mr.  Gill)ert  Burns,  a  rumunf;  Commentary 
on  tlie  fore.>oin!i,„„..^ 'i'86-90 

From  Mr.  Murdduh,  as  to  the  Poet's  early  Tui- 
tion,  . ^,,,,.  .,,,.       ...,-,        r       ,  n   -I    .....J.    V90-2 

From  Professor  Dugald  Siewart— his  Sketches  of 
the  Poet,-™- „,„„_ ,-„,.„.292-5 

From  Mr.  Gilbert  Burn,';,  giving  history  of  origin 
of  the  principal  Poems, , 29i-7 

From  the  same,  in  continuation — and  Essay  on 
Education  of  lower  Classes,  ~~ , r'97-,'5n2 

Peath  and  Character  of  Gilbert  Bums,- --r,-.   ,      31-2 

The  ^oet'sScraj)-b!ook.  (farther  extracts), 3U2-o 


LETTERS,   17S3. 

fo  Mrs.  Dunlop,  from  Edinburgh— second  visit — 
bruised  limb, - 304 

To  the  same — repelling  insinuation  as  to  iiTili- 

To  a  Lady — upon   the  use  of  sarcasm  iminittd  to 

him  against  her, - „-, „„ 3  4 

To   Mr.   Robert  Cleghorn— origin  of  the  Cheva. 

504 

304 

3C5 

305 


answer — and   with   Fanning 


lier's  Lament, 
From  the  same, 

opinions,  „.„ 
To  Mr.  James  Smith,   .^vonfield — marriage  pre. 

To  Mrs.  Punlip — Farming — reasons  for  and  in- 
structions m  the  Excise — tart  expressions,  —-„ 

From  the  Rev.  John  Skinner,  with  "  Charming 
Nancy,"  by  a  Buehan  Ploughman,  and  other 
Songs — his  own  Latin  poetry, . »_- 306 

To  Professor  Dugald  Stewart— wishes  at  his  going 
to  the  Continent, -„,- ,.,.,.,.,., 306 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  — Dryden's  Virgil— likes  the 
Georgics — disappointed  in  the  .iEneid,  often  an 
imitation  of  Homer— Dryden,  Pope's  master, 
in  genius  and  h.armony  of'langiiage, 307 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie— a  dvdl  Letter  may  be  a 
kind  one, , ,„ „^„^  307 

To  Mrs.  Dunloji — inequality  of  conditions, . 507 

To  the  same— first  from  Kllisland— his  marriage,    3(i8 

To  Mr.  Peter  Hill,  with  a  Ewe-mi!k  Cheese— s 
slice  of  it  good  for  indigestion  of  all  kuids, . ^  308 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainshc— friendbhip— the  Poet'i 
suspicious  temperament — his  purpose  to  leave 
the  light  troops  of  Fancv  for  the  squadrons  of 
heavy-armed  Thounju— Warriape,  ,„„ , iJ9 

To  Mr.  Morrison,  Wright,  Maiichline— the  Poet's 
new  hc-jse, . „ /gg 

To  Mr.  Roi.-ert  Ainslie — a  ser'ous  Letter. ijo 

To  Mr.  George  Lockhart,  Gbsgow — adnuration 
of  ceriain  Female  beauties, „ . Z\\ 

To  Mrs.  Dunlnp — a  hieU-peiin\ — Friar's  Carse 
Hermitage  and  olher  Lines,  ,1. 311 

To  the  s.ime — liis  answers  to  hi  r,  mt  Fchoes — 
.Marriage  Anecdotes— aicoum  of  his  Wife— Let- 
ter writing, , „™ „ — „,„_„  312 

To  the  same — gos-ip  of  a  iJinner-iiarty-  Life  and 
Age  of  Man— religii. us  impressions, 312 

To  Robert  Graham,   Esq.  with  fir-t  Poetical   Ad- 

To  Mr.  Beiigo,  Engraver— estimate  of  the  Poet's 
new  neighbours — matters  poetieii, ,  ., ,  ^,  314 

To  Miss  Chalmers — complimen'ary  to  her — and 
explanatory  of  his  maniage-  present  state  and 
prospeetfr-Songs,-„ . — ..,.,. 515 

To  Mrs.  Dunlo)! — twins— ex'  A.Tsms— verses,  „„  316 

To  Mr.  Peter  !1i1I-m  pinioiis  of  the  Poetry  of 
Thomson,  - .,  ,-,■,■,...,,  ,. ,.  ,  ,  ..^ 317 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop — the  Major's  present, 317 

To ajiologetical  for  the  bloody  and  t\rannical 

Mouse  of  Stewart,-™ ,,,,.,„,.../ 518 

To  Mr  James  Johnson,  Engraver,  Edinburgh — 
with  Song^  and  good  .idvice  for  his  Musicil  Mu- 
seum,   „ . „ Sig 

To  Dr.  Biaekloek- with  Poetical  Pieces  and  Songs 
— liis  .Marriage  and  other  movemenis, 319 

To  Mis.  Dunlop— consolatory  —  the  Poel'^  esli. 
mate  of  worldly  coneeins,  as  against  the  func- 
tions of  the  immortal  soul — .\ulil  LangS>ne 

and  (;ther  .Song's,  — - -.-.,.  ,  ,  .  ., ,,,  ,,.,,,   320 

Tr  a  yount  Lad>,  tntlosiiig  a  liallad  upon  her,-,  o'Z^ 


I'S,^ 


Poft 


To  Sir  John  WhitefoQ  .^thanks  for  his  ToIunUry 

defence  of  the  Poet,      ---. ,-,r.,,r,,.,  ■  , ,  .  u  5T 

From  Mr.  Gilbert  Bum  -Mew. Year's  wishes,„  3Zl 
To  Mrs.  Dunlop — Ihesa    e — approvesof  set  times 

of  Devotion— glowing    ?ntiments  of  a  Life  be- 

vond  the  Grave, ,     , ,,.-  ■        ,    , ,.  j,.,^  321 

From   the   Rev.   P.   Cari    e— of  Mylne  and  his 

Works, „„„„-  322 

To  Dr.  Moore — poetical  imrposes — worldly  s!ate 

of  the  Poet  and  his  Friends, 322 

1  o  Mr.   Robert   Ainslie — advice  and  encourage. 

ment, — — — „ „- 323 

To  Bishop  Geddes — "  What  am  1  ?— Where  1  am  i 

— and  for  what  am  I  destined  ?" 324 

To  Mrs.   Dunlop — contrast  of  high  and  low  — 

Mylne's  Poems, — „ 324 

From  William  Burns,  the  Poet's  Brother— his  out. 

set  and  prnoress  ,.     ■  ,     ,,,,,,,,,,■  n...  .J.J  3';'5 

To  the  Rev.  P.  Carfrae— Mylne's  Poems, 326 

10    Dr.   Moore— the   Bard's  sufferings   from   the 

Death  and  Funeral  of  a  sordid  Female,-., 326 

To  Mr.  Peter  Hill— eulogy  of  frugality— order  for 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop — Sketch  of  Fox, „ 528 

To  .Mr.  Cunningham— effusions  of  Friendship,  ~  328 
From  Dr.  Gregory — iron  bound  criticism  -  ■  .....  32a 
To  Mr.  James  Hamilton,  Glaspow — consolation,    529 

To  Mr.  William  Creech — Toothache, 329 

To  Mr.   M-Auiey  of  Dumbarton  -  descriiitive  of 

the  Poet's  feelings  and  condition,   — — ..  330 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie— the  same  tojiics, 3  0 

From  Dr.  Moore — advice — to  jire-erve  and  ]iiiiish 
his  lays,  and  to  abandon  the  Scotti>h  stanza  and 

dialect — Zeluco, — -,-, ..„ „„—„.„  531 

To  .Mrs.  Dunlo)) — low  spirits — religious  feelings,™  .'ijl 

From  Miss  J.  Little — with  a  poetical  tribute, ,  33i 

From  Mr.  Cunningham — reniiniscences  of  Fergus- 

To  !\Ir.  t^unningham,  in  answer, ~— — „ 533 

To  Mr.  Dunloii — domestic  matters— Poetical  Tri- 
bute from  Miss  L a  Future  Stale— Zeluco,    334 

From  Dr.  Blacklock — a  friendly  Letter  in  Rhyme,  331 

To  Dr.  Blacklock — a  suitable  answer, " 335 

To  Captain  Riddel — the  night  of  the  Whistle, 335 

To  the  .same — the  Scrap-book,  —————— —-.„„.,  33S 

To  Mr.  Robert  Ainslie — the  word  '•  Exciseman,"  335 
To  Robert  (Jraham,  Esq.— Cajitain  fJrose  and  lo. 

cal  polemics, ^— — 336 

i  oMrs.  Dunlop — "  under  the  mlseiics  of  a  diseas. 

Cd  nervous  systCTn,"  .   .,,,,,,    ,,    337 

To  Sir  John  Sinclair — the  Library  of  Dunscure,—  558 
From  Cajitain  Riddel  to  Sir  John— on  same  sub- 
ject,  — — — — -— ,  338 


1790. 


To  Gilbert  Rums— the  Players^Verscs  for  them, 
From  William  Bums — at  Newcastle— wants  inlor- 

mation  and  fraternal  instructions, 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop— the  Poet  Falconer— Ballads,  _ 

From  Mr.  Cunningham — friendly  notices,  

From  Mr.  Peter  Hii; — "  a  poor  rascally  Gauger," 

— Borouj;h  Reform— Books — Note,  with  secrets 

worth    klinmng,     .     „   r.   rr-.   r.,  .r.   r.,.j.    ,.   r     ,.....,      .  .  j  .  .. .  j  . 

To  Mr.  William  Nieoll — last  illmss  and  death  of 
Peg  Nieolson — matters  theatrical — eccle>iastieal 
squabbling — Exciseman's  duty,  -  - 

To  Mr.  Cunningham— on  Letter  writing— exist- 
ciicc — and  the  course  of  the  Poet's  reading — 
Deism — Scepticism, 

To  Mr.  Peter  Hill — a  large  order — existence, 


539 

3.59 
3iC 
541 


541 


342 


3i5 
513 


From  William  Bums,  at  London— his  ad\entures 
shears  ihi!  6u// preach  at  Covent  Garden  Cha- 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop — advantages  of  the  Union— Lord 
Chestcrhekl — .Mirror — Lounger-  Man  of  Fell- 
ing,  

rroiii  Mr.  Cunningham — Iriendlv  notices 

To    Dr     r.Iooie — Letter   writing — Zeluco— .Miss 

To  Mr.  Muriloih — len  wing  friendly  intercourse. 


From  Mr    Munloeli — Death  of  William  Burns,— 

To  Mr.   Cunningham — Independence^Sinolletl's 

Ode,  — .,,... - 


545 
3.5 

34£ 

.^46 
34- 


CONTENTS. 


x\n 


Page. 
From  Dr.  Blacklook— a  Letter  In   Rhyme— Dr. 

Aniicr^on  and  the  Hee, 34S 

From  Mr.  Ciinniriiiham— a  Song  for  each  of  the 

fonr  Seasons  siigffcsteil,  — 349 

To  Mrs.  Oiinl'ip — Bittli  of  a  Posthumous  C'hilil— 

Oile  I  hereon, . ~ 319 

To  Crawford  Tait,  Ksq.— recommencling  a  young 

Xo • Partitanshiii ~-  3o0 


1791. 

To  Mr.  Ci>nninr;h(<m— ElcRy  on  Miss  Burnet, 
To  Mr.  Peter  Hill  -Kssay  on  Poverty, 
From  A.  F.  Tytle-,  Ksq.— Tam  o'  Stianter, 

To  Mr.  Tytler— in  answer, ~ 

•  o   Mrs.    budldiv -broken   arm— Elegy   on    Miss 

Rurnet — a  remembrance, ~~«  ; 

Vo  L^(iy  Marv  Constable— a  SnulT-box, . 

To   Mrs.   Graham   of  FIntry— Ual'ail   on   Queen 

Mary — the  Piiefs  gratitude, ^. — 

From  the  Rev.  Principal  Baird— Michael  l!ruce,„ 
T^  Prmeipal   H  lird— otfering  every  aid  for  pub. 

Istiing  Bruce's  Works, 

To  the   Rev.   Archibald   AUisoi.— his   Kssays  on 

To  Dr.  Moore— Songs  and  Ballaas — Zeleuco — pri. 

To  Mr.  Cunningham— Song,  "_  There'll  never  be 

peace  till  Jamie  come  Name,'"  ....,.....„~_~~~~ 
To  Mr.   Dalzell,    Factor  to   Lord  Gleneairn — the 

Poet's  grief  for  his  Lordship— his  wish  to  attend 

the  Funeral .. — — ^ ««. ■ 

From  Dr.  Moore — crilieises  Tam  r)'  Shanter,  and 

other  pieces— solicits  the  Poet's  remarks  on  7,c. 

leueo— advises  him  to  be  more  chary  of  giving 

Cop  es— and  to  use  the  modern  English, 

To  Mrs-  Dunlop — a  domestic  occurrence — ixclu- 

sive  advantag  s  of  humble  life. 

To   Mr.   Cunningham— in  behalf  of  a  persecuted 

Schoolmaster,  .„..»..,««-«—— ~~~~~~.^ . — 

From  the  Earl  of  Buehan — crowning  of  Thomson's 

Bust  at  Ednan, 
To  the  same — in  answer,. 
To  Mr.  Thorn;.-  SIcan,  Manchester — ilisappoiiit- 

meiit — perseverance  recommended — The  Poet's 

From  the  Earl  ''f  Bujhan — suggests  Harvest-home 
for  a  theme  to  the  Muse, ~ — . 

To  Lady  E.  Cunningham  —  condolence  on  the 
death  of  hei  Brother,  Lord  Gleneairn, 

To  Mr   Robert  Anislie— a  Mind  diseased,  .„_ — 

From   Sir  J'hn   Whitefoord— Lament  for   Lord 

From   A.    k!    i'ytler,   Esq.— the  Whistle — the   La- 

To  Miss  Davies — sentimental — with  some  hints  as 

to  a  R  idieal  Reform, . 

To  Mrs    Dunlo)! — with  the  Death-Song — Higli- 

To  Captain  Grose — lauds  Professor  Dugald  Stew. 

To  the  saiiie— Witch  Stories  of  KirU-Alloway,  ~~ 
"Ti  Mrs.  Punlop — animadversions  of  the  Board — 

malicious  iiisiiniation.s— a  cup  of  kindness, 

To  Mr.  W.  Smcllie— ijitroductory  of  Mrs.  Riddel, 
To  Mr.  W.  Nicoll— admiration  of,  and  gratitude 

for  s.ige  advice,  ~....... -.—  •.~~~~~~~....~...... 

To  Ml.  Cunniiifham — the  Poet's  .Arms, 

1  o  M  r.  Clirke  invitation  to  come  to  the  Country, 
To    Mrs.   Diiiilo]) — a  Platonic  attachment  aiul  a 

Ball.id — Religion  indispensible  to  make  Man 

better  ami  l.a.ipier, ~.^~~ ~~. — .... .- 

To  Mr.  Cunningham — nocturnal  ravings, 

To  M's.     unl>p— difference  in  Farming  for  one's 

sell' and  Firming  for  another,  .., 

To  the  same — a  Family  infliction— condolence,  ~ 
To  the  same — shortness  and  uncertainty  of  Life— 

Rights  of  Wom.-in. 

To  Robert  liraham,  Esq.— justiiies  himself  against 

the  charge  of  disairection  to  the  British  Consti- 

tution, ..,« — - — ...-..— — 

To  Mis.  Dunlop— the  Poet's  im|iro\cd  h.iOiti— al- 


3.^0 
.1,51 
.vil 
3-Ji 

553 

3j.) 
3.54 
354 
5.55 
356 

356 


356 

357 

358 

358 
359 

359 

359 

360 
.560 

3C0 

361 

56.' 

362 

363 
563 

3n4 
364 

365 
3G5 
566 

367 

3ij7 

36S 
569 

369 
370 


I'age- 
hisions  to  her  suggestions  for  his  o(Tici(iI  pre  mo- 

To  Miss  B.  of  \'ork — mor.ilizes  over  the  chance. 

medleys  of  human  intercourse,  .....„,.~.....~..™  371 
To  P.itrick  MiUer,  Esq   of  Dalswinton — an  honest 

To  John  Francis  Erskineof  M.ir,  Esq — th:;  Poet's 
indepenilencc  of  sentiment,  and  p.irtici)larly  his 
opinions  as  to  Reform  eloquently  justified,  .*  372-A 

To  Mr.  Robert  Amslic  —  Spunkie  —  Schoolcraft 
caught  by  contact, —  373-4 

To  Miss  K- delicate, Haltery  to  a  Beauty, 374 

To  Laly  Gleneairn  gratitude  to  her  I'amily — 
from  an  independent  Exciseman,  ~...,..,™..~,  374-A 

To  Miss  Chalmei-s— a  curious  analysis  which  fhcws 
"  a  Wight  nearlv  as  miserable  as  a  I'oet,'  ~.~.  375 

To  John  M'Mardo,  Esq.— out  of  debt, .-,  3'.5-6 

LETTERS,   1791.,  1795,  1796. 

To  the  Earl  of  Bnchan — with  "  Bruce's  Address,"  376 

To  Mrs.  Riddel— Dumfries  Theatricals, 376 

To  a  Lady— the  same,  ,.~.. — , — . — 376 

To  Mr. the  Poet's  Dreams  of  Excise  promo- 


lion  and  literary  leisure, 
To   Mrs.   Riddel — Theatricals  and  lobster-coated 
puppies, 


■«-7 


377 
377 
377 
378 
578 


To  the  same — gin  horse  routine  of  Excise  business. 

To  the  same— efTects  of  a  c-<iol  reception 

To  the  same — a  spice  of  caprice. 

To  the  same — firm  yet  conciliating, ~. 

To  John  Syine,  Esq. — praises  of  Nlr.  A. — Song  on 
Mrs.  Oswald, «,,«...-.««.«.-*.«..  578 

To  .Miss in  defence  of  his  reputation — re- 
claims his  MS..^ — ..-. ~~. 378-9 

To  Mr  Cunningl.iim— a  Mind  Diseased— Religion 
necessary  to  Man, .~.^„ .~........-.,-.  379 

To  a  L.ady'— froiTi  the  Shades,  „„ .  .580 

To  the  Earl  of  (ikneairn— the  Poet's  gratitude  to 
his  late  Brotlier,^-, „.. ,..^....„..-,., —  380 

To    Dr.    Anderson — his  Work,  the   Li>cs  of  the 

To  Mrs.  Riddel— .solitary  confinement  good  to  re- 
claim Sinners — Ode  for  Uirth-day  of  Wa^iiiig. 

To  Mr.  James  Johnson — Songs  and  projects  for 
the  Mu-eum, , ~ 381 

To  Mr.  Miller  of  Dals.vinton — ('ci'lines  to  be  a  re- 
gular contributor  to  the  Poet's  Corner  of  the 
Morning  Chronicle, ~ , — ~~~..«.~~ — .  SSI 

To  Mr.  (iavin  Hamilton — the  I'oct  lee,  ininends  a 
particular  regiirien  to  him, ..^ .............  382 

To  Mr.  Samuel  Clarke — penitence  :ifter  excess,  „  582 

To  Mr.  Alexander  Fiiidlatcr- Supervisor — "  So 
much  for  schemes," — ....- . — ~-  .'83 

To  the  Editoisof  the   .Morning  Chronicle — its  in-  _ 

To  Mr.  \V.  Dunbar- New-Year  wishes, 383 

To  Miss  FontLiiclle — with  a  Prologue  for  her  be-  _ 

io  Mrs.  [">uiilop — cares  of  the  Married  Life — Dum- 
fries Tneatrieals  —  Cowper's  Ta.^k — the  I'oct's 
Scrap-book,  — , SSI-J 

I'o    Mr.    Heron   of    Heron— I'olitical    Ballads— _ 
Dreams  of  Excise  promotion, 3&S 

To  the  Right  Hon  W.  Pitt— m  behalf  of  the 
Scots  Distillers, 38f 

To  the  M:igistrates  of  Dumfne— Free  School  E- 
ducation,  .,.,..^.-~~. — — — ~ — .. — .~ -.  587 

To  Mrs.  Dunlop  in  London  —  Mr.  Thomson's 
Work — acting   Supervisor— New  Ve.ai  wishes— 

To  Mrs.  Riddel — Anacharsis — the  Muses  still  pre- 

To  Mrs   Diiiilo|) — in  aOliclion, — ■ ~~ 388 

To  Mrs.  Riddel— on  Birth-day  lovahy, 388 


To  Mr.  James  Johnson — the  Nluseum — a  consum- 
ing illness  hangs  over  the  Poet,~ « 589 

To  Mr.  Cunningham^from  tlie  lirow,  Sea-bath- 
ing Quarters— sad  picture,  __~™ ~~~~~....^,„  389 

To  Mrs.  turns — from  the  Brow— titrengthcned — 
but  total  decay  of  appetite, 389 

To  .Mrs  Uuiilop— a  last  farewell, 5iiS 


CONTENTS  OF  THE  POET'S  CORRESPONDENCE 
WITH  ]MR.  GEORGE  THOMSON 


Page. 
From  Mr.  Tnomson— soliciting  the  Poet's  aid  to  _ 

the  Select  Melodies,  -™— — . -~ — ■ —  •591 

The  Poet's  answer  —  frankly  embarking  in  the 

Work -~- — r~r — U" 

From  Mr.  TtioiTison— views  of  conslucting  the 
\Vorl<— and  with  1 1  Songs  for  New  Verses, oJ2 

From  the  Poet— ^ith  the  "  I.ea  Ria"— "  My  Nan- 
nie  O"— "  Will  ve  go  to  the  Indies  my  Mary,      oU^ 

From  the  Poet— with  "  My  Wife's  a  wanton  wee  _ 
thing" — '•  O  saw  ve  bonnie  Lesley,"-^ — > -~~  .593 

From  the  Poet— with  "  Ye  Banks  and  Bracs^^and 
Streams  around  the  Castle  o'  Montgomery," —  oOl 

From  Mr.  Thomson— criticisms  and  eorrcetions,-  o9-i 

From  the  Poet  — admits  some  correction';,  "  but 
cannot  alter  b  nnic  Lesley"'— additional  Verse 
for  the  "  Lea  Ilig,". -~— , — ~~," — -. 

From   the  Poet— uith   "  .\uld    Rob  Morris    and 

From    the    Poet— w^dlT^Poortith   Cauld"    and 
Galla  VVate 


oU5 
.'95 
595 


From  Mr.  Thcnr.'OT— laiulatorv  for  favours  re- 
ceived—details  the  plan  of  his  Work— P.  ^.  from 
the    Honourable   A.    Erskinc— a  brother   Poet  _ 

and  contributor, — . ~~  "59° 

From  the  Poet— approves  of  the  details- otUrs 
matter  anecdotic— the  Song  "  Lord  Gregory  '— 

Eii'diNh  and  Scots  se'S  of  it, . ~ -ni 

From  the  Poet— with  "  Wandering  Uillie,'_ ^.N 

From  the  Poet—"  Open  the  Door  to  me  O,  -~ —  -^-^ 
Prom  the  Poet—"  True-hearted  was  he," — -— —  oJ  i 
From  Mr.     homsnn— with  complete  list  of  Sonijs, 

and  farther  iletails  of  the  Work,  — -^  .i9i-b 

Fnnn  the  Poet— with  "  The  Soldier's  return  — 

"  Meg  o'  the  Mill," -— ---"  "^^ 

From  the  Poet— S  ng  making  his  hobby— oilers 
valuable  hints  for  enriching  and  nnprovmg  th_e 

\Vork  ,™— ^-~— ~-™ "-  jyo-J 

From  Mr.  •I'homson— in  answer, . — ■ •— ~  ■^•'■^ 

From  the  Poet  farther  hints  ami  eruieal  vcmai  ks 
—sends    Song  on   a   celebrated   Toast    to   suit  _ 

Tune,  "  Bonnie  Dundee," ~ ;~  •''•^^ 

From  the  Poet— with  "  I  he  last  time  I  cime  oer 

the  moor," : — — — ~r-~,  *"" 

From  Mr.   rhoni^on— excuses  hi,  taste  as  against      ^^ 

the  Poet's, -~- "— , r~ ~  j,,n 

Kiom  the  Poet— doguiaticallv  set  against  altering,  lUU 
■j  hi' Poet  to   Mr.  Thomson— Fraser  the  Hautbov 


Pag*. 

From  the  Poet— with  New  Song  to  "  Allan  Wa-  ^^^ 

From  the'  same^^^wUh  Song  "  Whistle  and   I'll 
come  to  vou,  mv  Lad,"  and  "  PhiUis  the  i  air, 
to  the  "  Muekin"  o'  Geordie's  byre,  ■""."-■  ^"^ 

From  the  same—"  Cauld  Kail"— a  Gloamm  Shot 
at  the  Muses, ~~~— „„_-™-~~- ^^-503 

From  the  same—"  Dainty  Davie"— four  lines  of 
■.■opg  and  four  of  Chorus,  ,— „ — ~ ~-~  ^oi 

From  Mr.  Thomson— profuse  acknowledgments 
for  many  favours, ~— ~-^ -•""""  ^"* 

From  the  Poet-Peter  Pindar— "Scots  wha  hae 
wi  Wallace  bled"—"  So  may  God  defend  the 
cause  of  truth  and  liberty  as  he  did  that  day,  ~  40- 

From  the  same- with  Son"  "  Behold  the  hour  the 
Boat  arrives,"  to  the  Highland  Air  "  Oran  gaoil,    «!fi 

From  Mr.  Thomson—"  liruee's  Address"— the  Air 
"  Lewis  Gordon"  better  for  it  than  "  Hey  tuttie 
tatie" — verbal  criticisms, — ~ -'■""• — 

From    the   Poet— additional   Verses   to   "  Dainty 


Player— Tune  and  Song,  "  1  he  Quaker  s  \\  ite 

— "  Blvthe  hae  I  been  im  von  Hill,"  —— —  "10  '-t 

The  same— mad  ami  ition— "Logan  Hraes"— Frag- 
ment from  Withersnoon's  Collection—"  O  gin 
mv  lo\e  were  yon  Red  Rose.",^ ' .~  ^^ 

Mr  -i'hom.son- in  answer— a  change  of  Partners  in 
the  Udik,.^ — . ~ — -—- — ~, ^"' 

The  p.  et  to  Mr  Thomson— T  une  and  Air  o' 
"  Bonnie  Jean"— the  Poet's  Heroines, . 1U. 

The  same— a  remittame  acknowledged—"  Mow- 
ers of  ihe  Forest"- the  authoress— Pinkerton  s 
Ancient  Ballads— iiroiihecies, — . ; — •■-—  ^t)i 

Mr.  Thomson  to  the  Poet— .\irs  waiting  the  Mu- 

sc's  leisure -— ~~r,~r T 

The  Poet  to  Mr.  Thomson— I  une,  Robin  A- 
,i;,ir"_"  PhiUis  the   Fair"  to  it—"  Cauld   Kail 

in  AlK-rdeen,"  -^ ~— ;— — ■  ■*U3 

From  Mr.  Thomson— grateliil  lor  the  Poets  '  va- 
lued Fpistles-'-wants  Verses  for  "  l)"Wti  tie 
burn  Divic"— mentions  Drawings  for  the  W  ork,  403 
From  Ihe  Poet— Tune  "  Rohi"  Adair"  aR-a'"— 
send!  "  Had  1  a  tlave"  to  it— Gaelic  origin  of  the 
Tuae   ™— *''* 


4U6 


I-)avie"— "  Through  the  wood, Laddie"— "  Cow- 
den-knowe,"— "  Laddie  lie  near  me"--the  Poets 
form  of  Song  making— "  Gill  Moiriee  —  '  High- 
land Laddie"-"  Auld  Sir  Simeon"—"  Fee  hirn 
Fathei"— "  There's  tiae  luck  about  the  House 
—the  finest  of  Love  Ballads,  "  Saw  ye  mv  Fa- 
ther"—" odlin  hame"  — sends  "Auld  Lang 
Svne"— farther  notices  of  other  Songs  and  ual- 
],,-,ls  ^ , •lu7-o 

From  'the  Pwt-rcjtets  the  verbal  criticism  on  the 
Ode,  "  Bruce's  Address," ..—^  ,--- ; ■»"» 

From  Mr.  Thomson— Strictures  on  the  Poet  s  no- 
tices of  the  above  Songs— again  nibbling  at  the  ^_^ 

Fiom'"th7pi^et™''The  Ode  pleases  me  so  much  I 
cannot  alter  if— sends  S.mg  "  Where  are  the 
Jovs  I  hae  ir.et  in  the  moniin',"- —;;; 4ua 

From  the  Poet— sends  "  Deluded  Swam  and 
"  Raving  Winds  around  her  blowing"— Airs 
and  Songs,   to  adopt  or  reject— diRcrtnces  ot  ^^^ 

From  t'h'e'same^  Thine  am  I  my  FaiUilul  Fair" 
—to  the  "  Quaker'!.  \Vifc,"_which  is  just  the 
Gaelic  Air  "  Liggeram  cosh  " 


-Re- 


Fr.  m  Mr.  Thomson— in  answer -^ — 

From  the  Poet— Song  to  "  My  Jo  Ja  et,  — 
From    Mr.   Thomson— proposed  eoiifcience 

marks  on  Drawings  and  Snngs,  -.— -—  - 

From  the  Poit— same  subjecls-PUyel— a  iMenu 

— whenbyhinderanceotlheWork— >oiig      ihe 

Banks  of  Crec," • ■^.'~, — ~~ 

From   the  same-"  The  auspicious  iienod  prcg 


410 
410 


410 


411 


roin    uic-  ^,limJ—       *  i'^  „i..., ,....-.--..   ,-  ,      ., 

mint  With  the  happiness  ot   Millions  --Inscrip- 
tion on  a  Copy  of  the  Woik  presented  to  Miss 

Graham  of  Fintry,  — - — ~— ~ W\ 

From  Mr.  Thom-on     in  answer,. . p-~  4" 

■  On  the  Seas  and  far 


From  the  Poet— with  Song      ^ -  - 

awav," «-. — «* ."'"''* — " "'  ,' "   .,i 

From  Mr.  Thomson-criticises  ih.at  Song  severely.  412 
From  the  Pcet— withdrawing  it—"  making  a  Song 
is  like  begetting  a  Son"— .sends  "  Ca  the  yewc«  ^^^ 

From  the  same— Irish  Air— studs  Song  to  it  "  Sa  ' 
flaxen  were  her  niiplets"— Poet's  taste  m  Music 
like  Fredericof  Prussia's— has  begun  "  O  let  me 

this  ae  night"— Epigram,  • 411 

.,  .*    ._  ..... .*■.,. 


Ill    lllis  .11.   iiij^iiv  ^fb ■»    ,  ,  ,      , 

From    Mr.    '1  homsoii  —  prufusc   ot    acknowinig 
ments. 


413 


From'lh'e  siin.c— Peter  l'indar'»  task  completed— 
Uilson's  Collection— dressing  up  of  Old  hoiiss,     1i« 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 

"»om  th*  \  Oct — "  Craigie-bum  Wood"  and  the 
heioiiio—  ll.'cipe  fur  Sons;  making — Sonj;  "  Saw 
yc  my  rhely" — "  The  Posie" — "  Donochthead" 
%K.t  the  Poet's — "  \Vhistle  o'er  the  lave  o't"  his 
— so  is  •'  nivthe  was  she" — sends  Song  "  How 
iMif;  and  dreary  is  tlie  nijht" — "  Let  not  Wo- 
ma;i  e'er  comi)!ain"  —  "  Sleep'st  thou"  —  East 
Indian  Air— Snag  "  The  Aiikt  Man,"  — ,.,.,.„  414 

From  Mr.  Thomson  — in  acknowledgment,  and 
viith  far' her  commissions, _„,„~™,~™,~~~~  415 

From  the  Poet-thanks  for  Uitson — Songof  Chlo- 
ris — Love,  Conjugal  and  Platonic — "  Chloe" — 
"  lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks" — "  Maria's 
dwelling" — "  Banks  and  Uraes  o'  l)onnie  Doon" 
— Reeijie  to  make  a  Scots  Tune — humble  'S- 
quest  for  a  Copy  of  the  Work  to  give  to  a  fe- 
male friend,  ,™„ , — , _-™-^  416-17 

From  Mr.  Thomson— in  answer — criticisms — sends 
three  Co))ies  and  as  welcome  to  i.'0  as  to  a  pinch 
of  sn  u  ff. ,„„„„™,„^ 4 1 7 

From  the  Poet — Duet  completed — sends  Sonjs 
"O  PhiUy  happy  be  that  day" — "Contented 
wi'  little"—"  Canst  thou  lenve  me  thus  my 
Katv"— Remarks  on  Songs  antl  the  Stock  and 
Horn,  . _~~~. — ~v. ..„,~-^  418 

From  Mr.  Thomson — modest  acknowledgments — 
Pictures  for  the  Work, -^ 419 

From  the  Poet— with  Song  "  Nannie's  awa"— Pic- 
tures,  . „~-™~ . „  419 

From  the  same  —  origin.Tlity  a  coy  feature  in 
composition — sends  "  .\  man's  a  man  for  a' 
that" — which  shows  that  Song  makini^  is  not 
confiuid  to  love  and  wine — new  set  of  "  Crai- 
gip-hurn  Wood,"  „„,„^w 419 

From  Mr.  Thomson — in  acknowledgment,  ,.,.„„«  419 

Vxn-.n  the  P.iet— with,  "O  letmei.i  thisae  Night," 
ami  \nswcr,  . ~.~ — . — ., .m«.~  420 

frrmi  the  same — .Vouse  of  sweet  Ecelcfcchan— :;ir, 
"  We'll  g  ing  nae  mair  to  von  TonTi,"  is  worthy 
of  veisfs,  — ■ 420 

"vsa  Mt.  IfKWdion — in  a^«er,.^..'~>»~~>.x.«~o  tSO 


From  the  Poet — witt  four  Songs,  '  The  Wood 
lark" — "  Long,  long  the  Night" — "  I  heir  groves 
o  sweet  Myriies" — " 'Twas  na  her  bourne  blue 
Ecn  was  mv  ruin,- >. -. —  42t 

From  Mr.  Thomson — acknowledgments — piitures 
for  the  work,  ~„~^»-, ■ -„ 4!.'0-l 

Fnim  the  Pott — with  two  Songs,  "  How  eruei  .".re 
the  Parents" — "  Mark  yonder  Pomp" — adds, 
"  Vour  Tailor  could  not  fce  more  punctual, "«~  42» 

From  the  same — acknowledgment  of  a  present, ~„  4'Jl 

From  Mr.  Thomson — Clarke's  Air  to  Mallei's  U.ii- 
lad  of  "  William  and  Margaret,"  -,~~~~-~, — .  421 

From  f^he  Poet — with  four  Songs  a.'id  Verses, 
"  O  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  Lad" — "  O 
this  is  no  my  ain  Lassie" — "  Now  Sprin;;  has 
clad  the  Grove  in  Green" — "  O  honnie  was  yon 
rosy  Brier," — Inscription  on  his  Poems  present- 
ed to  a  young  L.idy, . .. : — „  422 

From  Mr.  Thomson— in  acknowledgment,  ~-..~~  i'il 

From  the  Poet— wiih  English  Song,  "  Forlorn, 

From  the  same — with  Song,  "  Last  ^!ay  a  br.i' 
Wooer  cam'  down  the  lang  Glen,"— a   Fiag- 

From  Mr.  Thomson — in  answer,  ~ — ,w-~  4'J3 

From  the  s.amt — after  an  awful  pause, 4i.'3 

From  the  Poet — acknowledges  a  Pre.>ent  to  Mrs 
li.— sends  Song,  "  Hey  for  a  Lass  wi'  a  Toch- 

From  Mr.  Thomson — in  answer, J2i 

From  the  Poet — health  has  deserted  him,  not  the 

From  Air.  Thomson — in  answer, — ^„^- .  -121 

From  the  Poet — with  Song,  "  Here's  a  heal  h  to 

them  that's  awa."  ~- ^.„~-™ — -^ —  4.I.'A 

From  the  samo— announces  his  purpose  to  te.ise 

all  his  Songs,. „ — -~ -™™  425 

Fi'um  the  same — at  Sea-bathing — depressed  and  in 

eVremitv, . > 42! 

Fi\fi  Mr.  Thoirjon— with  a  liemittfaw,..— .~»  *a 


LIFE 


O? 


110J3ERT  BURNS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Contents The  PoeVs  Birth,   1759 — Circumstances  and  peculiar  Character  of  hs  Fdihtr 

and  Mother — Hardships  of  his  Early   Years — Sources,  such  as  they  were,  of  his  Moitc^ 
Improvement — Commencelh  JLove  and  Poetry  at  16. 


*'  l\Iy  father  was  a  fanner  upon  the  Carrick  Border, 
And  soberly  he  brought  me  up  in  decency  and  order?" 

Robert  Burns  was  born  on  the  25th  of  January  1759,  in  a  clay-buih 
cottage,  about  two  miles  to  the  south  of  the  town  of  -Ayr,  and  in  the  im- 
mediate vicinity  of  the  Kirk  of  Alloway,  and  the  "  Auld  Brig  o'  Doon." 
About  a  week  afterwards,  part  of  the  frail  dwelling,  wliich  his  father  had 
constructed  with  his  own  hands,  gave  way  at  midnight ;  and  the  infant 
poet  and  his  mother  were  carried  through  the  storm,  to  the  shelter  of  a 
neighbouring  hovel.  The  father,  William  Burnes  or  Burness,  (for  so  he 
spelt  his  name),  was  the  son  of  a  farmer  in  Kincardineshire,  whence  he  re- 
moved at  19  years  of  age,  in  consequence  of  domestic  embarrassments. 
The  farm  on  which  the  family  lived,  formed  part  of  the  estate  forfeited, 
in  consequence  of  the  rebellion  of  1715,  by  the  noble  house  of  Keith 
Marischall ;  and  the  poet  took  pleasure  in  saying,  that  his  humble  ances- 
tors shared  the  principles  and  the  fall  of  their  chiefs.  Indeed,  after  Wil- 
liam Burnes  settled  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  there  prevailed  a  vague  no- 
tion that  he  himself  had  beeii  out  in  the  insurrection  of  1745-6  ;  but  thoutrli 
Robert  would  fain  have  interpreted  his  father's  silence  in  favour  of  a  tale 
which  flattered  his  imagination,  his  brother  Gilbert  always  treated  it  as  a 
mere  fiction,  and  such  it  was.  Gilbert  found  among  his  father's  papers  a 
certificate  of  the  minister  of  his  native  parish,  testilying  that  "  the  bearer, 
William  Burnes,  had  no  hand  in  the  late  wicked  rebellion."  It  is  easy  to 
Suppose  that  when  any  obscre  nortlicrn  stranger  fixed  himself  in  tliose 
days  in  the  Low  Country,  such  rumours  Mere  likely  enough  to  be  cucu- 
tet'  concerning  him 


n  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

William  Bnrnes  laboured  for  some  years  in  the  neiglibourliood  of  Edin- 
(•iiri^h  as  a  gardener,  and  then  found  his  way  into  Ayrshire.  At  the  time 
when  Robert  was  b.)rn,  he  was  gardener  and  overseer  to  a  gentleman  of 
small  estate,  Mr.  Ferguson  of  Doonholm  ;  but  resided  on  a  few  aeres  '^f 
land,  wliieh  he  had  on  lease  from  another  proprietor,  and  where  he  ha- 
originally  intended  to  establish  himself  as  a  nurseryman.  lie  married 
.\gnes  Brown  in  December  17.57,  and  the  poet  was  their  first-born.  Wil- 
liam Rurnes  seems  to  have  been,  in  his  humble  station,  a  man  eminently 
entitled  to  respeet.  He  had  received  the  ordinary  learning  of  a  Scottish 
parish  school,  and  profited  largely  both  by  that  ami  by  his  own  experience 
in  the  M-orld.  "  I  have  met  with  i'ew,"  (said  the  poet,  alter  he  luul  him- 
self seen  a  good  deal  of  mankind),  •'  who  understood  men,  their  manners, 
and  their  ways,  equal  to  my  father."  He  was  a  strictly  religious  man. 
There  exists  in  his  handwriting  a  little  manual  of  theology,  in  the  fori' 
of  a  dialogue,  which  he  drew  up  for  the  use  of  his  children,  and  Iron. 
«hieh  it  appears  that  he  had  adojUed  more  of  the  Arminian  than  of  the 
Calvinistie  doctrine  ;  a  circumstance  not  to  be  wondered  at,  when  we  con- 
sider that  he  had  been  educated  in  a  district  which  was  never  numbered 
among  the  strongholds  of  the  Presbyterian  church.  The  affect ior.ate  re- 
verence with  which  his  children  ever  regarded  him,  is  attested  by  all  who 
have  described  him  as  he  appeared  in  his  domestic  circle  ;  but  there  needs 
no  evidence  beside  that  of  the  poet  himself,  who  has  painted,  in  colours 
that  will  never  fade,  '•  the  saint,  the  lather,  and  the  husband,"  of  J/ie 
Cottar's  Sdturdai/  jXiffJit. 

Agnes  lirown,  the  wile  of  this  good  man,  is  described  as  "a  very  sagaci- 
ous woman,  without  any  appearance  of  forwardness,  or  awkwardness  of  man- 
ner;" and  it  seems  that,  in  features,  and,  as  he  grew  up,  iii  general  address, 
the  poet  resembled  her  more  than  his  fath.er.  She  had  an  inexhaustible  store 
of  ballads  and  f.  uiitionary  tales,  and  appears  to  have  nourished  his  infant 
imagination  b\  tnis  means,  while  her  husband  paid  more  attention  to  '•  the 
weightier  matters  of  the  law."  These  worthy  people  laboureil  hard  tcir 
the  sup])ort  of  an  increasing  family.  William  was  occupied  with  Mr.  Fer- 
guson's service,  and  Agnes  contrived  to  manage  a  small  dairy  as  well  as 
her  children.  But  thousjh  their  honesty  and  diliuence  merited  better  thiiiirs, 
their  condition  continued  to  be  very  uncomfortable  ;  and  our  poet,  (in  h.is 
Jotter  to  Dr.  IMoore),  accounts  distinctly  for  his  being  born  and  bred  "  a 
very  poor  man's  son,"  by  the  remark,  that  "  stubborn  ungainly  integrity, 
and  headlong  ungovernable  irascibility,  are  disqualifying  circumstances." 

These  defects  of  temper  did  not,  however,  obscure  the  sterling  worth 
of  \\  iiliam  l>urnes  in  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Ferguson  ;  who,  wh.en  his  garde- 
ner expressed  a  m  ish  to  try  his  for  tuneon  a  farm  of  his,  then  vacant,  and 
confessed  at  the  same  time  his  inability  to  meet  the  changes  of  stockiuir  it, 
at  once  advanced  1  KU)  towards  the  removal  of  the  difliculty.  Fumes  ac- 
cordingly removed  to  this  farm  (that  of  Mount  (>liphant,  in  the  parish  of 
.4yr)  at  Whitsuntide  176(5,  when  his  eldest  son  was  between  six  and  seven 
years  of  age.  But  the  soil  proved  to  be  of  the  most  ungrateful  descrij)- 
tion  ;  and  .Mr.  I'erguson  dying,  and  his  affairs  falling  into  the  hantls  of  a 
\iari,h Jurtor,  (who  afterwards  sat  tor  his  pictuie  in  the  Ttra  Dp^/s),  Burnes 
was  iilad  to  i:;;ive  un  his  bar<rain  at  the  end  of  six  years.  lie  then  removed 
nbout  ten  miles  to  a  larger  and  better  farm,  that  of  Lochlea,  in  the  parish 
of  Tarbolton.  But  h»'re,  affer  a  short  interval  of  prosperity,  some  untl>r- 
tcinatu  misunderstanding  took  j)lace  as  lo  the  conditions  of  the  leost  ;   the 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  iii 

disputo  was  referred  to  arbitration  ;  and,  after  three  3'ears  of  suspense,  the 
result  involved  Burnes  in  ruin.  The  wortiiy  man  lived  to  know  of  this  de- 
cision ;  but  death  saved  him  from  witnessing  its  necessary  consequences. 
He  died  of  consumption  on  the  l-Uh  I'ebruary  1781.  Severe  labour,  and 
hopes  only  renewed  to  be  baflled,  had  at  last  exhausted  a  robust  but  irri- 
table structure  and  temperament  of  body  and  (jf  mind. 

In  t!ie  midst  of  the  harassing  struggles  which  lljund  this  termination, 
William  Burnes  appears  to  have  used  his  utmost  exertions  for  promoting 
the  mental  improvement  of  his  children — a  duty  rarely  neglected  by  Scot- 
tish parents,  however  humble  their  station,  and  scanty  their  means  may 
[)e.  Robert  was  sent,  in  his  sixth  year,  to  a  small  school  at  Alloway 
.Miln,  about  a  mile  from  the  house  in  which  he  was  born  ;  but  Campbell, 
the  teacher,  being  in  the  course  of  a  i'uw  months  removed  to  another 
Bitiiation,  Burnes  and  four  or  five  of  his  neighbours  engaged  Mr.  John 
Murdoch  to  su])ply  his  place,  lodging  him  by  turns  in  their  own  houses, 
and  ensuring  to  him  a  small  payment  of  money  quarterly.  Robert  Burns, 
and  (iilbert  his  next  brother,  were  the  a))test  and  the  favourite  pupils  of 
this  worthy  man,  who  survived  till  very  lately,  and  who  has,  in  a  letter 
published  at  length  by  Currie,  detailed,  with  honest  pride,  the  [)art  which 
he  had  in  the  early  education  of  our  poet.  lie  became  the  frecjuint  in- 
mate and  confidential  friend  of  the  family,  and  speaks  with  enthusiasm  of 
the  virtues  of  Wiiliam  Barnes,  and  of  the  peaceful  and  happy  life  of  his 
humble  abode. 

"  lie  was  (says  Murdoch)  a  tender  and  afrectionate  father  ;  he  took  j)lea- 
6ure  in  leading  his  children  in  the  path  of  virtue;  not  in  driving  them,  as 
come  parents  do,  to  the  performance  of  duties  to  which  they  themselves  are 
averse.  Me  took  care  to  find  fault  but  very  seldom  ;  and  therefore,  when 
he  did  rebuke,  h(  was  listened  to  with  a  kmd  of  reverential  awe.  A  look 
of  disapprobation  was  felt ;  a  reproof  was  severely  so :  and  a  stripe  with 
the  ttrtrz,  even  on  the  skirt  of  the  coat,  gave  heart-felt  pain,  produced  a 
loud  lamentation,  and  brought  forth  a  liood  of  tears. 

"  He  had  the  art  of  gaining  the  esteem  and  good-will  of  those  that  were 
labourers  under  him.  I  think  I  never  saw  him  angry  but  twice  :  the  one 
time  it  was  with  the  foreman  of  tlie  band,  for  not  reaping  the  field  as  lie 
was  desired;  and  the  other  tune,  it  was  with  an  old  man,  for  using  smutty 
inuendos  and  double  eiifetu/res." "  In  this  mean  cottage,  of  which  I  my- 
self was  at  times  an  inhabitant,  I  really  believe  there  dwelt  a  larger  j)o"- 
tion  of  content  than  in  any  palace  in  Ivarope.  77ie  (/attar's  Suturduy  Niyhf. 
will  give  some  idea  of  the  temper  and  manners  th.at  prevailed  there." 

The  boys,  under  the  joint  tuition  of  Murdoch  and  their  father,  made  ra- 
pid progress  in  reading,  spelling,  and  writing;  they  connnittcd  psalms  and 
hynm&  to  memory  with  extraordinary  ease — the  teacher  taking  care  (as  he 
tells  u^)  that  they  should  understand  the  exact  meaning  of  each  word  in 
the  sentence  ere  they  tried  to  get  it  by  heart.  "  As  soon,"  says  he,  "  as 
they  were  capable  of  it,  I  taught  them  to  turn  verse  into  its  natural  prose 
order  ;  sometimes  to  substitute  synonymous  expressions  ibr  poetical  words  ; 
and  to  supply  all  the  ellipses.  Robert  and  Gilbert  were  generally  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  class,  even  when  ranged  ^Mth  boys  by  flir  their  seniors, 
The  books  most  commonly  used  in  the  sc/iool  were  the  Sj)tlliii(j  Booh. 
\X\Q  Ntw  Testnmott,  the  Bible,  Masoris  CuLnction  of  Prone  and  Verse,  and 
Fixher's  English  Grammar." — "  Gilbert  alw  vs  appeard  to  me  to  possess  a 
mere  lively  imagination,  and  to  be  more  0    the  wit,  than  Robert.     I  at- 


V  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

tempted  to  teach  them  a  little  church-music.  Here  they  were  kft  far  be- 
hind by  all  the  rest  of  the  school.  Robert's  eai,  in  particular,  was  remark- 
ably dull,  and  his  voice  untunable.  It  was  long  before  I  could  get  them 
to  distinguish  one  tune  from  another.  Robert's  countenance  was  general- 
ly grave  and  expressive  of  a  serious,  contemplative,  and  thoughtful  mintl 
Gilbert's  foce  said,  3Iirth,  with  t/iee  I  wean  to  live;  and  certainly,  if  any 
person  who  knew  the  two  boys,  had  been  asked  which  of  them  was  the 
most  likely  to  court  the  Muses,  he  would  never  have  guessed  that  Jiobert 
had  a  propensity  of  that  kind." 

*'  At  those  years,"  says  the  poet  himself,  in  1787,  "  I  was  by  no  means 
a  Tavnurite  with  anybody.  I  was  a  good  deal  noted  for  o  retentive  memory, 
a  stauborn  sturdy  something  in  my  disposition,  and  an  enthusiastic  idiot 
piety.  I  say  idiot  piety,  because  1  was  then  but  a  child.  Though  it  cost 
the  schoolmaster  some  thrashings,  I  made  an  excellent  English  scholar ; 
and  by  the  time  I  was  ten  or  eleven  years  of  age,  I  was  a  critic  in  substan- 
tives, verbs,  and  particles.  In  my  infant  and  boyish  days,  too,  I  owed 
much  to  an  old  woman  who  resided  in  the  family,  remarkable  for  her 
ignorance,  credulity,  and  superstition.  She  had,  I  suppose,  the  largest 
collection  in  the  country  of  tales  and  songs  concerning  devils,  ghosts,  fairies, 
brnwnies,  witches,  warlocks,  spunkies,  kelpies,  elf-candles,  dead-liglits, 
wraiths,  apparitions,  cantraips,  giants,  enchanted  towers,  dragons,  and  other 
trumpery.  This  cultivated  the  latent  seeds  of  poetry  ;  but  had  so  strong 
an  effect  on  my  imagination,  that  to  this  hour,  in  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I 
sometimes  keep  a  sharp  look-out  in  suspicious  places  ;  and  though  nobody 
can  be  more  sceptical  than  I  am  in  such  matters,  yet  it  often  takes  an  ef- 
fort of  pliilosophy  to  shake  off  these  idle  terrors.  The  earliest  composition 
that  I  recollect  taking  pleasure  in,  was  7/ie  Vision  of  Mirza,  and  a  hynm 
of  Addison's,  beginning,  IIoiv  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord  !  I  particular- 
ly remember  one  half-stanza,  which  was  music  to  m}'  boyish  ear — 

"•  For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
IJigh  on  ihe  broken  wave — " 

I  met  with  these  pieces  in  3Iuson's  English  Collection,  one  of  my  school- 
boolcs.  The  two  first  books  I  ever  read  in  private,  and  which  gave  me 
more  pleasure  than  any  two  books  I  ever  read  since,  were.  The  Life  of  Han- 
nibal, ?Lr\i\  The  llislorj/ of  SirWiUiam  Wallace.  Hannibal  gave  my  young 
ideas  such  a  turn,  that  I  used  to  strut  in  raptures  up  and  down  after  tlie 
recruiting  drum  and  bagpipe,  and  wish  myself  tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier  ; 
while  the  story  of  Wallace  poured  a  tide  of  Scottish  prejudice  into  my 
reins,  which  will  boil  along  there  till  the  flood-gates  of  life  shut  in  eternal 
rest." 

Murdoch  continued  his  instructions  until  the  family  had  been  about  two 
years  at  Mount  Oliphant — when  he  left  for  a  time  that  part  of  the  country. 
•'  There  being  no  school  near  us,"  says  Gilbert  I'urns,  "  and  our  little  ser- 
vices being  already  useful  on  the  farm,  my  father  undertook  tc  teach  us  arith- 
metic in  the  winter  evenings  by  candle  hght — and  in  this  way  my  two  elder 
sisters  received  all  tlie  education  they  ever  received  "  Gilbert  tells  an  anec- 
dote which  must  not  be  oi  litted  here,  since  it  furnishes  an  early  instance 
of  the  liveliness  of  his  brc  her's  imagination.  Murdoch,  being  on  a  visit 
to  the  family,  read  aloud  or-  ■  evening  part  of  the  tragedy  of  Titus  Andro- 
nicus — the  circle  listened  w  h  the  deepest  interest  until  he  came  to  Act 
2,  DC.  5,  where  Lavinia  is      troduced    '  with  her  lands  cut  oil',  and  her 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  « 

toiigue  cut  out."  At  this  the  children  entreated,  with  one  voice,  in  an 
ai^ony  of  distress,  tluxt  their  friend  would  read  no  more.  "  If  ye  will  not 
hear  the  play  out,"  said  William  IJurnes,  "  it  need  not  be  left  with  you. ' 
— "  If  it  be  left,"  cries  Robert,  "  I  will  burn  it."  His  father  was  about 
to  chide  him  for  this  return  to  Murdoch's  kindness — but  the  good  younij 
man  interfered,  saj'ing  he  liked  to  see  so  much  sensibility,  and  left  The 
School  fur  Love  in  place  of  his  truculent  tragedy.  At  this  time  Robert 
was  nine  years  of  age.  "  Nothing,"  continues  Gilbert  Burns,  "  could  be 
more  retired  than  our  general  manner  of  living  at  Mount  Oliphant ;  we 
raiely  saw  any  body  but  the  members  of  our  own  family.  There  were  no 
b()>  .■^-  of  our  own  age,  or  near  it,  in  the  neighbourhood.  Indeed  the  greatest 
part  of  the  land  in  the  vicinity  was  at  that  time  possessed  by  shopkeepers 
and  people  of  that  stamp,  who  had  retired  from  business,  or  who  kept  their 
farm  in  the  country,  at  the  same  time  that  they  followed  business  in  town. 
^ly  father  was  for  some  time  almost  the  only  companion  we  had.  He  con- 
versed familiarly  on  all  subjects  with  us,  as  if  we  had  been  men ;  and  was 
at  great  pains,  while  we  accompanied  him  in  the  labours  of  the  farm,  to 
jf.ad  the  conversation  to  such  subjects  as  might  tend  to  increase  our  know- 
ledge, or  confirm  us  in  virtuous  habits.  He  borrovred  Salmon's  Georjra- 
phicnl  Grammar  for  us,  and  endeavoured  to  make  us  acquainted  with  the 
situation  and  history  of  the  different  countries  in  the  world ;  while,  from  a 
book-society  in  Ayr,  he  procured  for  us  the  reading  of  Derham's  Physico 
and  Asfro  Theolncfy,  and  H(tys  Wisdom  of  God  in  the  Creation,  to  give  us 
some  idea  of  astronomy  and  natural  history.  Robert  read  all  these  books 
with  an  avidity  and  industry  scarcely  to  be  equalled.  My  father  had  beer. 
a  subscriber  to  Stachhouscs  History  of  the  Bible.  From  this  Robert  col- 
lected a  competent  knowledge  of  ancient  history ;  for  no  book  was  so  it- 
lianino/is  as  to  slachen  Ins  industry,  or  sn  anfiqaated  as  to  damp  his  researches." 
A  collection  of  letters  by  eminent  English  authors,  is  mentioned  as  having 
fallen  into  Burns's  hands  much  about  the  same  time,  and  greatly  delighted 
him. 

When  Burns  was  about  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  old,  his  father  sent 
him  and  Gilbert  "  week  about,  during  a  summer  quarter,"  to  the  parish 
school  of  Dalrjnnple.  two  or  three  miles  distant  from  Mount  Oliphant,  fbi 
the  improvement  of  their  penmanship.  The  good  man  could  not  pay  two 
fees :  or  his  two  boys  could  not  be  spared  at  the  same  time  from  the  la- 
bour of  the  form  !  '•  We  lived  very  poorly,"  says  the  poet.  *'  I  was  a  dex- 
terous ploughman  for  my  age  ;  and  the  next  eldest  to  me  was  a  brother, 
(Gilbert',  who  could  drive  the  plough  very  well,  and  help  me  to  thrash  the 
corn.  A  novel  writer  might  perhaps  have  viewed  these  scenes  with  some 
satisfaction,  but  so  did  not  I  My  indignation  yet  boils  at  the  recollection 
cf  the  scoundrel  factor's  insolent  letters,  which  used  to  set  us  all  in  tears." 
Gilbert  Burns  gives  his  brother's  situation  at  this  period  in  greater  detail 
— "  To  the  buifetings  of  misfortune,"  says  he,  "  we  could  only  oppose 
hard  labour  and  the  most  rigid  economy  We  lived  very  sparingly.  For 
several  years  butcher's  meat  was  a  stranger  in  the  house,  while  all  the 
members  of  the  family  exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  of  their  strength 
and  rather  bej'ond  it,  in  the  labours  of  the  farm.  My  broth.er,  at  the  age 
of  thirteen,  assisted  in  thrashing  the  crop  of  corn,  and  at  fifteen  was  the 
principal  labourer  on  the  farm,  for  we  had  no  hired  servant,  male  or  female. 
The  anguish  of  mind  we  felt  at  our  tender  years,  under  these  straits  and 
difficulties,  was  very  great.     To  think  of  oui  fathei  growing  old  (for  he  was 


VI  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

now  above  fifty),  broken  down  witli  the  long-continued  latigues-  of  his  life 
v/ith  a  wife  and  five  other  children,  and  in  a  declining  state  of  circumstances, 
these  reflections  produced  in  my  brother's  mind  and  mine  sensations  of  the 
deepest  distress.  I  doubt  not  but  the  hard  labour  and  sorrow  of  this  pe- 
riod of  his  life,  was  in  a  great  measure  the  cause  of  that  depression  of  spirits 
with  which  Robert  was  so  often  afflicted  through  his  whole  life  afterwards. 
At  this  time  he  was  almost  constantly  afflicted  in  the  evenings  with  a  dull 
headach;  which,  at  a  future  period  of  his  life,  was  exchanged  for  a  palpita- 
tion of  the  heart,  and  a  threatening  of  fainting  and  suffocation  in  his  bed,  in 
the  night-time." 

The  year  after  this,  Burns  v/as  able  to  gain  three  weeks  of  respite,  one 
before,  and  two  after  the  harvest,  from  the  labours  which  were  thus  stmiti- 
ing  his  youthful  strength.  His  tutor  Murdoch  was  now  established  in  tl  e 
town  of  A)T,  and  the  boy  spent  one  of  these  weeks  in  revising  the  English 
grammar  with  him  ;  the  other  two  were  given  to  French.  He  labouri  d 
enthusiastically  in  the  new  pursuit,  and  came  home  at  the  end  of  a  fort- 
niHit  with  a  dictionary  and  a  Telcmaqne,  of  which  he  made  such  use  at  his 
cisure  hours,  by  himself,  that  in  a  short  time  (if  we  may  believe  Gilbert) 
he  was  able  to  understand  any  ordinary  book  of  French  prose.  His  pr.?- 
o-ress,  whatever  it  really  amounted  to,  was  looked  on  as  something  oi"  a 
prodigy ;  and  a  writing-master  in  Ayr,  a  friend  of  Murdoch,  insisted  that 
Robert  Burns  must  next  attempt  the  rudiments  of  tliS  Latin  tovgue.  He 
did  so,  but  with  little  perseverance,  we  may  be  sure,  since  the  results  were 
of  no  sort  of  value.  Burns's  Latin  consisted  of  a  few  scraps  of  hackneyed 
quotations,  such  as  many  that  never  looked  into  Ruddiman's  lUidiments 
can  apply,  on  occasion,  quite  as  skilfully  as  he  ever  appears  to  have  done. 
Tlie  matter  is  one  of  no  importance ;  we  might  perhaps  safely  dismiss  it 
with  parodying  what  Ben  Jonson  said  of  Shakspeare ;  he  had  little 
French,  and  no  Latin.  He  had  read,  however,  and  read  well,  ere  his  six- 
teenth year  elapsed,  no  contemptible  amount  of  the  literature  of  his  own 
country.  In  addition  to  the  books  which  have  already  been  mentioned,  he 
tells  us  that,  ere  the  family  quitted  Mount  Oliphant,  he  had  read  "  the 
Spectator,  some  plays  of  Shakspeare,  Pope,  (the  Homer  included),  Tull 
and  Dickson  on  Agriculture,  Locke  on  the  Human  Understanding,  -lus- 
tice's  British  Gardeners  Directory,  Boyle's  Lectures,  Taylor's  Scrijitn.re 
Doctrine  of  Original  Sin,  A  Sekct  Collection  of  Evglish  Songs,  Ilervey's 
]\h'dilations,"  (a  book  which  has  ever  been  very  popular  among  the  Scottish 
peasantry),  "  and  the  Works  of  Allan  Ramsay  ;"  and  Gilbert  adds  to  this 
list  Piimela,  (the  first  novel  either  of  the  brothers  read),  two  stray  vo- 
lumes of  Peregrine  PirJde,  two  of  Qmnt  Fatlioni,  and  a  single  volume  of 
"  some  English  historian,"  containing  the  reigns  of  James  1.,  and  his  son. 
The  "  Collection  of  Songs,"  says  Burns,  was  my  radc  mccuni.  1  pored 
over  them,  driving  my  cart,  or  walking  to  labour,  song  by  song,  verse  by 
verse ;  carefully  noticing  the  true,  tender,  or  sublime,  from  affectation  or 
fustian  ;  and  1  am  convinced  i  owe  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic-craft, 
such  as  it  is." 

He  derived,  during  this  period,  considerable  advantages  from  the  vicinity 
of  Mount  Oliphant  to  tlie  town  of  Ayr— a  place  then,  and  still,  distmguish- 
ed  by  the  resideiK-e  of  many  respectable  gentlemen's  families,  and  a  con- 
sequent elegance  of  society  and  manners,  not  common  in  remote  provin- 
cial situations.  To  his  friend.  Mr.  Murdoch,  he  no  doubt  owed,  in  the  first 
'.nstance,  whatever  attentions  he  received  therr  fiom  peoi)lu  older  as  wt;L' 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  vV. 

ns  hi^licr  tlian  himself:  some  sucli  persons  appear  to  have  taken  R  pkaisure 
in  lending  liim  books,  and  surely  no  kindness  could  have  been  ni:ire  useful 
to  him  than  this.  As  for  his  coevals,  he  lumself  says,  very  justi},  "  It  is 
not  commonly  at  that  green  age  that  our  young  gentry  have  a  just  sense 
of  the  distance  between  tliem  and  their  ragged  playfellows.  Mi/  young 
superiors,"  he  proceeds,  "  never  insulted  the  cloulerhj  appearanie  of  my 
nlough-boy  carcass,  the  two  extremes  of  which  v/ere  often  exposed  to  all 
the  inclemencies  of  all  the  seasons.  They  Mould  give  me  stray  volumes 
of  books  :  among  them,  even  then,  I  could  pick  up  some  observation  ;  and 
one,  whose  heart  I  am  sure  not  even  the  -Munny  Begum  scenes  have  tainted, 
helped  me  to  a  little  French.  Parting  with  these,  my  young  friends  and 
benefactors,  as  they  occasionally  went  otf  for  tlie  East  or  West  Indies,  was  of- 
ten to  me  a  sore  affliction. — but  I  was  soon  called  to  more  serious  evils." — 
(Letter  to  IMoore).  The  condition  of  the  family  during  the  last  two  years 
of  their  residence  at  Mount  Oliphant,  when  the  struggle  whicli  ended  in 
their  removal  was  rapidly  approaching  its  crisis,  has  been  already  describ- 
ed ;  nor  need  we  dwell  again  on  the  untimely  bui'den  of  sorrow,  as  well  as 
toil,  which  fell  to  the  share  of  the  youthful  poet,  and  which  would  have 
broken  iiltogether  any  mind  wherein  feelings  like  his  had  existed,  without 
strength  like  his  to  control  them.  The  removal  of  the  family  to  Locldea, 
in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  took  place  wlu;n  Burns  was  in  his  sixteenth  year 
He  had  some  time  before  this  made  his  first  attempt  in  verse,  and  the  occa- 
sion is  thus  described  by  himself  in  his  letter  to  Moore.  "  This  kind  of  liic — > 
the  cheerless  gloom  of  a  hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley-slave, 
brought  me  to  my  sixteenth  year  ;  a  little  before  which  period  I  lirst  conmiit- 
ted  tiie  sin  of  Rh^Ti^.e.  Vou  know  our  country  custom  of  coupling  a  man  and 
woman  together  as  partners  in  the  labours  of  harvest.  In  my  lifteenth  au- 
tumn my  partner  was  a  bewitching  creature,  a  year  younger  than  myself. 
My  scarcity  of  English  denies  me  the  power  of  doing  iier  justice  in  that 
language ;  but  you  know  the  IScottish  idiom — she  was  a  boume,  sweet,  sousie 
lass.  In  short,  she.  altogeth-cr  unwittingly  to  herself,  initiated  me  in  tliat 
delicious  passion,  which,  in  spite  of  acid  disappointment,  gin- horse  pru- 
dence, and  book-worm  [)hilosophy,  I  hold  to  be  the  first  of  human  joys,  our 
dearest  blessing  here  below  !  Mow  she  cauglit  the  contagion,  I  caimot  t''ll  ; 
you  medical  people  talk  much  of  infection  irom  breathing  tlie  same  air,  the 
touch,  ^c.  ;  but  I  never  expressly  said  1  loved  Iier.  Indeed,  I  did  not  know 
myself  why  I  liked  so  much  to  loiter  bcliind  witli  her,  when  retiuning  in 
the  evening  from  our  labours  ;  why  tiie  tones  of  her  voice  made  my  heart- 
strings tin-ill  like  an  .'Eolian  harp  ;  and  particularly  why  my  pulse  beat  SL<h 
a  furious  ratan,  when  1  looked  and  lingered  over  her  little  hand,  to  |)ick  (  ut 
the  cruel  nettle-stings  and  tliistles.  Among  her  other  love-ins})iring  t>i  a- 
lities,  she  sung  sweetly  ;  and  it  was  her  favourite  reel,  to  which  I  attempt*. d 
giving  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme.  I  was  not  so  presumptuous  as  lu 
imagine  that  I  could  make  verses  like  printed  ones,  composed  by  men  who 
had  Greek  and  Latin  ;  but  my  girl  sung  a  song,  which  was  said  to  be  com- 
posed by  a  small  country  laird's  son,  on  one  of  his  lather's  maids,  with  whom 
he  was  in  love  ;  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well  as  he ; 
for,  excepting  that  he  could  smear  sheep,  and  cast  peats,  his  father  living 
in  the  moorlands,  he  had  no  more  scholar-craft  than  myself. 

"  Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry  ;  which  at  times  have  been  rr.y 
T'lv,  and  till  within  the  last  twelve  months,  have  been  my  higliest  enjoy 


viil  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

The  earliest  of  the  poet's  productions  is  the  little  ballad, 

"  O  once  I  loved  a  bonny  lass. 

Burns  himself  characterises  it  as  "  a  very  puerile  and  silly  performance  ,* 
yet  it  contains  here  and  there  lines  of  whicli  he  need  hardly  have  been 
ashamed  at  any  period  of  his  life  : — 

"  She  dresses  aye  sae  clean  and  neat, 
Bairh  decent  and  genteel. 
And  then  there's  something  in  her  g 
Gars  ony  dress  look  weel." 

"  Silly  and  puerile  as  it  is,"  said  the  poet,  long  afterwards,  "  I  am  al- 
ways pleased  with  this  song,  as  it  recalls  to  my  mind  those  happy  days 
when  my  heart  was  yet  honest,  and  my  tongue  sincere...!  composed  it  in  a 
wild  enthusiasm  of  passion,  and  to  this  hour  1  never  recollect  it  but  my 
heart  melts,  my  blood  sallies,  at  the  remembrance."  (MS.  Memorandum 
book,  August  178S.) 

In  his  first  epistle  to  Lapraik  (1785)  he  says — 

"  Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
1  to  the  cranibo-jingle  fell, 

Tho'  rude  and  tough  ; 
Yet  crooning  to  a  body's  sell 
Does  weel  eneugh." 

And  in  some  nobler  verses,  entitled  "  On  my  Early  Days,"  we  have  the 
fdlowing  passage  : — 

"  I  mind  it  weel  in  early  date, 

Wlien  I  was  beardless,  young  and  blate, 

.And  first  could  thrash  the  barn. 
Or  haud  a  yokin'  o'  the  pleugh, 
An'  tho'  forfoughten  sair  eneugh, 

Vet  unco  proud  to  learn — 
AVhen  first  amang  the  yellow  corn 

A  man  I  reckoned  was, 
An'  wi'  the  lave  ilk  merry  morn 

Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass — 
Still  shearing  and  clearing 

The  tiilier  stookit  raw, 
WV  claivers  and  haivers 

Wearing  the  day  awa — 
E'en  then  a  wish,  I  mind  its  power, 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast : 
That  I  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
iomc  useful  plan  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sing  a  sang,  at  least : 
The  rough  bur-tliisile  sjireading  wide 

Amang  th.e  bearded  bear, 
1  turn'd  die  weeder-clips  aside. 

And  spared  the  symbol  d';ar." 

He  is  hnrdly  to  be  envied  who  can  contemplate  without  emotion,  this 
exquisite  picture  of  young  nature  and  young  genius.  It  was  amidst  such 
scenes  that  this  extraordinary  beinjx  felt  those  first  indefinite  stirrings  ol 
immortal  ambition,  which  he  has  himself  shadowed  out  under  the  ningniri- 
ccnt  image  of  "  the  blind  gropings  of  Homer's  Cyclops,  around  tlie  walls 
ol  Jiii  cave." 


CHAPTER  II. 

\iBTENTS Prom  17  to  24 — Robert  antl  Gilbert  Burns  work  to  Iheir  Fniher,  as  Lnhourtr$^ 

at  stilted   Wiiyes — At  Rural  W:  rh  the  Poet  feared  no  Competitor —  Tlus  period  not  marked 
by  much   Mental  Improvement — At  Dancini/- School — I'rnpress   in  Lore  and  Pietry — A 
School  lit  Kirkosu-ahfs — Bad  Company — At  Irvine — Flaxdressiny — Becomes  there  Mem 
ber  of  a  Batchelors    Club. 


**  O  enviable  early  days, 

^V'hen  dancing  thnuj;htless  pleasure's  mare, 

To  care  and  guilt  unknown  ! 
How  ill  exchargcd  for  riper  limes, 
To  feel  the  follies  or  the  crimes 

Of  others — or  my  own  !" 

As  has  been  already  mentioned,  William  Burnes  now  quilted  Mount 
Olipliant  for  Lochlea,  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  where,  for  some  little 
space,  fortune  appeared  to  smile  on  his  industry  and  frugality.  Robert 
and  (lilbert  were  emploj'ed  by  their  father  as  regular  labourers — he  allow- 
ing them  t?  of  wages  each  per  annum;  from  which  sum,  however,  the 
value  of  any  home  made  clothes  received  by  the  youths  was  exactly  de- 
ducted. Robert  Burns's  person,  inured  to  daily  toil,  and  continually  expos- 
ed to  every  variety  of  weather,  presented,  before  the  usual  time,  every  ciia- 
racteristic  of  robust  and  vigorous  manhood.  He  says  himself  that  he  never 
feared  a  competitor  in  any  species  of  rural  exertion  :  and  Gilbert  Burns, 
a  man  of  uncommon  bodily  strength,  adds,  that  neither  he,  nor  any  labourer 
he  ever  saw  at  work,  was  equal  to  the  youthful  poet,  either  in  tlie  corn 
field,  or  the  severer  tasks  of  the  thrashing-floor.  Gilbert  says,  that  Ro- 
bert's literary  zeal  slackened  considerably  after  their  removal  to  Tarbolton. 
He  was  separated  from  his  acquaintances  of  the  town  of  Ayr,  and  pr(;I)a- 
bly  missed  not  only  the  stinmlus  of  their  conversation,  but  the  kindness 
that  had  furnished  him  with  his  supply,  such  as  it  was,  of  books.  J5ut  the 
main  source  of  his  change  of  habits  about  this  period  was,  it  is  confessed 
on  all  hands,  the  precocious  fervour  of  one  of  his  own  turbulent  passions. 

"  In  my  seventeenth  year,"  says  Burns,  "  to  give  my  manners  a  brush,  I 
went  to  a  country  dancing-school. — My  father  had  an  unaccountable  anti- 
pathy against  these  meetings  :  and  my  going  was,  what  to  this  moment  I 
rtp.nt.  in  opposition  to  his  wishes.  .My  father  was  subject  to  strong  pas- 
sions from  that  instance  of  disobedience  in  me,  he  took  a  sort  of  dislike 
to  me,  which  1  believe  was  one  cause  of  the  dissipation  which  marked  my 
succeeding  years.  I  say  dissipation,  comparatively  with  the  strictness, 
and  soViety,  and  regularity  of  Presbyterian  country  life;  for  though  liie 
Will- o'- Wisp  meteors  of  thoughtless  whim  were  almost  tlie  sole  lights  oi 
rKy  path,  yet  early  ingrained  piety  and  virtue  kept  me  for  several  years 
afterwards  within  the  lino  of  innocence.  'Ihe  great  ri^.islbrtune  of  my  life 
was  to  want  an  aim.  I  saw  my  father's  situation  entailed  oi  me  jKrpetual 
labour.     The  only  two  openings  by       ich  I  could  enter  the  tenii)!e  of  1  or- 


X  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

tune,  wer"  the  gate  of  nigardly  economy,   or  the  path  of  little  chicaning 
bargain-making.     The  first  is  so  contracted  an  aperture,  I  could  nevei 
squeeze  myself  into  it ; — the  last  I  always  hated — there  was  contamination 
in   the  very  entrance  !      Thus  abandoned  of  aim   or  view  in   life,   v/ith  a 
strong  appetite  for  sociability,  as  v.-ell  from  native  hilarity,  as  from  a  pride 
of  observation  and  remark ;  a  constitutional  m.elancholy  or  hypochondria 
cism  that  made  me  fly  solitude  ;  add  to  these  incentives  to  social  life,  my 
••eputaticn  for  bookish    knowledge,    a  certain   wild  logical  talent,  and  a 
strength  of  thought,  something  like  the  rudiments  of  good  sense  -•  and  U 
will  not  seem  surprising  that  1  was  generally  a  welcome  guest  whe/c  I  vi- 
sited, or  any  great  wonder  that,  always  where  two  or  three  met  together, 
there  was  I  among  them.     But  far  beyond  all  other  impulses  of  my  heart, 
vi;i\%  tin penchrait pour  I' adorcAle  moitie  (III  genre  hiimain.    My  heart  was  com- 
cletely  tinder,  and  was  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess  or  other; 
and  as  in  every  othe/  warfare  in  this  world  my  fortune  was  various,  some- 
times I  was  received  with  favour,  and  sometimes  I  was  mortified  with  a 
repulse.     At  the  plough,  scythe,  or  reap-hook,  I  feared  no  competitor  and 
thus  I  set  absolute  want  at  defiance  ;  and  as  I  never  cared  farther  i'oi.  my 
labours  than  v/hile  I  was  in  actual  exercise,  I  spent  the  evenings  in  tlie 
way  after  my  own  heart.     A  country  lad  seldom  carries  on  a  love  adven- 
ture without  an  assisting  confidant.     I  possessed  a  curiosity,  zeal,  and  in- 
t»'ei)id  dexterity,  that  recommended  me  as  a  proper  second  on  these  occa- 
sions, and  I  dare  say,  I  felt  as  much  pleasure  in  being  in  the  secret  oi 
half  the  loves  of  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  as  ever  did  statesman  in  knowing 
the  intrigues  of  half  the  courts  of  Europe." 

In  regard  to  the  same  critical  period  of  Burns's  life,  his  excellent  brother 
writes  as  follows  : — "  1  wonder  k,ow  llobert  could  attribute  to  our  father  that 
lasting  resentment  of  his  going  to  a  dancing-school  against  his  will,  of  which 
he  was  incapable.  I  believe  the  truth  was,  that  about  this  time  he  began 
to  see  the  dangerous  impetuosity  of  my  brother's  passions,  as  well  as  iiis 
not  being  amenable  to  counsel,  which  often  irritated  my  father,  and  vrhich 
he  would  naturally  think  a  dancing  school  was  not  likely  to  correct.  But 
he  was  proud  of  Robert's  genius,  which  he  bestowed  more  expense  on 
cultivating  than  on  the  rest  of  the  family — and  he  was  equally  delighted 
with  his  warmth  of  heart,  and  conversational  powers.  He  had  indeed  that 
dislike  of  dancing-schools  which  Robert  mentions  ;  but  so  far  overcame  it 
during  Robert's  first  month  of  attendance,  that  he  permitted  the  rest  of 
the  family  that  were  fit  for  it,  to  accompany  him  during  the  second  month. 
Robert  excelled  in  dancing,  and  was  for  some  time  distractedly  fond  of  it. 
And  thus  the  seven  years  we  lived  in  'I'arbolton  parish  (extending  from  tl)e 
seventeenth  to  the  twenty-fourth  of  my  brother's  age)  w  ere  not  n^arke.I  by 
much  literary  improvement ;  but,  during  this  time,  the  foundation  was  laicJ 
of  cerUxin  habits  in  my  brother's  character,  which  afterwards  became  but 
too  prominent,  and  which  malice  and  en\'y  have  taken  delight  to  enlarge 
on.  Though,  when  young,  he  was  bashful  and  awkward  in  his  intercourse 
with  women,  yet  when  he  approached  manhood,  his  attachment  to  their 
society  became  very  strong,  and  he  was  constantly  the  victim  of  lome 
fair  enslaver.  The  symptoms  of  his  passion  were  oi'ten  such  as  nearly  to 
equal  those  of  the  celebi'ated  Sappiio.  I  never  indeed  knew  that  he 
fainted,  sunk,  anil  d:eil  away  ;  but  the  agitations  of  his  mind  and  body 
exceeded  any  tiling  of  the  kind  I  ever  knew  in  real  life.  He  had  always  a 
|>articu!ar  jealousy  of  people  >vh()  were  richer  than  hiniscil',  or  wnu  had 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  x« 

Tijre  conseq  ence  in  life.  His  love,  therefore,  rarely  settled  on  persons 
of  tliis  description.  When  he  selected  any  one  out  of  the  sovereignty  of 
his  good  pleasure  to  whom  he  should  pay  his  particular  attention,  she  was 
install  y  invested  with  a  sufHcient  stock  of  charms,  out  of  tlie  plentiful 
stores  of  his  own  imagination :  and  there  was  often  a  great  dissimilitude 
between  his  fair  captivator,  as  she  appeared  to  others,  and  as  she  seeme(? 
wlien  invested  with  the  attributes  he  gave  her.  One  generally  reigned 
paramount  in  his  ailections  ;  but  as  Yorick's   aiTections  fiovvxnl  out  toward 

Madame  de  L at  the  remise  door,  v.hile  the  eternal  vows  of  Eliza  were 

upon  him,  so  Robert  was  frequently  encountering  other  attractions.,  which 
formed  so  many  under-plots  in  the  drama  of  his  love." 

Thus  occupied  with  labour,  love,  and  dancing,  the  youtli  "  without  an 
aim"  found  leisure  occasionally  to  clothe  the  sulHciently  various  moods  oi 
his  mind  in  rhymes.  It  was  as  early  as  seventeen,  (he  tells  us),*  tliat  he 
wrote  some  stanzas  which  begin  beaL:tifully  : 

"  I  drcam'd  I  lay  wliere  flowers  wert-  springing 

(jiaily  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 
Listeniiif,'  to  the  wild  birds  singing 

By  a  i'allen  crystal  stream. 
Straight  the  sky  s^rew  bl.ick  and  danng, 

Tl;ro'  the  woods  tlie  whiilwinds  rave. 
Trees  with  aged  arms  were  warring, 

O'er  the  swelling  d-umlie  wave. 
Such  was  life's  dei.eicl"ul  morning."  Sus. 

On  comparing  these  veises  witl  those  on  "  Handsome  Nell,"  the  ad- 
vance achieved  by  the  young  bard  in  the  course  of  two  sfeort  years,  must 
be  regarded  with  admiration  ;  nor  should  a  minor  circumstance  be  entirely 
overlooked,  that  in  the  piece  which  we  have  just  been  quoting,  there  occurs 
bat  one  Scotch  word.  It  was  about  this  time,  also,  that  he  wrote  a  ballad  ol 
much  less  ambitious  vein,  which,  years  after,  he  says,  he  used  to  con  over 
with  delight,  because  of  the  faithfulness  v/ith  which  it  recalled  to  him  the 
circumstances  and  feelings  of  his  opening  manhood. 

— "  IMy  father  was  a  farmer  upon  the  Carrick  Border, 
And  carefully  he  brought  me  uj)  in  decency  and  order. 
And  bade  me  act  a  manly  part,  tho'  I  had  ne'er  u  farthing ; 
For  without  an  ho. .est  manly  heart,  no  man  was  worth  regarding. 

Then  out  into  the  world  my  course  I  did  determine ; 

T/io'  to  he  rich  -mis  not  m;i  uinh,  yet  to  he  great  xi'tn  charming ; 
Aly  tfilrnts  thcij  were  not  the  -.carsf,  nor  i;rt  vvj  education  ; 
llcsolved  was  I  at  least  to  try  to  mend  my  situation. 

•  •  •  •  •  •  • 

No  help,  nor  hope,  nor  view  had  I,  nor  person  to  befnend  mc; 
So  1  must  toil,  ar.d  sweat,  and  l)roil,  aiid  labour  to  sustain  me. 
To  ))lough  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my  father  bied  me  early  ; 
For  one,  he  said,  to  labour  bred,  was  a  match  for  fortune  fairly. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown  and  poor,  thro'  life  I'm  doomed  to  wander; 
Till  down  my  weary  hones  1  lay,  in  everlisting  slumber. 
No  view,  nor  care,  but  slum  whate'er  might  breed  me  pain  or  sorrow; 
1  live  to-day,  as  well's  I  may,  regardless  of  to-morrow,"  &c. 

These  are  the  only  two  of  his  very  early  productions  in  which  we  ha"»e 
"iothing  expressly  about  love.  The  rest  were  composed  to  celebrate  the 
;har'PH  of  those  rural  beauties  who  followed  eat.,h  other  in  the  dominion  ci 

*  Reliques.  p.  2i2 


%U  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURN'S 

his  fancy — or  shared  tlie  ca{)r*icious  throne  between  them  ;  and  we  maj 
easily  believe,  that  one  who  possessed,  with  his  other  qualidcations,  such 
powers  of  flattering,  feared  competitors  as  little  in  the  diversions  of  his 
evenings  as  in  the  toils  of  his  daj'. 

The  rural  lover,  in  those  districts,  pursues  his  tender  vocation  in  a  style. 
»he  especial  fascination  of  which  town-bred  swains  may  find  it  some- 
vhat  difficult  to  comprehend.  After  the  labours  of  the  day  are  over,  nay, 
very  often  after  he  is  supposed  by  the  inmates  of  his  own  fireside  to  be  in 
his  bed,  the  happy  youth  thinks  little  of  walking  many  long  Scotch  miles 
to  the  residence  of  his  mistress,  who,  upon  the  signal  of  a  tap  at  her  win- 
dow, comes  forth  to  spend  a  soft  hour  or  two  beneath  the  harvest  moon, 
or,  if  the  weather  be  severe,  (a  circumstance  which  never  prevents  th«s 
journey  from  being  accomplished),  amidst  the  sheaves  of  her  father's  barn. 
This  "  chappin'  out,"  as  they  call  it,  is  a  custom  of  which  parents  com- 
monl)'  wink  at,  if  they  do  not  openly  approve,  the  observance  ;  and  the 
consequences  are  far,  very  far,  more  frequently  quite  harmless,  than  per- 
sons not  fomiliar  with  the  peculiar  manners  and  feelings  of  our  peasantry 
m.ay  find  it  easy  to  believe.  Excursions  of  this  class  form  the  theme  of 
almost  all  the  songs  which  Burns  is  known  to  have  produced  about  this  pe- 
riod,— and  such  of  these  juvenile  performances  as  have  been  preserved, 
are,  without  exception,  beautiful.  '1  hey  show  how  powerfully  his  boyish 
fancy  had  been  affected  by  the  old  rural  minstrelsy  of  his  own  country, 
and  how  easily  his  native  taste  caught  the  secret  of  its  charm.  The  truth 
and  simplicity  of  nature  breathe  in  every  line — the  images  are  always  just, 
of' en  originally  happy — and  the  growing  refinement  of  his  ear  and  judg- 
ment, may  be  traced  in  the  terser  language  and  more  mellow  flow  of  each 
successive  ballad. 

The  best  cf  the  songs  written  at  this  time  is  that  begmning,— 

"  It  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 
\\'hen  corn  ri^s  are  boniiie, 
Beneath  the  moon's  unclouded  light, 

I  held  awa  to  Annie. 
The  time  Hew  by  wi'  tentless  heed, 

Till,  'tween  the  late  and  early, 
Wi'  sma'  persuasion  she  agreed 
To  see  me  thro'  the  bailey." 

We  may  let  the  poet  carry  on  his  own  story.  "  A  circumstance,"  says 
he,  "  which  made  some  alteration  on  my  mind  and  manners,  was,  that  I 
spent  my  nineteenth  summer  on  a  smuggling  coast,  a  good  distance  from 
home,  at  a  noted  school  (Kirkoswald's)  to  learn  mensuration,  surveying, 
dialling,  &c.,  in  which  I  made  a  good  progress.  Hut  I  made  a  greater  pro- 
gress in  the  knowledge  of  mankind.  The  contraband  trade  was  at  that 
time  very  successful,  and  it  sometimes  happened  to  me  to  fidl  in  with  those 
who  carried  it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering  riot  and  roaring  dissipation  were 
till  this  time  new  to  me  ;  but  I  was  no  enemy  to  social  life.  Here,  though 
L  learnt  to  fill  my  glass,  and  to  mix  without -fear  in  a  drunken  squabble,  yet 
I  went  on  v.-ith  a  high  hand  with  my  geometry,  till  the  sun  entered  \'irgo. 
a  morth  which  is  always  a  carnival  in  my  bosom,  when  a  charming  y/A//"^', 
who  lived  next  door  to  the  school,  overset  my  trigonometry,  and  set  me 
off  at  a  tangent  from  the  sphere  of  my  stuilies.  I,  however,  struggled  on 
with  my  si/ws  and  co-sines  for  a  H'w  days  more  ;  but  stepjKiig  into  the  gar- 
den one  chaiming  noon  to  take  the  sun's  altitude,  there  1  met  mv  angeL 
love :  — 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xiil 

"  Proserpine,  fjathcing  flowera, 
Herself  a  fairer  flower.*' 

"  It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more  good  at  school.  The  remain 
ing  week  1  staid,  1  did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of  my  soul  about 
her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her ;  and  the  two  last  nights  of  my  stay  in  ttic 
country,  had  sleep  been  a  mortal  sin,  the  image  of  this  modest  and  inno- 
cent girl  had  kept  me  guiltless.  I  returned  home  very  considerably  improved. 
My  reading  was  enlarged  with  the  very  important  addition  of  Tliomson's 
and  Shenstone's  Works ;  I  had  seen  human  nature  in  a  new  phasis  ;  and  I 
engaged  several  of  my  school-fellows  to  keep  up  a  literary  correspondence 
with  me.  This  improved  me  in  composition.  I  had  met  with  a  collection 
of  letters  by  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  I  pored  over  them  most 
devoutly  ;  I  kept  copies  of  any  of  my  own  letters  that  pleased  me  ;  and  a 
comparison  between  them  and  the  composition  of  most  of  my  correspon- 
dents flattered  my  vanity.  I  carried  this  whim  so  far,  that  though  I  had 
not  three  farthings  wortii  of  business  in  the  world,  yet  almost  every  post 
brought  me  as  many  letters  as  if  I  had  been  a  broad  plodding  son  ol'  dav- 
book  and  ledger.  My  life  ilowed  on  much  in  the  same  course  till  m^' 
twenty-third  year.  )  ire  I'dmoiir,  et  vice  la  bageitelhy  were  my  sole  princi- 
ples of  action.  The  addition  of  two  more  authors  to  my  library  gave  me 
great  pleasure;  Sterne  and  ^Mackenzie — Tristram  Shaiuhj  and  The  Man 
of  Fti'Ung — were  my  bostini  favourites.  Poesy  was  still  a  darling  walk  for 
my  mind  ;  but  it  was  only  indulged  in  according  to  the  humour  of  the  hour. 
I  had  usually  half  a  dozen  or  more  pieces  on  hand;  I  took  up  one  or  other, 
as  it  suited  the  momentary  tone  of  the  mind,  and  dismissed  the  work  as 
it  bordered  on  fatigue.  My  passions,  once  lighted  up,  raged  like  so  many 
devils,  till  they  found  vent  in  rhyme;  and  then  the  conning  over  my  ver.ses, 
like  a  spell,  soothed  all  into  quiet." 

Of  the  rhymes  of  those  days,  ^^yv,  when  he  wrote  his  letter  to  Moore,  had 
appeared  in  print.  Winter,  a  dirge,  an  admirably  versified  piece,  is  of  their 
number  ;  The  Death  of  Poor  3Iaifie,  Mailie's  Ekgif,  and  Jahii  Barleycorn  ; 
and  one  charming  song,  inspired  by  the  Nymph  of  Kirkoswald's,  whose  at* 
tractions  put  an  end  to  his  trigonometry. 

Now  westlin  winds,  and  slaiightena       diui 

Bring  Autumn's  pleasimt  weather  ; 
The  moorcock  s])rings,  on  whirring  wings, 

Amang  the  blooming  heather.  .  .  . 
— Peggy  dear,  tlie  evening's  clear, 

Tliick  flies  the  skimming  swallow  ; 
The  sky  is  blue,  the  Kelils  in  view, 

All  fading  green  and  yellow  ; 
Come  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  way,"  &c. 

John  Barleycorn  is  a  clever  old  ballad,  very  cleverly  new-modelled  and 
jxtended ;  but  the  Death  and  Elegy  of  Poor  Mailie  deserve  more  atten- 
tion. The  expiring  animal's  admonitions  toucliing  the  education  of  the 
"  poor  toop  lamb,  her  son  and  heir,"  and  the  "  yowie,  silly  thing,"  her 
daughter,  are  from  the  same  peculiar  vein  of  sly  homely  wit,  enibeddc:! 
upon  fancy,  which  he  afterwards  dug  with  a  bolder  hand  in  the  Twa  Dogs, 
and  perhaps  to  its  utmost  depth,  in  his  DeaUi  and  Doctor  Hurnhooh,  It 
need  scarcely  be  added,  that  Poor  Mailie  was  a  real  personage,  though  she 
did  not  actually  die  until  some  time  after  her  last  words  were  written.  She 
had  been  purchased  by  Burns  in  a  frolic,  and  because  exceedingly  attached 
to  his  oers/in 


xiv  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

*•  Tbro'  all  the  town  she  trotted  by  him  ; 
A  lant;  half-mile  she  could  ilescry  liini  ; 
M'i'  kindly  bleat,  Avhen  she  did  spy  him, 

She  run  wV  sjjeod  : 
A  friend  mair  faitlifu'  ne'er  came  ni^h  him, 

Than  JMailie  dead." 

These  lilt.e  pieces  ai-e  in  a  mucli  broader  dialect  than  an}'  of  their  prs« 
decessors.  His  merriment  and  satire  were,  from  the  beginning,  Scotch. 
Kot\vitlistanding  the  luxurious  tone  of  some  of  Burns  s  pieces  produced  in 
those  times,  we  are  assured  by  himself  (and  his  brother  unhesitatingly  con- 
firms the  statement)  that  no  positive  vice  mingled  in  any  of  his  loves,  until 
after  he  had  reached  his  twenty-third  year.  He  has  already  told  us,  that 
Ills  short  residence  '•  away  from  home"  at  Kirkoswald's,  where  he  mixed 
in  the  society  of  seafaring  men  and  smugglers,  produced  an  unfavourable 
alteration  on  some  of  his  habits  ;  but  in  i781-'2  he  spent  six  months  at 
Irvine  ;  and  it  is  from  this  period  that  his  brother  dates  a  serious  change. 

''  As  his  numerous  connexion-3,"  says  Gilbert,  "  were  governed  by  the 
strictest  rules  of  virtue  and  modesty,  (from  v/hich  he  never  deviated  till 
h";s  twenty-third  year),  he  became  anxious  to  be  in  a  situation  to  marry 
'i  his  was  not  likely  to  be  the  case  while  he  remained  a  farmer,  as  the  stock- 
ing of  a  farm  required  a  sum  of  money  he  saw  no  probability  of  being  mas- 
ter offer  a  great  while.  He  and  I  liad  for  several  years  taken  land  of  our 
father,  for  tlie  purpose  of  raising  flax  on  our  own  account ;  and  in  t!)e 
course  of  sellin<r  it,  Robert  bcijan  to  think  of  turnimi  flax-dresser,  both  as 
bemg  suitable  to  his  grand  view  of  settling  in  life,  and  as  subservient  to 
the  flax-raising."  Burns,  accordingly,  v/ent  to  a- half-brother  of  iiis  mo 
thei  s,  by  name  Peacock,  a  flax-dresser  in  Irvine,  with  the  view  of  learn- 
ing this  new  trade,  and  for  some  time  he  applied  himself  diligently  ;  but 
mis-rortune  after  misfortune  attended  him.  The  shop  accidentally  caught 
lire  during  the  carousal  of  a  new-year's-day's  morning,  and  Robert  ''  was 
left,  like  a  true  poet,  not  worth  a  sixpence." — "  I  was  obliged,"  says  he, 
"  to  give  up  this  scheme  ;  the  clouds  of  misfortune  Avere  gathering  thick 
round  my  father's  head  ;  and  what  was  worst  of  all,  he  Avas  visibly  far  gone 
in  a  consumption  ;  and,  to  crown  my  distresses,  a  hcllefUle  whom  I  adored, 
and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet  me  in  the  held  of  matrimony,  jilted 
me,  with  peculiar  circumstances  of  mortification.  The  finishing  evil  that 
brouglit  up  the  rear  of  this  infernal  file,  was,  m}'  constitutional  melancholy 
being  increased  to  such  a  degree,  that  for  three  months  i  was  in  a  state 
of  mind  scarcely  to  be  envied  by  the  hopeless  wretches  who  have  got 
their  mittimus — Depart  from  mc,yc  citrsed."  The  following  letter,  addressed 
by  Burns  to  his  father,  three  days  before  the  unfortunate  fire  took  place, 
will  show  abundantly  that  the  gloom  of  his  spirits  had  little  need  of  that 
aggravation.  When  we  consider  by  whom,  to  whom,  and  under  what  cir- 
cumstances, it  was  written,  the  letter  is  every  way  a  remarkable  one  : — 

"  HONOUUED  Sll{, 

<'  I  HAVE  purposely  delayed  writing,  in  he  hope  that  I  should  have 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  on  New-year's  day;  but  work  comes  so  hard 
unon  us,  :  at  I  do  not  cIi''  \-x.  'o  oc  G>.v*'it  ou  thf.:  cc.'''>u:><,  .J.->  well  as  for 
som:  other  iiitle  reasoiis,  which  I  shall  tell  you  ».i  meeting.  My  health  is 
nearly  the  same  as  when  you  were  here,  only  my  sleep  is  a  little  sounder; 
and,  on  the  whole,  I  a.  >  jt'i'-.t  better  than  otherwise,  though  I  mei.tl  by 
very  slow  degrees.     The  weakness  of  my  .icrvcs  has  so  debilitated  my 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Xf 

niii.i,  tliat  I  dare  nc-itlicr  review  past  wants,  nor  look  forward  into  futurity 
fiv;  the  least  anxiety  or  perturbation  in  my  breast  ])roduccs  most  unhappy 
cfFi  cts  on  my  whole  frame.  Sometimes,  indeed,  when  for  an  hour  or  twc 
my  spiiits  are  alightened,  I  gltminer  a  little  into  futurity  ;  but  my  principal, 
and  indeed  my  only  pleasurable  employment,  is  looking  backwards  and  for- 
wards in  a  moral  and  religious  way.  I  am  (juite  transported  at  tlie  thought, 
that  ere  long,  perhaps  very  soon,  I  shall  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  all  the 
pains  and  uneasiness,  and  disquietudes  of  this  weary  life  ;  for  I  assure  you 
I  am  heartily  tired  of  it ;  and,  if  I  do  not  very  much  deceive  myseli",  I 
could  contentedly  and  gladly  resign  It. 

'  The  soul,  uneasy,  and  confined  at  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come.' 

"  It  is  for  this  reason  I  am  more  pleased  with  the  15th,  IGth,  and  17th 
verses  of  the  "/th  chapter  of  Re^'elations,  than  with  any  ten  times  as  many 
verses  in  the  whole  Bible,  and  would  not  exchange  the  noble  enthusiasm 
with  which  they  inspire  me  for  all  that  this  world  has  to  offer.  As  for  tliis 
wo'-ld,  I  despair  of  ever  making  a  figure  in  it.  I  am  not  formed  for  the 
bustle  of  the  busy,  nor  the  flutter  of  the  gay.  1  shall  never  again  be  cap- 
able of  entering  into  such  scenes.  Indeed,  lam  altogether  unconcerned 
at  the  thoughts  of  this  hfe.  I  foresee  that  poverty  and  obscurity  probably 
await  me,  and  I  am  in  some  measure  prepared,  and  daily  preparing,  to  meet 
them.  I  have  but  just  time  and  paper  to  return  you  my  gratelul  thanks 
fo^  the  lessons  of  virtue  and  piety  you  have  given  me,  which  were  too  much 
ne.;lected  at  the  time  of  giving  them,  but  which  I  hope  have  been  remem- 
beivd  ere  it  is  yet  too  late.  Present  my  dutifid  respects  to  my  mother, 
and  my  compliments  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  INIuir;  and,  with  wishing  you  a 
merry  New-year's- day,  I  shall  conclude. 

"  1  am,  honoured  Sir,  your  dutiful  son, 

"  IloBEUT  Burns." 

"  P.  S. — ^ly  meal  is  nearly  out ;  but  I  am  going  to  borrow,  till  I  get 
more." 

The  verses  of  Scripture  here  alluded  to,  are  as  follows  : — 

"  l'>.  Therefore  are  the)'  I'-eforethe  throne  of  God.  and  serve  him  day  and  night  in  his  tem- 
ple ;  and  he  that  sitteth  on  the  throne  shall  dwell  amonf;  them. 

"  IC.  They  shall  hunger  no  mere,  neither  thirst  any  more  ;  neither  shall  the  sun  light  on 
tJiem,  nor  any  heat. 

"  17-  l-"or  the  Lamb  that  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  sh:ill  feed  them,  and  shall  lead  theso 
unto  living  fountains  of  waters ;  and  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes." 

"  This  letter,"'  says  Dr.  Currie,  "  written  several  years  before  the  publi- 
cation of  his  Poems,  when  his  name  was  as  obscure  as  his  condition  was 
humble,  displays  the  philosophic  melancholy  which  so  generally  forms  the 
poetical  temperament,  and  that  buoyant  and  an:bitious  spirit  which  indi- 
cates a  mind  conscious  of  its  strength.  Xi  Irvine,  Burns  at  this  time  j)os- 
sessed  a  single  room  for  his  lodgings,  rented,  perhaps,  at  the  rate  of  a  shil- 
ling a-week.  Ho  passed  his  days  in  constant  labour  as  a  flax-dresser,  and 
Ins  food  consisted  chiefly  of  oat-meal,  sent  to  him  from  his  father's  family. 
The  store  of  this  humble,  though  wholesome  nutriment,  it  appears,  was 
nearly  exhausted,  and  he  was  about  to  borrow  till  he  should  obtain  a  sup- 
ply. Yet  even  in  this  situation,  his  active  Imagination  h.ad  formed  to  itself 
oictures  of  eminence  and  distinction.     His  despair  of  making  a  figure  in 


Kvi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

tlie  world,  shows  how  ardently  he  wished  for  honouraole  fame  ;  aiid  his 
contempt  of  life,  founded  on  this  despair,  is  the  genuine  expression  of 
youthful  and  generous  mind.  In  such  a  state  of  reHection,  and  of  suffering, 
the  imagination  of  Burns  naturally  passed  the  dark  boundaries  of  our  earthly 
horizon,  and  rested  on  those  beautiful  representations  of  a  better  world, 
where  there  is  neither  thirst,  nor  hunger,  nor  sorrow,  and  where  happiness 
shall  be  in  proportion  to  the  capacity  of  happiness." — Life,  p.  102. 

Unhappily  for  himself  and  for  the  world,  it  was  not  always  in  the  recol- 
lections of  his  virtuous  home  and  the  study  of  his  Bible,  that  Burns  sought 
for  consolation  amidst  the  heavy  distresses  which  "  his  youth  was  heir  to.' 
Irvine  is  a  small  sea-port  ;  and  here,  as  at  Kirkoswald's,  the  adventurous 
spirits  of  a  smuggling  coast,  with  all  their  jovial  habits,  were  to  be  met 
with  in  abundance.  "  He  contracted  some  acquaintance,"  says  Gilbert, 
"  of  a  freer  manner  of  thinking  and  living  than  he  had  been  used  to,  whose 
society  prepared  urn  for  overleaping  the  bounds  of  rigid  virtue,  which  had 
hitherto  restrained  liim." 

One  of  the  most  intimate  companions  of  Burns,  while  he  remained  at 
Irvine,  seems  to  have  been  David  ISillar,  to  whom  the  Epistle  Ui  Da- 
vie, a  Brother  Poet,  was  subsequenth'  addressed.  Sillar  was  at  this  time  a 
poor  schoolmaster  in  Irvine,  enjoying  considerable  reputation  as  a  writer 
oi  local  verses  :  and,  according  to  all  accounts,  extremely  jovial  in  his  life 
and  conversation. 

Burns  himself  thus  sums  up  the  results  of  his  residence  at  Irvine : — 
"  From  this  adventure  I  learned  something  of  a  town  life  ;  but  thepsinci- 
pal  thing  which  gave  my  mind  a  turn,  was  a  friend-hip  I  formed  v<  ith  a 
young  fellow,  a  very  noble  character,  but  a  hapless  son  of  misfortune  He 
vas  the  son  of  a  simple  mechanic  ;  but  a  great  man  in  the  neighboialiood, 
taking  him  under  his  patronage,  gave  him  a  genteel  education,  with  ;;  view 
of  bettering  his  situation  in  life.  The  patron  dying  just  as  he  was  re;-.-ly  to 
launch  out  into  the  world,  the  poor  fellow  in  despair  went  to  sea  ;  v.here, 
after  a  variety  of  good  and  ill  fortune,  a  little  before  I  was  acquainted  with 
him,  he  had  been  set  ashore  by  an  American  privateer,  on  the  wild  coast  ot 

Connaught,  stripped  of  every  thing His  mind  was  fraught  with 

independence,  magnanimity,  and  every  manly  virtue.  I  loved  and  admir- 
ed him  to  a  degree  of  enthusiasm,  and  of  course  strove  to  imitate  him.  In 
some  measure  1  succeeded  ;  I  had  pride  before,  but  he  taught  it  to  flow  in 
proper  channels.  His  knowledge  of  the  world  was  vastly  superior  to  mine  • 
and  I  was  all  attention  to  learn.  He  was  the  only  man  I  ever  saw  who  was 
a  greater  fool  than  myself,  where  women  was  the  presiding  star  ;  but  he 
spoke  of  illicit  love  with  the  levity  of  a  sailor — which  hitherto  I  had  regard- 
ed with  horror.  Here  his  friendship  did  me  a  mimchief^'  Professor  Walker, 
when  prc{)aring  to  write  his  Sketch  of  the  Poet's  life,  was  informed  by  an 
aged  inhabitant  of  Irvine,  that  Burns's  chief  delight  while  there  was  in  dis- 
cussing religious  topics,  jmrticularly  m  those  circles  which  usually  gather 
in  a  Scotch  churchyard  after  service.  The  senior  added,  that  Burns  com- 
monly tooK  the  high  Calvinistic  side  in  such  debates;  and  concluded  with 
a  boast,  that  "  the  lad"  was  indebted  to  himself  in  a  great  measure  for 
the  gradual  adoption  of  "  more  liberal  opinions."  It  was  during  the  same 
period,  that  the  poet  was  first  initiated  in  the  mysteries  of  free  masonry, 
"  which  was,"  says  his  bro.her,  "  his  first  introduction  to  the  life  of  a  boon 
companion."     He  was  introduced  to  St.  Mary's  Lodge  of  Tarbolton  by 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xvii 

John  Ranken,  a  ■•'ery  dissipated  man  of  considerable  talents,  to  whom  he 
afterwards  indited  a  poetical  epistle,  which  will  be  noticed  in  its  place. 

"  Rhyme,''  Hums  says,  "  1  had  given  up  ;"  (on  going  to  Irvine)  "  but 
meeting  with  Ferguson's  Scotti.s/i  Poems,  I  strung  anew  my  wildly  soand- 
ing  l\re  with  emulating  vigour."  Neither  flax-dressing  nor  the  tavern 
could  keep  him  long  from  his  proper  vocation.  But  it  was  probably  this 
accidental  meeting  with  Ferguson,  that  in  a  great  measure  finahy  deter- 
mined the  Scoff/sh  character  of  Burns's  poctr}- ;  and  indeed,  but  for  the 
lasting  sense  of  tliis  obligation,  and  some  natural  sympathy  with  the  personal 
misfortunes  of  Ferguson's  life,  it  would  be  difficult  to  account  for  the  very 
higli  terms  in  which  Burns  always  mentions  his  productions. 

Shortly  before  Burns  went  to  Irvine,  he,  his  brother  (lilbert,  and  some 
seven  or  eight  young  men  besides,  all  of  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  had  form- 
ed themselves  into  a  society,  which  they  called  the  Bachelor's  Club ;  and 
which  met  one  evening  in  every  month  for  the  purposes  of  mutual  enter- 
tainment and  improvement.  That  their  cups  were  but  modestly  fdled  is 
evident  ;  for  the  rules  of  the  club  did  not  permit  any  member  to  spend 
more  than  threepence  at  a  sitting.  A  question  was  announced  for  dis- 
cussion at  the  close  of  each  meeting;  and  at  the  next  *hey  came  prepared 
to  deliver  their  sentiments  upon  the  subject-matter  th^s  proposed.  Burns 
drew  up  the  regulations,  and  evidently  was  the  principal  person.  He  in- 
troduced his  friend  Sillar  during  his  stay  at  Irvine,  and  the  meetings  ap- 
pear to  have  continued  as  long  as  the  family  remained  in  Tarbolton.  Of 
the  sort  of  questions  discussed,  we  may  form  some  notion  from  the  minute 
of  one  evening,  still  extant  in  Burns's  hand-vvritii  g. — Question  for  Hal- 
liTWEEN,  (Nov.  11),  1780.  —  "  Suppose  a  yowig  man,  bred  a  farmer,  bid 
without  aivj  fort  line,  has  it  in  his  power  to  marry  either  of  two  tcomeii,  the  one 
a  girl  of  large  fortune,  hut  neither  Jiandmme  in  person,  nor  agreeable  in  con- 
versation, but  who  can  manage  the.  household  affairs  of  a  farm  well  encvgh  ; 
the  other  of  them  a  girl  every  way  agreeable  in  person,  conversation,  and  behavi- 
our, but  ivitkout  any  fortune :  tchich  of  them  shall  he  choose  ?"  Burns,  as 
may  be  guessed,  took  the  imprudent  side  in  this  discussion. 

"  On  one  solitary  occasion,"  says  he,  "  we  resolved  to  meet  at  Tarbol- 
ton in  July,  on  the  race-night,  and  have  a  dance  in  honour  of  our  society. 
Accordingly,  we  did  meet,  each  one  with  a  partner,  and  spent  the  evening 
in  such  innocence  and  merriment,  such  cheerfulness  and  good  humour,  that 
every  brother  will  long  remember  it  with  delight."  There  can  be  no  doubt 
that  Burns  would  not  have  patronized  this  sober  association  so  long,  unless 
he  had  experienced  at  its  assemblies  the  pleasure  of  a  stimulated  mind ; 
and  as  little,  that  to  the  habit  of  arranging  his  thoughts,  and  expressing 
them  in  somewhat  of  a  formal  shape,  thus  early  cultivated,  we  ought  to  at- 
tribute much  of  that  conversational  skill  which,  wLen  he  first  mingled  with 
the  upper  world,  was  generally  considered  as  the  most  remaikable  of  all  his 
personal  accomplishments — Burns's  associates  of  the  Bachelor's  Club, 
must  have  been  young  men  possessed  of  talents  and  acquirements,  other- 
wise such  minds  as  his  and  Ciilbert's  could  not  have  persisted  in  measuring 
themselves  against  theirs  ;  and  we  may  believe  that  the  periodical  display 
of  the  poe>  s  own  vigour  and  resources,  at  these  club-meetings,  and  (more 
frequently  than  his  brother  approved)  at  the  Free  Mason  Lodges  of  Irvine 
and  Tarbolton,  extended  his  rural  reputation  ;  and,  by  degrees,  prepared 
persons  not  immediately  included  in  his  own  circle,  for  the  extraordinary 
impression  which  his  poetical  efforts  were  ere  long  tc  cr=«.ti?  aU  over  "  the 
Carrick  border." 


xvii:  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

David  Sillar  gives  an  account  of  the  beginning  of  his  own  acquaintance 
H'itli  Burns,  and  introduction  into  this  Bachelor's  Club,  which  will  always  be 
read  with  much  interest. — "  Mr.  Robert  Burns  was  some  time  in  the  parish 
of  Tarbolton  prior  to  my  acquaintance  vvith  him.  His  social  disposition 
easily  procured  him  acquaintance  ;  but  a  certain  satirical  seasoning  with 
which  he  and  all  poetical  geniuses  are  in  some  degree  influenced,  while  i( 
set  the  rustic  circle  in  a  roar,  was  not  unaccompanied  with  its  kindre<l  at- 
tendant, suspicious  fear.  I  recollect  hearing  his  neighbours  observe,  he  had 
a  great  deal  to  say  for  himself,  and  that  they  suspected  his  principles.  lie 
wore  the  only  tied  hair  in  the  parish  ;  and  in  the  church,  his  plaid,  which 
was  of  a  particular  colour,  I  think  fillemot,  he  wrapped  in  a  particular 
manner  round  his  shoulders.  These  surmises,  and  his  exterior,  hnd  such 
a  magnetical  influence  on  my  curiosity,  as  made  me  particularly  solicitous 
of  his  acquaintance.  Whether  my  acquaintance  with  Gilbert  was  casual 
or  premeditated,  I  am  not  now  certain.  By  him  I  was  introduced,  not 
only  to  his  brother,  but  to  the  whole  of  that  family,  where,  in  a  short  time, 
I  became  a  frequent,  and  I  believe,  not  unwelcome  visitant.  After  the 
commencement  of  my  acquaintance  with  the  bard,  we  frequently  met 
upon  Sundays  at  church,  when,  between  sermons,  instead  of  going  with 
our  friends  or  lasses  to  the  inn,  we  often  took  a  walk  in  the  fields.  In  these 
walks,  I  have  frequently  been  struck  with  his  facility  in  addressing  the  fair 
sex  ;  and  many  times,  when  I  have  been  bashfully  anxious  how  to  express 
myself,  he  would  have  entered  into  conversation  with  them  with  the  great- 
est ease  and  freedom  ;  and  it  was  generally  a  death-blow  to  our  conversa- 
tion, however  agreeable,  to  meet  a  female  acquaintance.  Some  of  the  Cvw 
opportunities  of  a  noontide  walk  that  a  country  life  allows  her  laborious 
sons,  he  spent  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  or  in  the  woods,  in  the  nei'-'li- 
bourhood  of  Stair,  a  situation  peculiarly  adapted  to  the  genius  of  a  rural 
bard.  Some  book  (generally  cno  of  those  mentioned  in  his  letter  to  Mr. 
Murdoch)  he  always  carried  and  read,  when  not  otherwise  employed.  It 
was  likewise  his  custom  to  read  at  table.  In  one  of  my  visits  to  Lochlea, 
in  time  of  a  sowen  supper,  he  v/as  so  intent  on  reading,  I  think  Tristram 
Shandy,  that  his  spoon  falling  out  of  his  hand,  made  him  exclaim,  in  a 
tone  scarcely  imitable,  '  Alas,  poor  Yorick  !'  Such  was  Burns,  and  such 
were  his  associates,  when,  in  May  1781,  I  was  admitted  a  member  of 
tiie  Bachelor's  Club.' 

The  misfortunes  of  William  Burnes  thickened  apace,  as  has  already  been 
seen,  and  were  approaching  their  crisis  at  the  time  when  liobert  came 
home  from  his  flax-dressing  experiment  at  Irvine.  The  good  old  man 
died  soon,  after  ;  and  among  other  evils  which  he  thus  escaped,  was  an  af- 
fliction tliat  would,  in  his  eyes,  have  been  severe.  The  poet  had  not,  as 
he  confesses,  come  unscathed  out  of  the  society  of  those  persons  of  "  li- 
beral opiijjt'ns"  with  whom  he  consorted  in  Irvine  ;  and  he  expressly 
attributes  to  their  lessons,  the  scrape  into  which  he  fell  soon  after  "  he 
put  his  hand  to  plough  again."  He  was  compelled,  according  to  the  then 
all  but  universal  custom  of  rural  parishes  in  Scotland,  to  do  penance  in 
church,  before  the  congregation,  in  consequence  of  the  birtl;  of  an  illegi- 
timate child  ;  and  whatever  may  be  thought  of  the  propriety  of  such  ex- 
hibitions, there  can  be  no  difference  of  op'  ion  as  to  the  culpable  levity 
witii  which  he  describes  the  nature  of  his  oli'enre,  and  the  still  more  re- 
preliensihl-e  bitterness  with  which,  in  his  Epistle  to  Kanken,  he  inveighs 
against  the   clergyman,   who,    in  rebuking  him,  only  performed  what  was 


LR'E  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Xli 

ihen  B  regular  part  of  the  clerical  duty,  and  a  part  of  it  that  could  i:evet 
have  been  at  all  agreeable  to  the  worthy  man  whom  he  satirizes  under 
the  appellation  of  "  Daddie  Auld."  T/ie  Poet's  Welcome  to  an  llkgitiimite 
Child  was  composed  on  the  same  occasion — a  piece  in  which  some  very 
manly  feelings  are  expressed,  along  with  others  which  can  give  no  one 
pleasure  to  contemplate.  There  is  a  soiig  in  honour  of  the  same  occasion, 
or  a  similar  one  about  the  same  period.  The  rantin  Dog  the  Daddie  o't, — 
which  exhibits  the  poet  as  glorying,  and  only  glorying  in  his  shame. 

When  I  consider  his  tender  affection  for  the  surviving  members  of  his 
own  family,  and  the  reverence  with  which  he  ever  regarded  the  memory  of 
the  father  whom  he  had  so  recently  buried,  I  cannot  believe  that  Burns  has 
thought  fit  to  record  in  verse  all  the  feelings  which  this  exposure  excited 
in  his  bosom.  "  To  wave  (in  his  own  language)  the  quantum  of  the  sin," 
he  who,  two  years  afterwards,  wrote  The  Cottars  Saturday  Night,  had  not, 
we  may  be  sure,  hardened  his  heart  to  the  thought  of  bringing  additional 
sorrow  and  unexpected  shame  to  the  fireside  of  a  widowed  mother,  l^ut 
his  false  pride  recoiled  from  letting  his  jovial  associates  guess  how  little  he 
was  able  to  drown  the  whispers  of  the  still  small  voice  ;  and  the  fermenting 
bitterness  of  a  mind  ill  at  ease  within  itself,  escaped  (as  may  be  too  often 
traced  in  the  history  of  satirists)  in  the  shape  of  angry,  sarcasms  against 
others,  who,  whatever  their  private  errors  might  be,  had  at  least  done  him 
no  wrong. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  smile  at  one  item  of  consolation  which  Burns  pro 
poses  to  himself  on  this  occasion  : — 

" Tne  mair  they  talk,  Fm  kend  the  letter  ; 

E'en  let  them  clabh  !" 

This  is  indpod  a  singular  manifestation  of  "  the  last  infirmity  of  Dobie 
rniridfi." 


CHAPTER  III. 

Contests — 77iC  Brothers,  Robert  and  Gilbert,  become  tenants  of  Moss"iel~. Their  incessant 

lahnnr  and  moderate  habits— The  farm  cold  and  unfertile— Not  prosperous The  Muse 

anti-calvinistical— The  poet  thence  involved  deeply  in  local  polemics,  and  charged  with  he- 

res  J/— Curious  account  if  these  disputes — Earli/  poems  prompted  by  them. Origin  of  and 

remarks  vpnn  the  poet's  principal  pieces— Love  lead*  him  far  astray— A  crisis The  mil  or 

the  West  Indies—  The  alternative 


••  The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot 
Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 
And  damn'd  my  fortune  to  the  groat; 

But  in  requit, 
Has  bless'd  me  wi'  a  random  shot 

O'  country  wit." 

Three  mmiths  before  the  death  of  William  Burnes,  Robert  and  Gilbert 
took  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  in  the  neighbouring  parish  of  Mauchline,  with 
the  view  of  providing  a  slielter  for  their  parents,  in  the  storm  v/hich  they 
liad  seen  gradually  thickening,  and  knew  must  soon  burst ;  and  to  this 
place  the  whole  family  removed  on  William's  death.  The  farm  consisted 
of  119  acres,  and  the  rent  was  £90.  "  It  was  stocked  by  the  property 
and  individual  savings  of  the  whole  iamily,  (says  Gilbert),  and  was  a  joint 
concern  among  us.  Every  member  of  the  family  was  allowed  ordinary 
wages  for  the  labour  he  performed  on  the  farm.  My  brother's  allowance 
and  mine  was  £7  per  annum  each  ;  and  during  the  whole  time  this  family 
concern  lasted,  which  was  four  years,  as  well  as  during  the  preceding  pe- 
riod at  Lochlea,  Fiobert's  expenses  never,  in  any  one  year,  exceeded  liis 
slender  incoiue." 

"  I  entered  on  this  farm,"  says  the  poet,  "  with  a  full  resolution,  come, 
go,  I  will  he  imae.  I  read  farming  books,  I  calculated  crops,  I  attended 
markets  ;  and,  in  sliort,  in  spite  of  the  dei-'d,  and  the  world,  ami  the  jleah, 
I  believe  I  should  have  been  a  wise  man  ;  but  the  first  year,  from  unfor- 
tunately buying  bad  seed,  the  second,  from  a  late  harvest,  we  lost  half 
our  crops.  Tliis  overset  all  my  wisdom,  and  I  returned,  I'die  the  dog  to  his 
vomit,  (tml  tJie  sow  that  was  tvasJicd  to  Iter  tvallowiiig  in  the  mire." 

*'  At  the  time  that  our  poet  took  the  resolution  of  becoming  ?rwe,  he 
procured,"  says  Gilbert,  "  a  little  book  of  blank  paper,  with  the  purpose, 
expressed  on  the  first  page,  of  making  farming  memorandums.  These 
farming  memoraivhims  are  curious  enough,"  Gilbert  slyly  adds,  "  and  a 
spe«  "imen  may  gratify  tlui  reader.". — Specimens  accordingly  lie  gives  ;  as. 

*'  O  why  the  deuce  sliould  I  repine, 
And  be  an  ill  fbrcboder  ? 
I'm  twcnty-tliree,  and  five  foot  ninfi— 
V\i  ^o  and  be  a  sodjjcr,"  &c 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xxi 

■*  O  leave  novells,  j'c  Mauchline  belles, 

Ve're  safer  at  your  spinning  wheel  ; 
Such  witching  books  are  baited  hooks 

For  rakish  rooks — like  Kob  Mossgiel. 
Your  fine  T)m  Jones  and  (Irandisons, 

They  male  your  youthful  fancies  reel. 
They  heat  your  veins,  and  fire  your  brains, 

And  then  ye're  prey  for  Rob  .'Moss^'iel,"  &c.  &c. 

Tlie  foul  jeais  dating  which  Burns  resided  on  tliis  cold  and  ungrateful 
farm  of  Mossgiel,  were  the  most  important  of  his  hfe.  It  was  tlien  that 
his  genius  developed  iis  highest  energies  ;  on  the  works  produced  in  these 
years  his  fame  was  first  established,  and  must  ever  continue  mainly  to  rest: 
it  was  then  also  that  his  personal  character  came  out  in  all  its  brightest  lights, 
and  in  all  but  its  darkest  shadows;  and  indeed  from  the  commencement 
of  this  period,  the  history  oi'  the  man  may  be  traced,  step  by  step,  in  his 
own  immortal  writings.  Bums  now  began  to  know  that  nature  had  meant 
him  for  a  poet ;  and  diligently,  though  as  yet  in  secret,  he  laboured  in 
what  he  felt  to  be  his  destined  vocation  Gilbert  continued  for  some  time 
to  be  his  chief,  often  indeed  his  only  confidant ;  and  any  thing  more  inte- 
resting and  delightful  than  this  excellent  man's  account  of  the  manner  in 
v>  hich  the  poems  included  in  the  first  of  his  brother's  publications  were 
composed,  is  certainly  not  to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  literary  history. 

The  reader  has  already  seen,  that  long  before  the  earliest  of  them  waa 
known  beyond  the  domestic  circle,  the  strength  of  Burns's  understanding, 
and  the  keenness  of  his  wit,  as  displayed  in  his  ordinary  conversation,  and 
more  particularly  at  masonic  meetings  and  debating  clubs,  (of  wliich  he 
formed  one  in  Mauchline,  on  the  Tarljolton  model,  immediately  on  his  re- 
moval to  Mossgiel),  had  made  his  name  known  to  some  considerable  extent 
in  the  country  about  Tarbolton,  Mauchline,  and  Irvine  ;  and  this  prepared 
the  way  for  his  poetry.  Professor  Walker  gives  an  anecdote  on  this  head, 
which  nmst  not  be  omitted.  Burns  already  numbered  several  clergj'men 
among  his  acquaintances.  One  of  these  gentlemen  told  the  Professor,  that 
after  entering  on  the  clerical  profession,  he  had  repeatedly  met  lUn-ns  in 
company,  "  where,"  said  he,  "  the  acuteness  and  originality  displayed  by 
him,  the  depth  of  his  discernment,  the  force  of  his  expresbions,  and  the 
authoritative  energy  of  his  understanding,  had  created  a  sense  of  his 
power  of  the  extent  of  which  I  was  unconscious,  till  it  was  revealed  to 
me  by  accident.  On  the  occasion  of  my  second  appearance  in  the  pulpit, 
I  came  with  an  assured  and  tranquil  mind,  and  though  a  i'cw  persons  of 
education  were  present,  advanced  some  length  in  the  service  with  my  con- 
fidence and  self-possession  unimpaired  ;  but  when  I  saw  Burns,  who  was 
of  a  different  parish,  unexpectedly  enter  the  church,  I  was  atfectcd  v.ith 
a  tremor  and  embarrassment,  which  suddenly  apprised  me  of  the  impression 
which  my  mind,  unknown  to  itself  had  previously  received."  Tiie  Pro- 
fessor adds,  that  the  person  who  had  thus  unconsciously  been  measuring 
ihe  stature  of  the  intellectual  giant,  was  not  only  a  man  of  good  talents 
and  education,  but  '•  remarkable  for  a  more  than  ordinary  portion  of  con 
stitutional  firmness." 

Every  Scotch  peasant  who  makes  any  pretension  to  understanding,  is  a 
tlieological  critic — and  Burns,  no  doubt,  had  long  ere  this  time  distinguish- 
ed himself  considerably  among  those  hard-headed  groups  that  may  usually 
be  seen  gathered  together  in  the  church-yard  after  the  sermon  is  over.  It 
mav  be  guessed  that  from  the  time  of  his  residence  at  Irvine,  his  stric- 


xxii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

tures  were  too  often  delivered  in  no  reverend  vein.  "  Polemical  divinity, 
says  he  to  Dr.  IMoore,  in  1787,  "  about  this  time,  was  putting  the  coun- 
try half  mad,  and  I,  ambitious  of  shining  in  conversation-parties  on  Sun- 
days, at  funerals,  S:c.,  used  to  puzzle  Calvinism  with  so  much  heat  and  in- 
discretion, that  I  raised  a  hue-and-cry  of  heresy  against  me,  which  has  not 
ceased  to  this  hour," 

To  understand  I'urns's  situation  at  this  time,  at  once  patronized  by  a 
number  of  clergymen,  and  attend-i-d  with  "  a  hue-and-cry  of  heresy,"  we 
nuist  remember  his  own  words,  "  that  })olemicaI  divinity  was  putting  the 
country  hali'mad."     Of  both  the  two  parties  which,  ever  since  the  revolu- 
tion of  1ikS8,  have  pretty  equally  divided  the  Church  of  Scotland,   it  so 
happened  that  some  of  the  most  zealous  and  consjiicuous  leailcrs  anil  par- 
tizans  were  thus  opposed  to  each  other,  in  constinit  warfare,  in  this  parti 
cular  di>;trict  ;  and  their  feuds  being  of  course  taken  up  among  their  con 
gregations,  and  spleen  and  prejudice  at  work,  even  more  furiously  in  the 
cottage  than  in  (//e  manse,  lie  who,  to  the  annoyance  of  the  one  set  of  belli 
gerents,  could  talk  like  Burns,  might  count  pretty  surely,  with  whateve 
alloy  his  wit  hajipened  to  be  mingled,  on  the  applause  and  countenance  of 
the  enemy.     And  it  is  needless  to  add,  they  were  the  less  scrupulous  sect 
of  the  two  that  enjoyed  the  co-operation,  such  as  it  was  then,  and  far  more 
important,  as  in  the  sequel  it  came  to  be,  of  our  poet. 

William  Burnes,  as  we  have  already  seen,  though  a  most  exemjilary  and 
devout  man,  entertained  opinions  very  difi*erent  iVom  those  which  conmion- 
ly  obtained  among  the  rigid  Calvanists  of  his  district.  The  worthy  and 
pious  old  man  hin^self,  therefore,  had  not  improbably  infused  into  his  son's 
mind  its  first  prejudice  against  these  j)ersons.  The  jovial  spirits  with  whom 
Burns  associated  at  Irvine,  and  afterwards,  were  of  course  habitual  dcriders 
of  the  manners,  as  well  as  the  tenets  of  the 

"  t)rilKKlox,  ortlioilox,  wIm  believe  in  Jolin  Knox." 

We  liave  already  observed  the  effect  of  the  yoimg  poet's  own  first  collision 
with  the  ruling  powers  of  presbyterian  discijiline  ;  but  it  was  in  the  very 
act  of  settling  at  Mos.^giel  that  Burns  formed  the  connexion,  ^hich,  more 
than  any  circumstance  besides,  influenced  him  as  to  the  matter  now  in 
(|ucsti:)n.  The  farm  belonged  to  the  estate  of  the  Earl  of  Loudoun,  but 
the  brothers  held  it  on  a  sub-lease  from  Mr.  (Javin  Hamilton,  writer  (?.  p. 
attorney;  in  .Mauchline,  a  man,  by  every  account,  of  engaging  manners, 
open,  kind,  generous,  and  high-spirited,  between  whom  and  Robert  rnirns. 
a  c!o.^e  and  intimate  friendship  was  ere  long  formed.  Just  about  this  time 
it  happened  that  Hamilton  was  at  0]>en  feud  with  Mr.  .\uld,  the  minister 
(jf  Mauchline,  (t!ie  same  who  had  already  reJtnhcd  the  poet),  and  the  ruling 
elders  of  the  ])arish,  in  conse(]uence  of  certain  irregularities  in  his  personal 
coniluct  and  ileportment,  which,  according  to  the  usual  strict  notions  of 
kirk  discijjline,  were  consiilered  as  fairly  demanding  the  vigorous  interfer 
ence  of  these  authorities.  'I'he  notice  of  this  person,  his  own  landlord,  and, 
a.^  it  wt)u!d  seem,  one  of  the  principal  inhabitants  of  the  village  of  .Maucl>- 
line  at  the  time,  nnist,  of  course,  have  been  very  flattering  fj  our  polemical 
young  f'armer.  He  espoused  (Javin  Hamilton's  (piarrel  warmly.  Hamilton 
was  naturally  enough  disjjosed  to  mix  up  his  personal  affair  with  the  stand 
ing  controversies  whereon  .'Vuld  was  at  variance  with  a  large  and  powerful 
body  of  his  brother  clergymen  ;  and  by  degrees  Mr  Hamilton's  ardent /y;v>- 
/tv/e'camc  to  be  as  veh.emently  interested  in  the  church  politics  of  Ajrshire, 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS.  xxiij 

Bs  lie  could  have  been  in  jjolitics  of  another  order,  had  ho  happened  to  be 
a  freeman  of  some  open  borough,  and  hii  patron  a  candidate  ibr  the  honour 
'^f  representing  it  in  St.  Steplien's.  Mr.  Cromek  lias  been  severely  criti« 
cised  fo'"  some  details  of  Mr.  (Javin  Hamilton's  dissensions  with  his  parish 
minister  ;  but  perhaps  it  might  have  been  well  to  limit  tlie  censure  to  the 
tone  and  spirit  oi'  the  narrative,  since  there  is  no  doubt  that  these  petty 
squabbles  had  a  large  share  in  directing  the  early  energies  of  Hurns's  po- 
etical talents.  Even  in  the  west  of  Scotland,  such  matters  would  hardly 
excite  much  notice  now-a-days,  but  they  were  quite  enough  to  produce  a 
world  of  vexation  and  controvers^y  forty  years  ago  ;  and  the  English  reader  to 
whom  all  such  details  are  denied,  will  certainly  never  be  able  to  compre- 
hend either  the  merits  or  the  demerits  of  many  of  Burns's  most  remarkable 
productions.  Since  I  have  touched  on  this  matter  at  all,  I  may  as  well 
add,  that  Hamilton's  family,  though  professedly  adhering  to  the  Presbyte- 
rian Establishment,  had  always  lain  under  a  strong  suspicion  of  Episcopa- 
lianism.  Gavin's  grandfather  had  been  curate  of  Kirkoswald  in  the  troubl- 
ed times  that  preceded  the  Revolution,  and  incurred  great  and  lasting  po- 
pular hatred,  in  consequence  of  being  supposed  to  have  had  a  principal 
hand  in  bringing  a  thousand  of  f/ie  Higldand  hu.sl  into  that  region  in  IG77-8. 
The  district  was  commonly  said  not  to  have  entirely  recovered  the  effects 
of  that  savage  visitation  in  less  than  a  hundred  years  ;  and  the  descendants 
and  representatives  of  the  Covenanters,  whom  the  curate  of  Kirkoswald 
had  the  reputation  at  least  of  persecuting,  were  commonly  supposed  to  re- 
gard with  any  thing  rather  than  ready  good-will,  his  grandson,  the  witty 
writer  of  Mauchline.  A  well-nursed  prejudice  of  this  kind  was  likely 
enough  to  be  met  by  counter-spleen,  and  such  seems  to  have  been  the  truth 
of  the  case.  The  lapse  of  another  generation  has  sufficed  to  wipe  out  every 
trace  of  feuds,  that  were  still  abundantly  discernible,  in  the  days  when 
Ayrshire  first  began  to  ring  with  the  equally  zealous  applause  and  vituper- 
ation of, — 

"  Poet  Burns, 
And  his  priest-skelping  turns  " 

It  is  impossible  to  look  back  now  to  the  civil  war,  which  then  raged 
among  the  churchmen  of  the  west  of  Scotland,  without  confessing,  that  on 
either  side  there  was  much  to  regret,  and  not  a  little  to  blame.  Proud 
and  haughty  spirits  were  unfortunately  opposed  to  each  other ;  and  in  the 
su])erabundant  display  of  zeal  as  to  doctrinal  points,  neither  party  seems 
to  have  mingled  much  of  the  charity  of  the  Christian  temper.  'I'he  ^^  hole 
exhibition  was  unlovely — the  spectacle  of  such  indecent  violence  among 
the  leading  Ecclesiastics  of  the  district,  acted  most  unfavourably  on  many 
men's  minds — and  no  one  can  doubt  that  in  the  unsettled  state  of  Robert 
Burns's  principles,  the  elfect  must  have  been  powerful  as  to  him. 

.Macgill  and  Dalrymple.  the  two  ministers  of  the  town  of  Ayr,  had  long 
been  suspected  of  entertaining  heterodox  opinions  on  several  points,  par- 
ticularly the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  and  even  of  the  Trinity;  and  the  for- 
mer at  length  published  an  Essay, 

the  notice  of  the  Church-courts.  More  than  a  year  was  spent  m  the  dis- 
cussions which  arose  out  of  this  ;  and  at  last  Dr.  Macgill  was  fain  to  ac- 
knowledge his  errors,  and  promise  that  he  would  take  an  early  opportunity 
of  apologizing  for  them  to  his  own  congregation  from  the  pulpit — which 
oromise,  however,  he  never  performcfl.     The  gentry  of  the  country  took 


xxiv  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

tor  the  most  part,  the  side  of  Macgill,  who  was  a  man  of  cold  unpopulai 
manners,  but  of  unreproached  mora!  character,  and  possessed  of  some  ac- 
compHshmei.ts,  though  certainly  not  of  distinguished  talents.  The  buli 
<~f  the  lower  orders  espcused,  with  far  more  fervid  zeal,  the  cause  of  those 
who  conducted  the  prosecution  against  this  erring  doctor.  Gavin  Hamil 
ton,  and  all  persons  of  his  stamp,  were  of  course  on  the  side  of  Macgill — 
Auld,  and  the  Mauchline  elders,  were  his  enemies.  Mr.  Robert  Aiken,  a 
writer  in  Ayr,  a  man  of  remarkable  talents,  particularly  in  public  speakins.-.. 
had  the  principal  management  of  Macgill's  cause  before  the  Presbytery, 
and,  I  believe,  also  before  the  Synod.  He  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Ha- 
milton, and  through  him  had  about  tliis  time  formed  an  acquaintance,  whicli 
soon  ripened  into  a  warm  rricndsliip,  v.ith  Burns.  Burns,  therefore,  was 
from  the  beginning  a  zealous,  as  in  the  end  he  was  perhaps  the  most  effective 
partizan,  of  the  side  on  v.hich  Aiken  liad  staked  so  much  of  his  reputation. 
Macgill,  Dalrymple.  and  their  brethren,  suspected,  with  more  or  less  jus- 
tice, of  leaning  to  heterodox  opinions,  are  the  Ncio  Light  pastors  of  his 
earliest  satires.  The  ])rominent  antagonists  of  these  nien,  and  chosen  cham- 
pions of  the  Auld  Light ,  in  Ayrshire,  it  must  now  be  admitted  on  all  hands, 
presented,  in  many  particulars  of  personal  conduct  and  demeanour,  as  broad 
a  mark  as  ever  tempted  the  shafts  of  a  satirist.  These  men  prided  them- 
selves on  being  the  legitimate  and  undegenerate  descendants  and  repre- 
sentatives of  tlie  haughty  Puritans,  v.lio  chiefly  conducted  the  overthrow 
of  Popery  in  Scotland,  and  wlio  ruled  for  a  time,  and  would  fain  have  con- 
tiimed  to  rule,  over  both  king  and  people,  with  a  more  tyrannical  dominion 
than  ever  the  Catholic  priesthood  itself  had  been  able  to  exercise  amidst 
that  iiigh -spirited  nation.  With  the  horrors  of  the  Papal  system  for  ever 
in  their  mouths,  these  men  were  in  fact  as  bigoted  monks,  and  almost  as 

relentless  inquisitors  in  their  hearts,  as  ever  wore  cov.d  and  cord austere 

and  ungracious  of  aspect,  coarse  and  repulsive  of  address  and  manners 

very  Pharisees  as  to  the  lesser  matters  of  the  law,  and  many  of  them,  to  all 
outward  appearance  at  least,  overflowing  with  pharisaical  self-conceit,  as 
well  as  monastic  bile.  That  admirable  qualities  lay  concealed  under  this 
ungainly  exterior,  and  mingled  with  and  checked  the  worst  of  these  gloomy 
passions,  no  candid  man  will  permit  himself  to  doubt  or  suspect  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  and  that  Burns  has  grossly  overcharged  his  portraits  of  them,  deep- 
ening shadows  that  were  of  themselves  sufficiently  dark,  and  excluding  al- 
together those  brighter,  and  perhaps  softer,  traits  of  character,  which  re- 
deemed the  originals  withm  the  sympathies  of  many  of  the  worthiest  and 
best  of  men,  seems  equally  clear.  Their  bitterest  enemies  dared  not  at 
least  to  bring  against  them,  even  when  the  feud  was  at  its  height  of  fervour, 
charges  of  that  hein;)us  sort,  which  they  fearlessly,  and  I  fear  justly,  j)re- 
ferred  against  their  antagonists.  No  one  ever  accused  them  of  sipiing  the 
Articles,  adn)inistering  the  sacraments,  and  eating  the  bread  of  a  Church, 
whor,e  fundamental  doctrines  they  disbelieved,  and,  by  insinuation  at  least, 
disai'owed. 

The  law  of  Church-patronage  was  another  subject  on  Mhich  controversy 
ran  higii  and  furious  in  the  district  at  the  same  period  ;  the  actual  condi- 
tion of  things  on  this  lead  being  upheld  by  all  the  men  of  the  New  Light, 
and  condenmed  as  equally  at  variance  v/itli  the  precepts  of  the  gosjjcl,  and 
the  rights  of  freemen,  hy  not  a  \'i;\v  of  tiie  other  party,  and,  in  particular, 
by  certain  conspicuous  zealots  in  tlie  innnediate  neighbourhood  of  lUirns. 
While  this  warfare  raged,  there  broke  out  an  inte  tine  discord  within  the 


LIFE  01'  HOBEIIT  BUKiVS.  xx» 

onin;i  of  tiip  fiiction  Aviiicli  he  loved  not.  Two  of  the  foremost  h'adors  oi 
t!u;  Aii!(l  Light  parly  quarrelled  about  a  question  of  jiarish  boundaries 
the  matter  was  taken  up  in  the  Presbytery  of  Kilniarnoek,  and  there,  in 
the  t'pen  court,  to  which  the  announcement  of  tlie  discussion  had  drawn  a 
multitude  of  the  country  people,  and  Burns  among  the  rest,  tl:e  revf  rend 
divines,  hitherto  sworn  friends  and  associates,  lost  all  command  of  temper, 
and  abused  each  other  coriDn  pnpulo,  with  a  fiery  virulence  of  personal  in- 
vective, such  as  has  long  been  banished  from  all  popular  assemblies,  where- 
in the  laws  of  courtesy  arc  enforced  by  those  of  a  certain  unwritten  code. 
"  The  first  of  my  poetic  offspring  that  saw  the  light,"  says  Burns,  "  was 
a  burlesque  lamentation  on  a  quarrel  between  two  reverend  Calvinists,  both 
of  them  ilraimttis  pcrsorue  m  my  Ho!;/  Fail-.  I  had  a  notion  myself,  that 
the  piece  had  some  merit ;  but  to  prevent  the  worst,  I  gave  a  copj'  of  it  to 
a  friend  who  was  very  fond  of  such  things,  and  told  him  that  1  could  not 
guess  who  was  the  author  of  it,  but  that  I  thought  it  j)retty  clever.  With 
a  certain  description  of  the  clergy,  as  well  as  laity,  it  met  with  a  roar  oj 
appl(nis(>"  This  was  The  Ilali/  Tnilzie,  or  Ttca  Ilerrls.  The  two  //tr//s, 
or  pastors,  were  .Mr.  Moodie.  minister  of  Kiccartoun,  and  that  Ubvourite  vic- 
tim of  lUirns's,  John  llussell,  then  minister  of  Kilmarnock,  and  afterwards 
of  Stirling — "  From  this  time,"  Burns  says,  "  1  began  to  be  known  in  the 

country  as  a  maker  of  rhymes ^^"'^  Wi/Iic's  Prayer  next  made  its 

appearance,  and  alarmed  the  kirk-session  so  much,  that  they  held  several 
meetings  to  look  over  their  spiritual  artillery,  and  see  if  any  of  it  might 

be  pointed  against  profane  rhymers. Burns's  reverend  editor,  Mr.  Paul, 

presents  llo'u  Wtl/ie's  Pniyer  at  full  length,  although  not  inserted  in  Dr. 
Currie's  edition,  and  calls  on  the  friends  of  religion  to  bless  the  memory  of 
the  poet  who  took  such  a  judicious  method  of"  leading  the  liberal  mind  to 
a  rational  view  of  the  nature  of  piayer." — "  This,"  says  that  bold  com- 
mentator, "  was  not  only  the  prayer  of  Holy  Willie,  but  it  is  merely  the 
metrical  version  of  every  prayer  that  is  offered  up  by  those  who  call  them- 
selves the  pure  reformed  church  of  Scotland.  In  the  course  of  his  read- 
ing and  polemical  warfare.  Burns  embraced  and  defended  the  opinions  of 
Taylor  of  Norwich,  Macgill,  and  that  school  of  Divines.  He  could  not 
reconcile  his  mind  to  that  picture  of  the  Being,  v.hose  very  essence  is 
love,  which  is  drawn  by  the  high  Calvinists  or  the  representatives  of  the 
Covenanters — namely,  that  he  is  disposed  to  grant  salvalion  to  none  but 
a  'iktw  of  their  sect  ;  that  the  whole  Pagan  world,  the  disr  iples  of  Maho- 
met, the  Boman  Catholics,  the  Lutherans,  and  even  the  Calvinists  who 
differ  from  them  in  certain  tenets,  must,  like  Korah,  Dathan  and  Abiram, 
descend  to  the  pit  of  perdition,  man.  Avoman,  and  child,  without  the  possi- 
bility of  escape  ;  but  such  are  the  identical  doctrines  of  the  Cameronians 
of  the  j)resent  day,  and  such  was  Holy  Willie's  style  of  prayer.  The  hy- 
pocrisy and  dishonesty  of  the  man,  who  was  at  the  time  a  reputed  Saint, 
were  perceived  by  the  discerning  penetration  of  I'urns,  and  to  expose 
them  he  considered  his  duty.  The  terrible  view  of  the  Deity  exhibited 
in  tliat  able  production  is  precisely  the  same  view  which  is  given  uf  him, 
in  diil'erent  words,  by  many  devout  preachers  at  present.  They  inculcate, 
th.at  the  greatest  sinner  is  the  greatest  favourite  of  heaven — that  a  reform- 
ed bawd  is  more  accejjtable  to  the  Almighty  than  a  pure  virgin,  who  has 
hardly  ever  transgressed  even  in  thought — that  the  lost  sb.eep  alone  \\\\\  be 
saved,  and  that  the  ninety-and-nine  out  of  the  hundred  will  be  left  in  the 
wilderness,  to  perish  without  mercy — that  the  Saviour  of  the  world  loves 


xxvf  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

the  elect,  not  from  any  lovely  qualities  which  they  possess,  for  they  are 
hateful  in  his  sight,  but  "  he  loves  lliem  because  he  loves  them."  Such 
are  the  sentiments  which  are  breathed  by  those  who  are  denominated  High 
Calvinists,  and  from  which  the  soul  of  a  poet  who  loves  maniiind,  and  whc 
has  not  studied  the  system  in  all  its  bearings,  recoils  with  hr.nor.  .  ,  .  Tlie 
gloomy  forbidding  representation  which  they  give  of  the  Supreme  Being 
has  a  tendency  to  produce  insanity,  and  lead  to  suicide."  * 

This  Reverend  autlior  may  be  considered  as  expressing  in  the  above, 
and  in  other  passages  of  a  similar  tendency,  the  sentiments  witli  which 
even  the  most  audacious  of  Burns's  anti-calvinistic  satires  were  received 
among  the  Ayrshire  divines  of  the  New  Light ;  that  performances  so  blas- 
pliemous  should  have  been,  not  only  pardoned,  but  applauded  by  minis- 
ters of  religion,  is  a  singular  circumstance,  which  may  go  far  to  make  the 
reader  comprehend  the  exaggerated  state  of  party  feeling  in  Burns's  native 
county,  at  the  period  when  he  first  appealed  to  the  public  ear  :  nor  is  it 
fair  to  pronounce  sentence  upon  the  young  and  reckless  satirist,  without  tak- 
ing into  consideration  the  undeniable  fact — that  in  his  worst  offences  of 
this  kind,  he  was  encouraged  and  abetted  by  those,  who,  to  say  nothing 
more  about  tlieir  professional  character  and  authority,  were  almost  the 
only  persons  of  liberal  education  whose  society  he  had  any  opportunity  of 
approaching  at  the  period  in  question.  Had  Burns  received,  at  this  time, 
from  his  clerical  friends  and  patrons,  such  advice  as  was  tendered,  when 
"ather  too  late,  by  a  layman  who  was  as  far  from  bigotry  on  religious  sub- 
jects as  any  man  in  the  world,  this  great  genius  might  have  made  his  first 
a[)j)roaches  to  the  public  notice  in  a  very  different  character. — "  Let  your 
bright  talents," — (thus  wrote  the  excellent  John  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  in 
(October  1787), — "  Let  those  bright  talents  which  the  Almighty  has  be- 
stowed on  you,  be  henceforth  employed  to  the  noble  purpose  of  supporting 
t!ie  cause  of  truth  and  virtue.  An  imagination  so  varied  an-d  forcible  as 
yours,  may  do  th  s  in  many  different  modes  ;  nor  is  it  necessary  to  be  al- 
ways serious,  which  you  have  been  to  good  purpose  ;  good  morals  may  be 
recommended  in  a  comedy,  or  even  in  a  song.  Great  allowances  are  due 
to  the  heat  and  inexperience  of  youUi  ; — and  few  poets  can  boast,  like 
'J'homson,  of  never  having  written  a  line,  which,  dying,  they  would  wish  to 
blot.  In  particu'ar,  I  wish  you  to  keep  clear  of  the  thorny  walks  of  satire, 
wliich  makes  a  man  an  hundred  enemies  for  one  friend,  and  is  doubly  dan- 
gerous  when  one  is  supposed  to  extend  the  slips  and  weaknesses  of  indi- 
viduals to  their  sect  or  party.  About  modes  of  faith,  serious  and  excellent 
men  have  always  differed  ;  and  there  are  certain  curious  questions,  which 
may  afford  scope  to  men  of  metaphysical  heads,  but  seldom  mend  the 
heart  or  temper.  Whilst  these  points  are  beyond  human  ken,  it  is  suffi- 
cient that  all  our  sects  concur  in  their  views  of  morals.  You  will  forgive 
ne  fcr  these  hints." 

It  is  amusing  to  observe  how  soon  even  really  Bucolic  bards  learn  the 
tricks  ofr.heir  trade  :  l>urns  knew  already  what  lustre  a  compliment  g'.iins 
from  being  oct  in  sarcasm,  when  he  made  Willie  call  for  special  notice  of 

"  Gaun  Ilaniilton's  deserts,     .... 

He  drinks,  and  swears,  and  plays  at  carts  ; 
Vet  has  sae  mony  taken'  arts 

WV  great  and  sma" 
Frae  God's  ain  priests  t!ie  people's  hearts 

He  steals  awa,"  &C. 

•  The  Rev.  Hamilton  Paul's  Life  of  Burns,  pp.  40,  41 


LIFE  OF  UOBEKT  BUIJNS.  xxvu 

Nor  is  his  other  patron,  Aiken,  introduced  with  inferior  skill,  as  having 
merited  Willie's  most  fervent  cMecratioa  by  his  '•  glib-tongucd"'  defence  of 
the  heterodox  doctor  of  Ayr  i 

*'  liord  !  visit  lliem  wha  did  employ  liim. 
And  for  thy  people's  sake  destroy  'em." 

Burns  owed  a  compliment  to  this  gentleman  for  a  well-timed  exercise  ol 
his  elocutionary  talents.  "  I  never  knew  there  was  any  merit  in  my  poems," 
said  he,   "  until  Mr.  Aitken  rcr/d  tlinn  into  repute." 

Encouraged  by  the  "  roar  of  applause"  which  greeted  these  pieces,  thus 
orally  promulgated   and  recommended,   he  produced  in  succession  various 
satires  wherein  the  same  set  of  persons  were  lashed  ;  as  The  OnHnation ; 
T/ie  Kirk's  Alarm,  Sec.  S:c. ;  and  last,   and  best  undoubtedly,    The   Holy 
Fair,  in  which,   unlike  the  others  that  have  been  mentioned,    satire  keeps 
its  own  place,  and  is  subservient  to   the  poetry  of  Burns.     This  was,    in- 
deed, an  extraordinary  performance  ;  no  partizan  of  any  sect  could  whisper 
that  malice  had  fonr.ed  its  princii)al  inspiration,  or  that  its  chief  attraction 
lay  in  the  boldness  with  which  individuals,  entitled  and  accustomed  to  re- 
spect,   were  held  up  to  ridicule  :  it  was  acknowledged  amidst  the  sternest 
mufterings  of  wrath,   that  national  manners  were  once  more  in  the  hands 
ot  a  national  poet.      The  Ilohj  Fair,  however,  created  admiration,   not  sur- 
prise, among  the  circle  of  domestic  friends  who  had  been  admitted  to  watch 
the  steps  of  his  progress  in  an  art  of  which,    beyond  that  circle,   little  or 
nothing  was  heard  until   the  youthful  poet  produced  at  length  a  satirical 
master-piece.     It  is  not  possible  to  reconcile  the  statements  of  Gilbert  and 
others,   as  to  some  of  the  minutiae  of  the  chronological  history  of  Ikn-ns's 
previous   performances  ;  but  there   can  be  no  doubt,   that   although   from 
choice  or  accident,  his  first  provincial  fame  was  that  of  a  satirist,   he  had, 
some   time  before  any  of  his  philij)pics  on   the  Auld  Light  Divines  made 
their  appearance,   exhibited  to  those  who  enjoyed  his  personal  confidence, 
a  range  of  imaginative  power  hardly  inferior  to  what  the  Hdi/  Fair  itself  dis- 
plays ;  and,   at   least,   such  a  rapidly  improving   skill  in   poetical  language 
and  versification,  as  must  have,  prepared  them  for  witnessing,  without  won- 
der, even  the  most  perfect  specimens  of  his  art.  Gilbert  says,  that  "  among 
the  earliest  of  his  poems,"  was  the  Fpistle  in  Darie,  {i.  e.  Mr    David  Sillar). 
and  Mr.  Walker  believes  that  this  was  written  very  soon  after  the  death  of 
William  Burnes.     This  piece  is  in  the  very  intricate  and  difiicult  measure 
of  the  Cherry  and  the  Slae  ;  and,  on  the  whole,  the  poet  moves  with  ease 
and  grace  in  his  very  unnecessary  trammels  :  but  young  poets  are  careless 
beforehand  of  difficulties  which  would  startle  the  experienced  ;  and  great 
poets  may  overcome  any  difficulties   if  they  once  grapple  with   them  ;  so 
that  I  should  rather  ground  my  distrust  of  Gilbert's  statement,   if  it  must 
be  literally  taken,   on   the  celebration  of  Jea?i.    with  which  the  e{)istle  ter- 
minates :  and,  after  all,  she  is  celebrated  in  the  concluding  stanztis,  whicli 
may  have  been  added  some  time  after  the  first  draught.     'Ihe  gloomy  cir- 
cumstances  of  the  poet's   personal  condition,    as  described  in  this  piece, 
were  common,   it  cannot  be  doubted,  to  all  the  years  of  his  youthful  his- 
tory;  so  that  no  particular  date  is  to  be  founded  upon  these  ;  and  if  this 
was  the  first,   certainly  it  was  not  the  last  occasion,   on  which  Hums  ex- 
rrcificd  his  fancy  in  the  colouring  of  the  very  worst  issue  that  could  attend 
a  life  of  unsuccessful  toil.     But  Gilbert's  recollections,  however  on  trivia] 
points  inaccurate,  will  always  be  more  interesting  than  any  thing  that  could 


xxvifi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURts'S. 

be  put  in  their  place.     "  Robert,"  says  he,  "  often  composed  u-ithont  an^ 
regular  plan.     When  any  thing  made  a  strong  iaipression   on  his  mind,  so 
as  to  rouse  it  to  poetic  exertion,  he  would  give  way  to  the  impulse,   and 
embody  the  thougl-.t  in  rhyme.     If  he  hit  on  two  or  three  stanzas  to  please 
liim,  he  would  tlien  think  of  proper  introductory,  connecting,  and  conclud- 
ing stanzas ;  hence  the  middle  of  a  poem  was  often  first  produced.  It  was, 
I  think,   in  summer  1784-,  when  in  the  interval  of  hiirder  labour,   he  and  I 
v,'ere  weeding  in  the  garden  (kail-yard),   that  he  repeated  to  me  the  prin- 
cipal part  of  his  epistle  (to  Davie).     I  believe  the  first  idea  of  Robert's 
becoming  an   author  was  started  on  this  occasion.     I  was  much  pleased 
with  the  epistle,  and  said   to   him  I  v,-as   of  opinion   it  would   bear  being 
printed,   and  that   it  would  be  well  received  by  people  of  taste  ;  that  I 
thought  it  at  least  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  many  of  Allan  Ramsay's  epis- 
tles, and  that  the  merit  of  these,  and  much  other  Scotch  poetry,  seemed 
to  consist  principally  in  the  knack  of  the  expression — but  here,  there  was 
a  strain  of  interesting  sentiment,  and  the  Scotticism  of  the  language  scarce- 
ly seemed  affected,   but  appeared  to  be  the  natural  language  of  the  poet ; 
that,  besides,   there  was  certainly  some  novelty  in  a  poet  pointing  out  the 
consolations  that  were  in  store  for  him  when  he  should  go  a-be<iiiin<j.    Ko- 
bert  seemed  very  well  pleased  with  my  criticism,  and  he  talked  of  sending 
it  to  some  magazine  ;  but  as  this  plan  afforded  no  opportunity  of  knowing 
how  it  would  take,  the  idea  was  dropped.     It  was,  1  think,  in  the  winter 
follovv'ing,  as  we  were  going  together  with  carts  for  coal  to  the  family,  (and 
I  could  yet  point  out  the  particular  spot),  that  the  author  first  repeated  to 
me  tlie  Ad/ress  to  the  Ddl.    The  curious  idea  of  such  an  address  was  su<r- 
gested  to  him,  by  running  over  in  his  mind  the  many  ludicrous  accounts 
and  representations  we  have,  from  various  quarters,  of  this  august  person- 
age.    Dentil  and  Doctor  Hornbook,   though  not  published  in  tlie  Kilmar- 
nock edition,  was  produced  early  in  the  year  17>)5.     The  schoolmaster  of 
Tarbolton  parish,   to  eke  up  the  scanty  subssitence  allowed  to  that  useful 
class  of  men,  had  set  up  a  shop  of  grocery  loods.     Having  accidentally 
fallen  in  with  some  medical  books,  and  become  most  hobby-horsically  at- 
tached  to  'he  study  of  medicine,  he  had  added  the  sale  of  a  "ii^w  medi- 
cines to  his  little  trade.     He  had  got  a  shop-bill  printed,  at  the  bottom  of 
which,  overlooking  his  own  incapacity,  he  h.td  advertised,  that  '•  Advice 
would  be  given  in  common  disorders  at  the  shop  gratis."    Robert  was  at  a 
mason -meeting  in  Tarbolton,  when  the   Dominie  unfortunately  made  too 
ostentatious  a  display  of  his  medical  skill.     As  he  parted  in  the  evening 
from  this  mixture  of  pedantry  and  physic,  at  the  place  where  he  describes 
his  meeting  with  Death,  one  of  those  tioating  ideas  of  apparitions,  he  men- 
tions in  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  crossed  his  mind  ;  this  set  him  to  work  ibr 
the  rest  of  the  way  home.     These  circumstances  he  related  when  he  re- 
peated the  verses  to  me  next  afternoon,  as  1  was  holding  the  plough,  ana 
he  was  letting  the  water  off  the  field  beside  me.    The  Epistle  to  John  Lop. 
/Y///d  was  produced  exactly  on  the  occasion  described  by  the  author.     He 
Bays  in  that  poem,  Ou  Fusten-eenive  luul  a  rockin.     I  believe  he  has  omit- 
ted the  word  rocking  in  the  glossary.     It  is  a  term  derived  from  those 
primitive  times,  when  the  country-women  employed  their  si)are  hours  io 
spinning  on  the  rock  or  distalf.     This  simple  implement  is  a  very  portable 
one,  and  well  fitted  to  the  eocial  inclination  of  meeting  in  a  neighbour's 
house  ;  hence  the  j)hrase  o?  r/oinr/  a-rocking,  or  ivith  the  rock.      As  the  con- 
nexion tile  phrase  had  with  the  implement  was  forgotten  when  the  reci 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BUR^S.  xxTx 

gave  place  to  tlic  spinning-wheel,  the  phrase  came  to  be  used  by  both 
sexes  on  social  occasions,  and  men  talk  of  going  with  their  rocks  as  well  as 
women.  It  was  at  one  of  these  rochinga  at  our  house,  when  we  had  twelve 
01  fifteen  young  people  with  their  rocks,  that  Lapraik's  song,  beginning — 
"  When  I  upon  thy  bosom  lean,"  \\as  sung,  and  we  were  informed  who  was 
the  auth.or.  Upon  this  KoDert  wrote  his  first  epistle  to  Lapraik  ;  and  his 
second  in  reply  to  his  answer.  The  verses  to  the  Mouse  and  Moiuitnin 
Dftisi/  were  composed  on  the  occasions  mentioned,  and  while  the  author 
was  holding  the  plough  ;  1  could  point  out  the  particular  spot  where  each 
was  composed.  Holding  the  plough  was  a  favourite  situation  with  Robert 
for  poetic  compositions,  and  some  of  his  best  verses  were  produced  while 
he  was  at  that  exercise.  Several  of  the  poems  v.'ere  produced  for  the  pur- 
pose of  bringing  ft -ward  .some  favourite  sentiment  of  the  author.  He  used 
to  remark  to  me,  that  he  could  not  well  conceive  a  more  mortifying  picture 
of  human  life  than  a  man  seeking  work.  In  casting  about  in  his  mind  ho^v• 
this  sentiment  might  be  brought  forward,  the  elegy,  3Ian  tL-cis  made  to 
Mourn,  v.as  composed.  Robert  had  frequently  remarked  to  me,  that  he 
thought  there  was  something  peculiarly  venerable  in  the  phrase,  "  Let  us 
worship  God,"  used  by  a  decent  sober  head  of  a  family  introducing  family 
worship.  To  this  sentiment  of  the  author  the  world  is  indebted  for  The  Cot- 
tars  S'lturclaj/  Night.  The  hint  of  the  jilan,  and  title  of  the  poem,  were  taken 
from  Ferguson's  Farmers  Ingle.  When  Robert  had  not  some  pleasure 
in  view,  in  which  I  was  not  thought  fit  to  participate,  we  used  frequently 
to  walk  together,  when  the  weather  was  favourable,  on  the  Sunday  aftrt- 
noons,  (those  precious  breathing-times  to  the  labouring  part  of  the  com- 
munity), and  enjoyed  such  Sundays  as  would  make  one  regret  to  see  their 
Qumbcr  abridged.  It  was  in  one  of  these  walks  that  I  first  had  the  pleasure 
9f  hearing  the  author  repeat  The  Cottars  Saturday  Night.  I  do  not  recollect 
to  have  read  or  heard  any  thing  by  which  I  was  more  highly  ehctrifed. 
The  fifth  and  six  stanzas,  and  the  eighteenth,  thrilled  with  peculiar  ecstacy 
through  my  soul." 

The  poems  mentioned  by  Gilbert  Burns  in  the  above  extract,  are  among 
the  most  popular  of  his  brother's  performances  ;  and  there  may  be  a  time 
for  recurring  to  some  of  their  peculiar  merits  as  Avorks  of  art.  It  may  be 
mentioned  here,  that  John  Wilson,  alias  Dr.  Hornbook,  was  not  merely 
compelled  to  shut  up  shop  as  an  apothecary,  or  druggist  rather,  by  the  sa- 
tire which  bears  his  name  ;  but  so  irresistible  was  the  tide  of  ridicule,  that 
his  pupils,  one  by  one,  deserted  him,  and  he  abandoned  his  Schoolcraft  also. 
Removing  to  Glasgow,  and  turning  himself  successfully  to  conmiercial 
pursuits,  Dr.  Hornbook  survived  the  local  storm  which  he  could  not  eflec- 
tuaily  withstand,  and  was  often  heard  in  his  latter  days,  when  waxing  cheer- 
ful and  communicative  over  a  bowl  of  punch,  "  in  the  Saltmarket,"  to  bless 
the  lucky  hour  in  which  the  dominie  of 'i'arbolton  provoked  the  castigation 
of  Robert  Burns.  In  those  days  the  b'cotch  universities  did  not  turn  out 
doctors  of  physic  by  the  hundred  ;  Mr.  Wilson's  was  probably  the  only 
medicine-chest  from  which  salts  and  senna  were  distributed  for  the  benefit 
of  a  considerable  circuit  of  parishes  ;  and  his  advice,  to  say  the  least  of  the 
matter,  was  perhaps  as  good  as  could  be  had,  for  love  or  money,  among  the 
wise  women  who  were  the  only  rivals  of  his  practice.  I'he  poem  wl>ich 
drove  him  from  Ayrshire  was  not,  we  may  believe,  either  expected  or  de- 
signed to  produce  any  such  serious  eilect.  Poor  Hornbook  and  the  j)oet 
were  old  ac^quaintanccs,  and  in  some  sort  rival  wits  at  the  time  in  the  ma 
son  lodce. 


XXX  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

In  3Ian  was  made  to  Mourn,  whatever  might  be  the  casual  idea  that  set 
the  poet  to  work,  it  is  but  too  evident,  tliat  he  wrote  from  the  habitual 
feeli-ngs  of  his  own  l^osom.  The  indignation  with  which  he  through  life 
contemplated  the  inequality  of  human  condition,  and  particularly,  the  con- 
trast between  his  own  worldly  circumstances  and  intellectual  rank,  was 
never  more  bitterly,  nor  more  loftily  expressed,  than  in  some  of  those 
stannas : — 

"  See  yonder  poor  o'erlai^nur'd  wight, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil. 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow  worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn, 
Unmindful,  tho'  a  wee])ing  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

If  ['m  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave — 

V>y  Nature's  laws  design'd — 
AVhy  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  iny  mind  ? 
If  not,  wliy  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  and  scorn, 
Or  «hy  lias  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ?" 

"  I  had^an  old  grand-uncle,"  says  the  poet,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Mrs. 
Dimlop,  "  with  whom  my  mother  lived  in  her  girlish  years  ;  the  good  old 
man,  for  such  he  was,  was  blind  long  ere  he  died  ;  during  which  time  his 
highest  enjoyment  was  to  sit  down  and  cry,  while  my  mother  would  sing 
the  simple  old  song  of  The  Life  and  Age  of  Man' 

In  ]\Ian  tons  made  to  Mourn,  Burns  appears  to  have  taken  many  hints 
from  this  ancient  ballad,  which  begins  thus : 

"  Upon  the  sixteen  hundred  year  of  God,  and  fifty-three, 

Frae  Christ  was  born,  that  bought  us  dear,  as  writings  testifie; 

On  January,  the  sixteenth  day,  as  I  did  lie  alone, 

AVith  many  a  sigh  and  sob  did  say  —Ah  !  man  is  made  to  moan  !"• 

Tlie  Collar  s  Satnrdai/  MgJit  is,  perhaps,  of  all  Rurns's  pieces,  the  one 
whose  exclusion  from  the  collection,  were  such  things  possible  now-a-days, 
would  be  the  most  injurious,  if  not  to  the  genius,  at  least  to  the  character, 
of  the  man.  In  spite  of  many  feeble  lines,  and  some  heavy  stanzas,  it  ap- 
pears to  me,  that  even  his  genius  would  suffer  more  in  estimation,  by  being 
contemplated  in  the  absence  of  this  poem,  than  of  any  other  single  perform- 
ance he  has  left  us.  Loftier  flights  he  certainly  has  made,  but  in  these  he 
remained  ^^vit  a  short  while  on  the  wing,  and  efibrt  is  too  often  perceptible  ; 
here  the  motion  is  easy,  gentle,  placidly  undulating.  There  is  more  of  tlie 
conscious  security  of  power,  than  in  any  other  of  his  serious  pieces  of  con- 
siderable length  ;  the  whole  has  the  appearance  of  coming  in  a  full  stream 
from  the  fountain  of  the  heart — a  stream  that  soothes  the  ear,  and  has  no 
glare  on  the  surface. 

It  is  delightful  to  turn  from  any  of  the  pieces  which  present  so  great  a 
genius  as  writhing  under  an  inevitable  burden,  to  this,  where  his  buoyant 
energy  seems  not  even  to  feel  the  pressure.  The  miseries  of  toil  and  j)e- 
nury,  who  shall  alfcct  to  treat  as  unreal  ?  Yet  they  shrunk  to  small  dimen- 
sions in  the  presence  of  a  spirit  thus  exalted  at  once,  and  softened,  by  the 
pieties  of  virgin  loi  e,  filial  reverence,  and  domestic  devotion. 

•  Croniek's  Scottish  Soncs. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xxxi 

Tlio  Cottar  i  Saturday  Nif/lu  and  the  IIoJi/  Fair  liavc  been  put  in  con 
irast,  and  much  marvel  made  that  they  should  have  spruuij^  from  the  s;unc 
source.  "  1  he  annual  celebration  of  the  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Su[)[)ei 
in  the  rural  parishes  of  Scotland,  has  much  in  it,"  says  the  unfort-.^.ate 
Heron,  "  of  those  old  ])opish  festivals,  in  which  superstition,  traffic,  and 
amusement,  used  to  be  strangely  intermingled.  Burns  saw  and  seized  in 
it  one  of  the  happiest  of  all  subjects  to  afford  scope  for  the  display  of  that 
strong  and  piercing  sagacity,  by  which  he  could  almost  intuitively  distin- 
guish the  reasonable  from  the  absurd,  and  the  becoming  from  the  ridiculous; 
of  that  picturesque  power  of  fancy  which  enabled  him  to  represent  scenes, 
and  jiersons,  and  groups,  and  looks,  and  attitudes,  and  gestures,  in  a  manner 
almost  as  lively  and  impressive,  even  in  words,  as  if  all  the  artifices  and  ener- 
gies of  the  pencil  had  been  employed  ;  of  that  knowledge  which  he  bud  ne- 
cessarily acquired  of  the  manners,  passions,  and  prejudices  of  the  rustics 
around  him — of  whatever  was  ridiculous,  no  les5  than  whatever  was  alFcct- 
ingly  beautiful  in  rural  life."  This  is  very  good,  but  who  ever  disputed  the 
ex(|uisite  graj)hic  truth  of  the  poem  to  which  the  critic  refers?  The  ques- 
tion remains  as  it  stood ;  is  there  then  nothing  besides  a  strange  mixture 
of  superstition,  traffic,  and  amusement,  in  the  scene  which  such  an  annual 
celebration  in  a  rural  parish  of  Scotland  presents  ?  Does  nothing  of  what 
is  *'  affiectingly  beautiful  in  rural  life,"  mak3  a  part  in  the  original  which 
was  before  the  poet's  eyes  ?  Were  "  Superstition,"  "  Hypocrisy,"  and 
"  Lun,"  the  only  influences  which  he  might  justly  have  impersonated  ^  It 
would  be  hard,  I  think,  to  speak  so  even  of  the  old  popish  festivals  to  which 
Mr.  Heron  alludes  ;  it  would  be  hard,  surely,  to  say  it  of  any  festival  m 
which,  mingled  as  they  may  be  with  sanctimonious  pretenders,  and  sur- 
rounded with  giddy  groups  of  onlookers,  a  mighty  multitude  of  devout  men 
are  assembled  for  the  worship  of  God,  beneath  the  open  heaven,  and  above 
the  tombs  of  their  fathers. 

Let  us  beware,  however,  of  pushing  our  censure  of  a  young  poet,  mad 
with  the  inspiration  of  th.e  moment,  from  whatever  source  derived,  too  far 
It  can  hardly  be  doubted  that  the  author  of  T/ie  Cottar s  Saturday  Nit/Id 
had  felt,  in  his  time,  all  that  any  man  can  feel  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
most  sublime  of  the  religious  observances  of  his  country  ;  and  as  little,  that 
had  he  taken  up  the  subject  of  this  rural  sacrament  in  a  solemn  mood,  he 
might  have  produced  a  piece  as  gravely  beautiful,  as  his  lluli/  i'air  is 
quaint,  graphic,  and  picturesque.  A  scene  of  family  worship,  on  the  other 
han:l,  I  can  easily  imagine  to  have  come  from  his  hand  as  pregnant  with  the 
ludicrous  as  that  Holy  Fair  itself.  The  family  prayers  of  the  Saturday's 
night,  and  the  rural  celebration  of  the  Eucharist,  are  parts  of  the  same  sys- 
tem— the  system  which  has  made  the  people  of  Scotland  what  they  are — 
and  what,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  they  will  continue  to  be.  And  when  men  ask 
of  themselves  what  this  great  national  poet  really  thought  of  a  system  in 
which  minds  immeasurably  inferior  to  his  can  see  so  much  to  venerate,  it 
is  surely  just  that  they  should  pay  most  attention  to  what  lie  has  delivered 
under  the  gra\  est  sanction. 

The  Reverend  Hamilton  Paul  does  not  desert  his  post  on  occasion  ol 
The  Iluly  Fair  ;  he  defends  that  piece  as  manfully  as  Holy  Willie;  and, 
indeed,  expressly  applauds  Burns  for  hav-ng  endeavoured  to  explode  '  a* 
Duses  discountenanced  by  the  General  Assembly."  IlaUmoe'en,  a  descrip 
live  poem,  perhaps  even  more  exquisitely  wrought  than  the  Huly  Fair 
and  containing  nothing  that  could  offend  *he  feelings  of  anybo'  y,  was  pro- 


Kxxli  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Sliced  about  the  same  period.     Eurns's  art  had  now  reached  its  climax 
but  it  is  time  that  we  shculd  revert  more  particularl_y  to  the  personal  his- 
tory of  the  poet. 

He  seems  to  have  very  soon  perceived,  that  the  farm  of  Mossgiel  could 
at  the  best  furnish  no  more  than  the  bare  means  of  existence  to  so  lars^e 
a  family  ;  and  wearied  with  "  the  prospects  drear,"  from  which  he  only 
escaped  in  oc(  asional  intervals  of  social  merriment,  or  when  gay  flashes  or 
solitary  fancy,  for  they  were  no  more,  threw  sunshine  on  every  thing,  he 
very  naturally  took  up  the  notion  of  quitting  Scotland  for  a  time,  and  try- 
ing  his  fortune  in  the  West  Indies,  where,  as  is  well  known,  the  managers 
of  the  plantations  are,  in  tlie  great  majority  of  cases,  Scotchmen  of  Burns's 
own  rank  and  condition.  His  letters  show,  that  on  two  or  three  different 
occasions,  long  before  his  poetry  had  excited  any  attention,  he  had  applied 
for,  and  nearly  obtained  appointments  of  this  sort,  through  the  intervention 
of  his  acquaintances  in  the  sea-port  of  Irvine.  Petty  accidents,  not  worth 
describing,  interfered  to  disappoint  him  from  time  to  time ;  but  at  last  a 
new  burst  of  misfortune  rendered  him  doubly  anxious  to  escape  from  his 
native  land  ;  and  but  for  an  accident,  his  arrangements  would  certainly 
have  been  completed.  But  we  must  not  come  quite  so  rapidly  to  the  last 
of  his  Ayrshire  love-stories.  How  many  lesser  romances  of  this  order  were 
evolved  and  completed  during  his  residence  at  Mossgiel,  it  is  needless  to 
inquire  ;  that  they  Avere  many,  his  songs  prove,  for  in  those  days  he  M'rote 
no  love-songs  on  imaginary  Heroines.  Mary  Moriaon — Behind  yon  bills 
where  Stinchar  jiews — On  Cessnock  hank  there  lives  a  lass — belono-  to  this 
period  ;  and  there  are  three  or  four  inspired  by  Mary  Campbell the  ob- 
ject of  by  far  the  deepest  passion  that  ever  Burns  knew,  and  which  lie  has 
accordingly  immortalized  in  the  noblest  of  his  elegiacs.  In  introducin'T 
to  Mr.  Thomson's  notice  the  song, — 

"  Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  pilary. 
And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ?— 
■Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  .Mary, 
Across  the  Atlantic's  roar  ?" 

Burns  says,  "  In  my  early  years,  when  I  was  thinking  of  going  to  the  West 
Indies,  I  took  this  farewell  of  a  dear  girl ;"  afterwards,  in  a  note  on — 

"  Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around 
The  Castel  o'  IMontgomerie  ; 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fdir  your  flowers, 
Your  waters  never  drumlie." 

he  adds, — *'  After  a  pretty  long  trial  of  the  most  ardent  reciprocal  affec- 
tion, we  met  by  appointment  on  the  second  Sunday  of  Ma}',  in  a  sequester- 
ed spot  by  the  banks  of  A..yr,  where  we  spent  a  day  in  taking  a  farwell  bo- 
fore  she  should  embark  for  the  West  Highlands,  to  arrange  matters  among 
her  friends  for  our  projected  change  of  life.  At  the  close  of  the  autumn 
following  she  crossed  the  sea  to  meet  me  at  Greenock,  where  she  liad 
scarce  landed  when  she  was  seized  with  a  malignant  fever,  which  hurried 
my  dear  girl  to  her  grave  in  a  i'ew  days,  before  I  could  even  hear  of  her  ill- 
ness ;"  and  Mr.  Cromek,  speaking  of  the  same  "  day  of  parting  love."  givea 
some  further  particulars.  "  This  adieu,"  says  that  zealous  inquirer  into  the 
details  of  Burns's  story,  "  was  performed  with  all  those  simple  and  striking 
ceremoiu'als,  which  rustic  sentiment  has  devised  to  prolong  tender  emotions, 


LIFE  OF  HOMElCr  BUHXS  xxxn 

antl  to  impose  awe.  The  lovers  stood  on  eacli  side  of  a  small  purliiij:  brook 
— they  laved  their  hands  in  tiie  limpid  stream — and,  holding  a  liihle  be- 
tween them,  pronouneed  their  vows  to  be  faithful  to  eaeh  other.  'I'hej 
parted — never  to  meet  again."  It  is  proper  to  add,  that  Mr.  Croniek's  story 
lias  recently  been  confirmed  very  strongly  by  the  accidental  discovery  of  a 
Bible  presented  by  Burns  to  Marii  ('(tvtphell,  in  the  possession  of  her  still 
surviving  sister  at  Ardrossan.  lIj)on  the  boards  of  the  first  volume  is  in- 
scribed, in  Burns's  hand-writing, — "  And  ye  shall  not  swear  by  my  nanie 
falsely — I  am  the  Lord." — Levit.  chap.  xix.  v.  I'i.  On  the  second  volume, 
— "  Tiiou  shalt  not  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt  perform  unto  the  I-ord  thine 
oath." — St.  INIatth.  chap,  v.,  v.  .S3.  And,  on  a  blank  leaf  of  either, — "  Ro- 
bert Burns,  Mossgiel."  How  lasting  was  the  poet's  remembrance  of  thia 
pure  love,  and  its  tragic  termination,  will  be  seen  hereafter.  Highland 
Mary  seems  to  have  died  ere  her  lover  had  made  any  of  his  more  serious 
attempts  in  poetry.  In  the  B pistle  to  Mr.  Sillar,  (as  we  have  already  hint- 
ed), the  very  earliest,  according  to  (lilbert,  of  these  attem])ts,  the  i)oet 
celebrates  "  his  Davie  and  his  Jcdti."  This  was  Jean  Armour,  a  young 
M'onian,  a  step,  if  any  thing,  above  Burns's  own  rank  in  life,  the  daughter 
of  a  res{)ectable  man,  a  master-mason,  in  the  village  of  Mauchline,  where 
she  was  at  the  time  the  reigning  toast,  and  who  still  survives,  as  the  re- 
sjjected  vidcw  of  our  poet.  There  are  numberless  allusions  to  her  maiden 
charms  in  the  best  pieces  which  he  produced  atMossgiel ;  amongst  others 
is  the  six  Belles  of  Mauehiine,  at  the  head  of  whom  she  is  placed. 

"  In  IMauchline  there  dwells  six  proper  yourfr  belles, 
'[  he  i)ride  ol'  ilie  ))hice  antl  its  neiglibourlioiKl  a  ; 
Their  carri:ij,'e  iind  dress,  a  stranf,'er  would  guess, 
In  liOn'on  or  I'aris  they'd  gotten  it  a* : 

**  miss  INIillar  is  fire,  Miss  IMarkland's  divine, 

IMiss  Smitli  she  t  as  wit.  and  Miss  Betty  is  braw  ; 
There's  beauty  and  fortune  to  get  wi'  iSliss  .Morton, 
But  Armour's  the  jewel  for  n:e  o'  them  a'." 

The  time  is  not  yet  come,  in  which  all  the  details  of  this  story  can  be  ex- 
pccted.     Jean  Armour  found  herself  pregnant. 

Burns's  worldly  circumstances  were  in  a  most  miserable  state  when  he 
was  informed  of  Miss  Armour's  condition  ;  and  the  first  announcement  oi 
it  staggered  him  like  a  blow.  He  saw  nothing  for  it  but  to  fly  the  country 
at  once;  and,  in  a  note  to  James  Smith  of  Mauchline.  tlie  confidant  of  lus 
amour,  he  thus  wrote  : — "  Against  two  things  i  am  fixed  as  fate— staying 
at  home,  and  owning  her  conjugally.  The  first,  by  Heaven.  I  will  not  do! 
— the  last,  by  hell,   I  will  never  do  ! — A  good  Ciod  bless  you,  and  make 

you  happy,  up  to  the  warmest  weeping  wish  of  parting  friendship 

If  you  see  Jean,  tell  her  I  will  meet  her,  so  help  me  (iod,  in  my  hour  o» 
need."  The  lovers  met  accordingly  ,  and  the  result  of  tlie  meeting  was 
what  was  to  be  anticipated  from  the  tenderness  and  the  manliness  of  Burns's 
feelings.  All  dread  of  personal  inconvenience  yielded  at  once  to  the  tears 
of  the  woman  he  loved,  and,  ere  they  parted,  he  gave  into  her  keeping  a 
written  acknowledgment  of  marriage.  This,  under  the  circumstances,  and 
produced  by  a  person  in  Miss  Armour's  condition,  according  to  th.e  Scots 
law.  was  to  be  accepted  as  legal  evidence  of  an  irrccjular  marriage  having 
really  taken  place  ;  it  being  of  course  luiulcrstood  that  the  marriage  was  to 
be  formally  avowed  as  soon  as  the  consequences  of  their  imprudence  could 
no  longer  be  concealed  from  her  family.     The  disclosure  was  deferred  tc 


xxxiv  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

the  las*  moment,  and  it  was  received  by  the  father  of  Miss  Armour  with 
equal  surprise  and  anger.  Pjurns,  confessing  himself  to  be  unequal  to  the 
maintenance  of  a  family,  proposed  to  go  immediately  to  Jamaica,  where  he 
hoped  to  find  better  fortunes.  He  offered,  if  this  were  rejected,  to  aban- 
don liis  larm,  which  was  by  this  time  a  hopeless  concern,  and  earn  bread, 
at  least  for  his  wife  and  children,  by  his  labour  at  home  ;  but  nothing  could 
appease  the  indignation  of  Armour.  By  what  arguments  he  prevailed  en 
his  daughter  to  take  so  strange  and  so  painful  a  step  we  know  not ;  but  tJie 
fact  is  certain,  that,  at  his  urgent  entreaty,  she  destroyed  the  document. 

It  v.as  under  such  extraordinary  circumstances  that  Miss  Armour  be- 
came the  mother  of  twins. — I'urns's  love  and  pride,  the  two  most  powerful 
feeliiigs  of  his  mind,  had  been  equally  wounded.  His  anger  and  grief  to- 
gether drove  him,  according  to  every  account,  to  the  verge  of  absolute 
insanity  ;  and  some  of  his  letters  on  this  occasion,  both  published  and  un- 
published, have  certainly  all  the  appearance  of  having  been  written  in  as 
deep  a  concentration  of  despair  as  ever  preceded  the  most  awful  of  human 
calamities.  His  first  thought  had  been,  as  we  have  seen,  to  fly  at  once 
from  the  scene  of  his  disgrace  and  misery  ;  and  tb.is  course  seemed  new  to 
be  absolutely  necessary.  He  was  summoned  to  find  security  for  th.e  main- 
tenance of  the  children  whom  lie  v.as  prevented  from  legitimating ;  but 
the  man  who  had  in  his  desk  the  inmiortal  poems  to  which  we  have  been 
referrin^^  above,  either  disdained  to  ahk,  or  tried  in  vain  to  find,  pecuniary 
assistance  in  his  hour  of  need  ;  and  the  only  alternative  that  preiented  't 
eelf  to  his  view  was  America  or  a  iail 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CCNTBNTK The    Poet  gives  up  Mosxghl  to   his  Brother  Gilhett — TnlenJs  for  Jiimriiceu.  . 

Subscription  Edition  of  his  Puems  sm/i.'cstel  to  sup;ilt/  menus  of  outfit — One  ofdOO  cupiet 
printed  at  Kilmiirnock,  17S6 — It  tiri wis  him  extended  repntatinn,  and  £20 — Alio  many 
vcri/ kirul  0 ieiids,  but  no  patron — In  these  circumstances,  Gua(iin(j  first  hinted  to  him  by 
his  early  friends,  Hamilton  and  Aiken — Snyinris  and  doinys  in  the  Jin  t  year  of  his  fame — 
Jamaica  ayain  in  view — Plan  desisted  from  because  of  encouragement  by  Dr.  liluc/JocA 
to  vublish  at  Edinburgh,  rt-herein  the  Poet  sojourns. 


**  He  saw  misfortune's  cauld  nor^-zvest, 
Ijant;  imistRrinj:^  up  a  bitter  blast ; 
A  jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

III  may  she  be! 
So,  took  a  birth  afore  t'nc  ma-^t, 

An'  owre  the  sea." 

Jamaica  was  now  his  mark,  for  at  that  time  the  United  States  were 
not  looked  to  as  the  phice  of  refuge  they  have  since  become.  After  some 
httle  time,  and  not  a  Httle  trouble,  the  situation  of  assistant-overseer  on 
the  estate  of  Dr.  Douglas  in  that  colony,  was  procured  for  him  by  one  ol 
his  friends  in  the  town  of  Irvine.  Money  to  pay  for  his  passage,  liowever, 
he  had  not ;  and  it  at  last  occurred  to  him  that  the  i'ew  pounds  requisite 
for  this  purpose,  might  be  raised  by  the  publication  of  some  of  the  finest 
poems  that  ever  delighted  mankind. 

His  landlord,  Gavin  Hamilton,  iNIr.  Aiken,  and  other  friends,  encouraged 
him  warmly  ;  and  after  some  hesitation,  he  at  length  resolved  to  hazard  ar 
experiment  which  might  perhaps  better  liis  circumstances  ;  and,  if  any  tole 
rahle  number  of  subscribers  could  be  procured,  could  not  make  them  v.orse 
than  they  were  already.  His  rural  patrons  exerted  themselves  with  suc- 
cess in  the  matter;  and  so  many  copies  were  soon  subscribed  for,  that 
Burns  entered  into  terms  with  a  printer  in  Kilmarnock,  and  began  to  copy 
out  his  performances  for  the  press.  He  carried  his  MSS.  piecemeal  to  tlie 
printer  ,  and  encouraged  by  the  ray  of  light  which  unex})ected  jwtronage 
had  begun  to  throw  on  his  affairs,  composed,  while  the  printing  was  in  pro- 
gress, some  of  the  best  p  )ems  of  the  collection.  The  tale  of  the  7  wa  iJaijs, 
for  instance,  with  which  the  volume  commenced,  is  known  to  have  been 
written  in  the  short  interval  between  the  publication  being  determined  on 
and  the  printing  begun.  His  own  account  of  the  business  to  Dr.  AJoore  i.s 
as  follows  : — 

"  I  gave  up  my  part  of  the  farm  to  my  brother :  in  truth,  it  was  onl) 
nominally  mine  ;  and  made  what  little  preparation  was  in  my  power  loi 
Jamaica.  But  before  leaving  my  native  land,  I  resolved  to  publish  mv 
Poems.  I  weighed  my  productions  as  impartially  as  was  in  my  power  :  1 
thought  they  had  merit;  and  it  was  a  delicious  idea  tlut  I  should  be  called 
a  clever  fellow,  even  though  it  should  never  reach  my  ears — a  poor  negro- 
driver —  or,  perhaps,  a  victim  to  that  n)hospitable  clime,  and   ^one  to  ihu 


xxxvi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

world  of  S])irits.  I  can  truly  say  that,  pavvre  inrofuu/  a>  I  then  was,  I  had 
[jretty  nearly  as  high  an  itk-a  of  myself  and  of  my  Avorks  as  I  have  at  this 
moment  when  the  public  has  decided  in  their  favour.  It  ever  was  my  opi- 
nion, that  the  mistakes  and  blunders,  both  in  a  rational  and  religious  point 
of  view,  of  which  we  see  thousands  daily  guilty,  are  owing  to  their  igno- 
rance of  themselves.  —To  know  myself,  had  been  all  along  my  constant 
stu.'y.  I  weighed  myself  alone  ;  I  balanced  mj'self  with  others  :  I  watch^ 
cd  every  means  of  information,  to  see  how  much  ground  1  occupied  as  a 
man  and  as  a  poet :  I  studied  assiduously  Nature's  design  in  my  formation — 
where  the  lights  and  shades  in  character  were  intended.  I  was  pretty  con- 
fident my  poems  would  meet  with  some  applause  ;  but,  at  the  worst,  the 
roar  of  the  Atlantic  would  deafen  the  voice  of  censure,  and  the  novelty  of 
West  Indian  scenes  make  me  forget  neglect.  I  threw  off  six  hundred  copies, 
for  wliich  I  got  subscriptions  for  about  three  hundred  and  fifty.* — INIy  va- 
nity was  highly  gratified  by  the  reception  I  met  with  from  the  public  ;  and 
besides,  I  pocketed  nearly  t  20.  This  sum  came  very  seasonably,  as  I  was 
thinking  of  indenting  myself,  for  want  of  money  to  procure  my  passage.  As 
soon  as  I  was  master  of  nine  guineas,  the  price  of  wafting  me  to  the  torrid 
zone,  1  took  a  steerage  passage  in  the  first  ship  that  was  to  sail  from  the 

Clyde ;  for 

"  Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind." 

"  I  liad  been  for  some  days  skulking  from  covert  to  covert,  under  all  the 
terrors  of  a  jail  ;  as  some  ill-advised  people  had  uncoupled  the  merciless 
pack  of  t;ie  law  at  my  heels.  I  had  taken  the  last  farewell  of  my  few  friends  ; 
my  chest  was,  on  the  road  to  Greenock;  I  had  composed  the  last  song  I 
should  ever  measure  in  Caledonia,  The  gJuomy  night  is  gathering  fast,  when 
a  letter  from  Dr.  Blacklock  to  a  friend  of  mine,  overthrev/  all  my  schemes, 
by  opening  new  prospects  to  my  poetic  ambition." 

To  the  above  rapid  narrative  of  the  poet,  we  may  annex  a  few  details, 
gathered  from  his  various  biographers  and  from  his  own  letters. — W  hile 
tlic  Kilmarnock  edition  was  in  the  press,  it  appears  that  his  friends  Hamil- 
ton and  Aiken  revolved  various  schemes  for  procuring  him  the  means  OT 
remaining  in  Scotland  ;  and  having  studied  some  of  the  practical  branches 
of  mathematics,  as  we  have  seen,  and  in  particular  guaging,  it  occurred  tc 
himself  that  a  situation  in  the  Excise  might  be  better  suited  to  him  than  any 
other  he  was  at  all  likely  to  obtain  by  the  intervention  of  such  patrons  as  he 
possessed.  He  appears  to  have  lingered  longer  after  the  publication  of  the 
poems  than  one  might  sui)pose  from  his  own  narrative,  in  the  hope  that 
tliese  gentlemen  might  at  length  succeed  in  their  efforts  in  his  behalf.  The 
poems  were  received  with  favour,  even  with  rapture,  in  the  county  of  Ayr, 
and  ere  long  over  the  adjoining  counties.  "  Old  and  young,"  thus  speaks 
Robert  Heron,  "  high  and  low,  grave  and  gay,  learned  or  ignorant,  were 
alike  delighted,  agitated,  transported.  I  was  at  that  time  resident  in  (ial- 
lo'.vay,  contiguous  to  Ayrshire,  and  I  can  well  remember  how  even  plough 
boys  and  maid- servants  would  have  glady  bestowed  the  wages  they  earner 
the  most  hardly,  and  which  they  wanted  to  purchase  necessary  clothing, 
if  they  might  but  procure  the  Works  of  IJurns." — The  poet  £oon  found 
that  his  person  also  had  become  an  object  of  general  curiosity,  and  that  a 
lively  interest  in  his  oersonal  fortunes  was  excited  among  some  of  the  ^en- 

•  ';i]l)CTt  Burns  uictiiior.s,   that  a   single  individual.   ^\r.  William  r^rl"" 
Kihiiariiock.  subscribed  for  '6b  cooiUt 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xxxvii 

try  of  the  district,  when  the  details  of  his  story  reached  them,  as  it  wag 
pretty  sure  to  do,  along  with  his  modest  and  manly  preface.  *  Among 
others,  the  cclebarted  I'rofessor  Duj^ald  Stewart  of  Kdinbwgh,  and  his  ac- 
complished lady,  then  resident  at  their  beautiful  seat  of  Catrine,  began  to 
notice  him  with  much  ]X)1  te  and  friendly  att'^ntion.  Dr.  Hugh  I'dair,  wh.o 
then  held  an  eminent  place  in  the  literary  society  of  Scotland,  happened 
to  be  paying  !Mr.  Stewart  a  visit,  and  on  reading  T/ic  Ilohj  Fair,  at  once 
pronounced  it  the  "  work  of  a  very  great  genius  ;"  and  IMrs.  Stewart,  her 
self  a  poetess,  Mattered  him  jierhnps  still  more  highly  by  her  warm  com- 
mendations. J>ut  above  all,  his  little  volume  happened  to  attract  the  no- 
tice of  IMrs.  Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  a  lady  of  high  birth  and  ample  fortune, 
enthusiastically  attached  to  her  country,  and  interested  in  whatever  ap- 
peared to  concern  the  honour  of  Scotland,  'f  his  excellent  woman,  while 
slowly  recovering  from  the  languor  of  an  illness,  laid  her  hand  acciden- 
tally on  the  new  production  of  the  provincial  press,  and  opened  the  volume 
at  The  Cottar's  Satunhn/  Night.  "  She  read  it  over,"  says  Gilbert,  "  with 
the  grcate^^t  {)leasure  and  surprise  ;  the  poet's  description  of  the  simple 
cottagers  operated  on  her  mind  like  the  charm  of  a  powerful  exorcist,  re- 
pelling the  demon  ennui,  and  restoring  her  to  her  wonted  inward  harmony 
and  satisfaction."  Mrs.  Dunlop  instantly  sent  an  express  to  INIossgiel,  dis- 
tant sixteen  miles  from  her  residence,  with  a  very  kind  letter  to  Burns,  re- 
questing him  to  supply  her,  if  he  could,  with  half-a-dozen  copies  of  the 
book,  and  to  call  at  Dunlop  as  soon  as  he  could  find  it  convenient.  Burns 
v\as  from  home,  but  he  acknowledged  the  favour  conferred  on  him  in  this 
very  interesting  letter  : — 

"  Madam,  Ai/rshre,  1786. 

<'  I  AM  truly  sorry  I  was  not  at  home  yesterday,  when  I  was  so  much 
Iionoured  with  your  order  for  my  copies,  and  incomparably  more  by  the 
handsome  compliments  you  are  pleased  to  pay  my  poetic  abilities.  1  am 
fully  persuaded  that  there  is  not  any  class  of  mankind  so  feelingly  alive  ta 
the  titillations  of  applause  as  the  sons  of  Parnassus  ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  cori- 
ceive  how  the  heart  of  the  poor  bard  dances  with  rapture,  when  those 
whose  character  in  life  gives  them  a  right  to  be  polite  judges,  honour  him 
with  their  approbation.  Had  you  been  thoroughly  acquainted  with  me, 
Madam,  you  could  not  have  touched  my  darling  heart-chord  more  swcetlv 
than  by  noticing  my  attempts  to  celebrate  your  illustrious  ancestor,  the 
Saviour  of  his  Country. 

"  Great  patriot  hero  !  ill  requited  chief  I" 

"  The  first  book  I  met  with  in  my  early  years,  which  I  perused  with 
pleasure,  was  The  Life  of  Ilannihid  ;  the  next  was  The  History  of  Sir 
Jf'illiain  Wulloce:  for  several  of  my  earlier  years  I  had  {'i:\v  other  authors  ; 
and  many  a  solitary  hour  have  I  stole  out,  after  the  laborious  vocations  of 
the  day,  to  shed  a  tear  over  their  glorious  but  unfortunate  stories.  In 
those  boyish  days  1  remember  in  particular  being  struck  with  that  part  o^ 
V\  allace's  story  where  these  lines  occur — 

"  Sy^.e  tn  th'"  Lp^lan  w<x)il,  ivhcn  it  was  late, 
i'o  make;  a  silent  and  a  safe  retreat." 

•  See  Prose  Compositions. 


xxxviil  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

"  I  chose  a  fine  summer  Sunday,  the  only  day  my  nne  ot  life  allovi'eJ, 
and  walked  half  a  dozen  of  miles  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Leglan  wood, 
with  as  much  devout  enthsiasm  as  ever  pilgrim  did  to  Loretto ;  and  as  I 
explored  every  den  and  dell  v/here  I  could  suppose  my  heroic  countryman 
to  have  lodged,  I  recollect  (for  even  then  I  was  a  rhymer),  that  my  heart 
glowed  with  a  wish  to  be  able  to  make  a  song  on  him  in  some  measure 
equal  to  his  merits." 

Shortly  afterwards  commenced  a  personal  acquaintance  with  this  ami- 
able and  intelligent  lady,  who  seems  to  have  filled  in  some  degree  the  place 
of  Saii;e  Mentor  to  the  ncet,  and  who  never  afterwards  ceased  to  befriend 
him  to  the  utmost  of  her  power.  His  letters  to  ]Mrs.  Dunlop  form  a  very 
large  proportion  of  all  his  subsequent  correspondence,  and,  addressed  as 
they  were  to  a  person,  whose  sex,  age,  rank,  and  benevolence,  inspired  at 
once  profound  respect  and  a  graceful  confidence,  will  ever  remain  the  most 
pleasing  of  all  the  materials  of  our  poet's  biography. 

At  the  residences  of  these  new  acquaintances.  Burns  v,as  introduced  into 
society  of  a  class  which  he  had  not  before  approached  ;  and  of  the  manner 
in  which  he  stood  the  trial,  Mr.  Stewart  thus  writes  to  Dr.  Currie  : — 

"  His  manners  were  then,  as  they  continued  ever  afterwards,  simple, 
manly,  and  independent  ;  strongly  expressive  of  conscious  genius  and 
worth  ;  but  without  any  thing  tliat  indicated  forwardness,  arrogance,  or 
vanity.  He  took  his  share  in  conversation,  but  not  more  than  belonged  to 
him  ;  and  listened,  with  apparent  attention  and  deference,  on  subjects 
where  his  want  of  education  deprived  him  of  the  means  of  information.  It 
there  had  been  a  little  more  of  gentleness  anol  acconmiodation  in  his  tem- 
per, he  would,  I  think,  have  been  still  more  interesting  ;  but  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  give  law  in  the  circle  of  his  ordinary  acquaintance  ;  and  his 
dread  of  any  thing  approaching  to  meanness  or  servility,  rendered  his  man 
ner  somewhat  decided  and  hard.  Nothing,  perhaps,  was  more  remarkable 
among  his  various  attainments  than  the  fiuency,  and  precision,  and  origi- 
nality of  his  language,  when  he  spoke  in  company,  more  particularly  as  he 
aimed  at  purity  in  his  turn  of  expression,  and  avoided,  more  successfully 
than  most  Scotsmen,  the  peculiarities  of  Scottish  phraseology.  At  this  time, 
Burns's  prospects  in  life  were  so  extremely  gloomy,  that  he  had  seriously 
formed  a  plan  for  going  out  to  Jamaica  in  a  very  humble  situation,  not, 
however,  without  lamenting  that  his  want  of  patronage  should  force  him 
to  think  of  a  project  so  repugnant  to  his  feelings,  when  his  ambition  aimed 
at  no  higher  an  object  than  the  station  of  an  exciseman  or  ganger  in  his 
own  country." 

The  provincial  applause  of  his  publication,  and  the  consequent  notice  ol 
his  superiors,  however  flattering  such  things  must  have  been,  were  far  from 
administering  any  essential  relief  to  the  urgent  necessities  of  Burns's  situa- 
tion. Very  shortly  after  his  first  visit  to  Catrine,  where  he  met  with  the 
young  and  amiable  Basil  Lord  Daer,  wh.ose  condescension  and  kindness  on 
the  occasion  he  celebrates  in  some  well-known  verses,  we  find  the  poet 
writing  to  his  friend,  Mr.  Aiken  of  Ayr,  in  the  following  sad  strain  : — "  I 
have  been  feeling  all  the  various  rotations  and  movements  within  respect 
ing  the  Excise.  There  are  many  things  plead  strongly  against  it  ;  the  un- 
certainty of  getting  soon  into  business,  the  consequencesof  my  follies,  which 
may  perhaps  make  it  impracticable  for  me  to  stay  at  home ;  and  besides, 
I  have  for  some  time  been  pining  under  secret  wretchedness,  from  causea 


lAFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xxxix 

n-Iiich  von  pretty  well  know — the  pan<^  of  disappointment,  the  sting  of 
pride,  wilh  some  wandering  stabs  of  remorse,  which  never  fail  to  settle  on 
iny  vitals,  like  vultm-es,  when  attention  is  not  called  away  by  society,  or 
the  vagaries  of  the  muse.  Even  in  the  hour  of  social  mirth,  my  gaiety  Is 
the  madness  of  an  intoxicated  criminal  under  the  liands  of  the  executioner. 
All  these  reasons  urge  me  to  go  abroad  ;  and  to  all  these  reasons  I  havH 
only  one  answer — the  feelings  of  a  father.  This,  in  the  present  mood  I  am 
in,  overbalances  every  thing  that  can  be  laid  in  the  scale  against  it." 

lie  proceeds  to  say,  that  he  claims  no  right  to  complain.  "  The  world 
has  in  general  been  kind  to  me,  fully  up  to  my  deserts  I  was  for  some 
ti'ne  past  fast  getting  into  the  pining  distrustful  snarl  .of  the  misanthrope. 
I  saw  myself  alone,  unfit  for  the  struggle  of  life,  shrinking  at  every  rising 
cloud  in  the  chance-directed  atmosphere  of  fortune,  while,  all  defenceless, 
I  looked  about  in  vain  for  a  cover.  It  never  occurred  to  me,  at  least  never 
with  the  force  it  deserved,  that  this  world  is  a  busy  scene,  and  man  a  crea- 
ture destined  for  a  progressive  struggle  ;  and  that,  however  1  might  pos- 
sess a  warm  heart,  and  inoffensive  manners,  (which  last,  by  the  by,  was 
rather  more  than  I  could  well  boast),  still,  more  than  these  passive  quali- 
ties, there  was  something  to  be  done.  When  all  my  schoolfellows  and 
youtliful  compeers  were  striking  off,  with  eager  hope  and  earnest  intent, 
on  some  one  or  other  of  the  many  paths  of  busy  life,  I  v.-as  "  standing  idle 
•n  tlie  market-place,"  or  only  left  the  chase  of  the  butterfly  from  flower  to 
flower,  to  hunt  fancy  from  whim  to  whim.  You  see,  Sir,  that  if  to  ktioiv 
one's  errors,  were  a  probability  of  jnendivg  them,  I  stand  a  fair  chance  ; 
but,  according  to  the  reverend  Wcstnu'nster  divines,  though  conviction 
must  precede  conversion,  it  is  very  far  from  always  implying  it." 

In  the  midst  o'f  all  the  distresses  of  this  period  of  suspense.  Burns  found 
time,  as  he  tells  Mr.  Aiken,  for  some  "  vagaries  of  the  muse ;"  and  one  or 
two  of  these  may  deserve  to  be  noticed  here,  as  throwing  light  on  his  per- 
sonal demeanour  during  this  first  summer  of  his  fame.  The  poems  appear- 
ed in  .July,  and  one  of  the  first  persons  of  superior  condition  (Gilbert,  in- 
deed, says  tlie  first)  who  courted  his  acquaintance  in  consequence  of  having 
read  them,  was  Mrs.  Stewart  of  Stair,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  lady 
Burns  presceited  her  on  this  occasion  with  some  iSISS.  songs  ;  and  among 
the  rset,  with  one  in  which  her  own  charms  were  celebrated  in  that  warm 
strain  of  compliment  which  our  poet  seems  to  have  all  along  considered 
the  most  proper  to  be  used  whenever  this  fair  lady  was  to  be  addressed  io 
rhyme. 

"  Flow  {Tentl}',  sweet  Afton,  among  tliy  green  liraes, 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  tliy  praijc  : 
"My  .Mary's  asleep  by  thy  nmrniuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  .Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream. 
How  pleasant  tliv  banks  and  green  valleys  below. 
Where  wild  in  the  wo(pdlands  the  [irimroses  blow; 
There  oft,  as  mild  evening  sweeps  over  the  lea, 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  IMary  and  me." 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  the  same  year,  tliat  lie  happened,  in  the  coTirse 
of  an  evening  ramble  on  tiie  banks  of  the  Ayr,  to  meet  with  a  young  and 
lovely  unmarried  Utdy,  of  the  family  of  Alexander  of  Ballamyle,  of  whom, 
it  was  said,  her  personal  charms  corresponded  with  tlie  character  of  her 
mind.  The  incident  gave  rise  to  a  ])oem,  of  which  an  accoinit  will  be 
found  in  the  following  letter  t?  Miss  Alexander,  the  object  of  his  iiispiia- 
tion  • — 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

«  Madaw,  3Tosf!fjiel,  }Hth  yov.  178d. 

"  Poets  are  such  outre  beings,  so  much  the  children  of  wayward  fancy 
and  capricious  whim,  that  I  beheve  the  workl  generally  allows  them  a 
larger  latitude  in  the  laws  of  propriety,  than  the  sober  sons  of  judgment 
and  prudence.  I  mention  this  as  an  a})ology  for  the  liberties  that  a  name 
less  stranger  has  taken  with  you  in  the  enclosed  poem,  which  he  begs  leave 
to  present  you  v/ith.  Whether  it  has  poetical  merit  any  way  worthy  of  the 
theme,  I  am  not  the  proper  judge  ;  but  it  is  the  best  my  abilities  can  pro- 
duce ;  and  what  to  a  good  heart  will  perhaps  be  a  superior  grace,  it  i<^ 
equally  sincere  as  fervent. 

"  The  scenery  was  nearly  taken  from  real  life,  though  I  dare  ?av,  Ma 
dam,  you  do  not  recollect  it,  as  I  believe  you  scarcely  noticed  the  poetic 
reveur  as  he  wandered  by  you.  I  had  roved  out  as  chance  directed  in  the 
favourite  haunts  of  my  muse,  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  to  view  nature  in 
all  the  gaiety  of  the  vernal  year.  The  evening  sun  was  flaming  over  the 
distant  western  hills  ;  not  a  breath  stirred  the  crimson  opening  blossom,  or 
the  verdant  spreading  leaf  It  was  a  golden  moment  for  a  poetic  heart.  I 
listened  to  the  feathered  warblers,  pouring  their  harmony  on  every  han 
with  a  congenial  kindred  regard,  and  frequently  turned  out  of  my  pa 
lest  I  should  disturb  their  little  songs,  or  irighten  them  to  another  stati 
Surely,  said  I  to  myself,  he  must  be  a  wretch  indeed,  who,  regardless  of 
3'our  harmonious  endeavour  to  please  him,  can  eye  your  elusive  flights  to 
discover  j'our  secret  recesses,  and  to  rob  you  of  all  the  property  nature 
gives  you,  your  dearest  comforts,  your  helpless  nestlings.  Even  the  hoary 
hav>'thorn-t\vig  that  shot  across  the  way,  what  heart  at  such  a  time  but 
nuist  have  been  interested  in  its  welfare,  and  wished  it  preserved  from 
the  rudely-browsing  cattle,  or  the  withering  eastern  blast?  Such  was  the 
scene,  and  such  the  hour,  when  in  a  corner  of  my  prospect,  1  spied  one 
of  the  fairest  pieces  of  Nature's  workmanship  that  ever  crowned  a  poetic 
landscape,  or  met  a  poet's  eye,  those  visionary  bards  excepted  who  hold 
commerce  with  aerial  beings  !  Had  Calumny  and  Villany  taken  my  walk, 
they  had  at  that  moment  sworn  eternal  peace  with  such  an  object. 

"  What  an  hour  of  inspiration  for  a  j)oet  !     It  would  have  raised  plain 
dull,  historic  prose  into  metaphor  and  measure. 

"  The  enclosed  song  was  the  work  of  my  return  home  ;  and  perhaps  i 
iiut  poorly  answers  what  might  be  exi:)ected  from  such  a  scene. 


"  I  liave  the  honour  to  be,"  &c. 


"  'Twas  even — the  dwey  fields  were  preen, 

On  every  blade  the  peails  hang;* 
The  Zephyr  wanton'd  round  the  beam, 

And  bore  its  fragrant  sweets  alang  ; 
In  every  glen  the  mavis  sang. 

All  nature  listening  seemed  the  while, 
Ex'  ept  where  green-wood  echoes  rang, 

Amang  the  braes  o'  Ballochiiiylc. 

M'ith  careless  step  I  onward  strayed, 
.My  heart  rejoiced  in  nature's  joy, 

M'hen  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 
A  maiden  t'air  1  chanc'd  to  spy  ; 

Ilir  loo]<  was  like  the  morning's  eye, 
Her  air  like  nature's  vernal  smile, 

■  Hang,  Scotticism  for  hunff 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xli 

Perfection  '.vliispcrccl  iias>itifj  by. 
Behold  tliu  liiss  o'  IJallochniyle  !* 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  IMay, 

And  sweet  is  ni(;!it  in  autumn  mild; 
A\'hc'n  roviii};  tliroiii,'h  tlic  jrarden  fjay, 

Or  wanderinj^  in  the  lonely  wild  : 
But  woman,  nature's  darling  child  ! 

There  all  her  charms  site  does  compile:  * 

£ven  there  her  other  works  are  foilM 

By  the  bonny  lass  o'  Balloclimyle. 

O  had  she  been  a  country  maid. 

And  I  the  happy  country  swain, 
Thouf^h  sheltered  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  rose  on  Scotland's  plain. 
Throuf^h  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain, 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil, 
And  nightly  to  my  bosom  strain 

The  bonny  lass  o'  Ballochinyle. 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slippery  steq), 

^^'here  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine  ; 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 

()t  downward  seek  the  Indian  mine  : 
Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine. 

To  tend  the  Hocks  or  till  the  soil, 
And  every  day  have  joys  divine, 

A\'ith  the  bonny  lass  o'  Ballochmyle. 

Tlie  autumn  of  this  eventful  year  was  now  drawing  to  a  close,  and  Burns, 
Alio  had  already  lingered  three  months  in  the  hope,  which  he  now  consi- 
aered  vain,  of  an  excise  appointment,  perceived  that  another  year  must  be 
ft)st  altogether,  unless  he  made  up  his  mind,  and  secured  his  passage  to 
the  West  Indies.  The  Kilmarnock  edition  of  his  poems  was,  however, 
nearly  exhausted ;  and  his  friends  encouraged  him  to  produce  another  al 
the  same  place,  with  the  view  of  equipping  himself  the  better  for  the  ne- 
cessities of  his  voyage.  But  the  printer  at  Kilmarnock  would  not  under- 
take the  new  impression  unless  Burns  advanced  the  price  of  the  paper  re- 
quired for  it ;  and  with  this  demand  the  poet  had  no  means  of  comiplying. 
Mr.  Ballantyne,  the  chief  magistrate  of  Ayr,  (the  same  gentleman  to  whom 
the  poem  on  the  Twa  Brigs  of  Ayr  was  afterwards  inscribed),  offered  to 
furnish  the  money  ;  and  probably  this  kind  offer  would  have  been  accepted. 
But,  ere  this  matter  could  be  arranged,  the  prospects  of  the  poe  were,  in 
a  very  unexpected  manner,  altered  and  improved. 

Burns  went  to  pay  a  parting  visit  to  Dr.  Laurie,  minister  of  Loudoun, 
a  gentleman  from  whom,  and  his  accomplished  family,  he  had  previously 
received  many  kind  attentions.  After  taking  farewell  of  this  benevolent 
circle,  the  poet  proceeded,  as  the  night  was  setting  in,  "  to  convey  hia 
chest,"  as  he  says,  "  so  far  on  the  road  to  Greenock,  where  he  was  to  cm- 
bark  in  a  ^ev;  da'^j's  for  America."  And  it  was  under  these  circuinstancea 
that  he  composed  the  song  already  referred  to,  which  he  meant  as  his  lore- 
<rell  diige  to  his  native  land,  and  which  ends  thus : — 

"  Farewell,  old  Coila's  hills  r.nd  dales, 
ller  heatiiy  moors  and  winding  vales. 
The  scenes  where  wretched  fancy  roves. 
Pursuing  past  unhappy  loves. 

"  Variation.     Ttij  lily's  hue  and  rose's  dye 

Iic.>pokc  the  lat^s  o'  BallocliOiyle. 


Ill  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS, 

Farewell,  my  friends  !  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
Tuy  j)e3ce  with  these — my  love  with  those — 
The  burstinj;  tears  my  heart  declare, 
Farewell,  tlie  bonny  banks  of  Ayr." 

Dr.  Laurie  had  given  Burns  much  good  counsel,  and  what  comfort  he 
could,  at  parting  ;  but  prudently  said  nothing  of  an  effort  -Hhich  he  had 
previously  made  in  his  behalf.  He  had  sent  a  copy  of  the  poems,  with  a 
sketch  of  the  author's  history,  to  his  friend  Dr.  Thomas  Blacklock  of  Edin- 
burgh, with  a  request  that  he  would  introduce  both  to  the  notice  of  those 
persons  whose  opinions  were  at  the  time  most  listened  to  in  regard  to  lite- 
rary productions  in  Scotland,  in  the  hope  that,  by  their  intervention.  Burns 
miglit  yet  be  rescued  from  the  necessity  of  expatriating  himself.  Dr. 
Blacklock's  answer  reached  Dr.  Laurie  a  day  or  two  after  Burns  had  made 
his  visit,  and  composed  his  dirge  ;  and  it  was  not  yet  too  late.  Laurie 
forwarded  it  immediately  to  INIr.  Gavin  Hamilton,  who  carried  it  to  Burns. 
It  is  as  follows  : — 

"  I  ought  to  have  acknowledged  your  favour  long  ago,  not  only  as  a  tes 
.imony  of  your  kind  remembrance,  but  as  it  gave  me  an  opportunity  of 
sharing  one  of  the  finest,  and  perhaps  one  of  the  most  genuine  entertain- 
ments of  which  the  human  mind  is  susceptible.  A  number  of  avocations 
retarded  my  progress  in  reading  the  poems  ;  at  last,  however,  I  have  finish- 
ed that  pleasing  perusal.  IMany  instances  have  I  seen  of  Nature's  force  or 
beneficence  exerted  under  numerous  and  formidable  disadvantages  ;  but 
none  equal  to  that  with  which  you  have  been  kind  enough  to  present  me 
There  is  a  pathos  and  delicacy  in  his  serious  poems,  a  vein  of  v/it  and  hu- 
mour in  those  of  a  more  festive  turn,  which  cannot  be  too  much  admired, 
nor  too  warmly  approved  ;  and  I  think  I  shall  never  open  the  book  \^ithout 
feeling  my  astonishment  renewed  and  increased.  It  was  my  wish  tc  have 
expressed  my  approbation  in  verse  ;  but  v/hether  from  declining  life,  or  a 
temporary  depression  of  spirits,  it  is  at  present  out  of  my  power  to  accom- 
plish that  agreeable  intention. 

"  Mr.  Stewart,  Professor  of  Morals  in  this  University,  had  formerly 
read  me  three  of  the  poems,  and  I  had  desired  him  to  get  my  name  in- 
serted among  the  subscribers ;  but  whether  this  was  done  or  not,  I  never 
could  learn.  I  have  little  intercourse  with  Dr.  Blair,  but  will  take  care  to 
have  the  poems  communicated  to  him  by  the  intervention  of  some  mutual 
friend.  It  has  been  told  me  by  a  gentleman,  to  whom  I  showed  the  per 
formances,  and  who  sought  a  copy  with  diligence  and  ardour,  that  the 
whole  impression  is  already  exhausted.  It  were,  therefore,  much  to  be 
wished,  for  the  sake  of  the  young  man,  that  a  second  edition,  more  nume- 
rous than  the  former,  could  immediately  be  printed  ;  as  it  appears  certain 
that  its  intrinsic  merit,  and  the  exertions  of  the  author's  friends,  might  give 
it  a  more  universal  circulation  than  any  thing  of  the  kind  which  has  been 
published  in  my  memory." 

We  have  already  seen  with  what  surprise  and  delight  Burns  read  this 
generous  letter.  Although  he  had  ere  this  conversed  with  more  than  one 
person  of  established  literary  reputation,  and  received  from  them  atten- 
tioni?,  for  v.hich  he  was  ever  after  grateful, — the  despondency  of  his  spirit 
appears  to  have  remained  as  dark  as  ever,  up  to  the  very  hour  when  his  land- 
lord produced  Dr.  Blacklock's  letter. — "  'i'l-ere  was  never,"  Heron  says, 
*'  perhaps,  one  aniong  all  mankind  whom  you  might  more  truly  have  called 
an  anj_'t'l  iqsan  earih  than  IJr.  Blacklock.     He  was  guileless  and  innocent 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  xlIH 

M  a  child,  yet  endowed  with  manly  sagacity  and  penetration.  His  heart 
was  a  perpetual  spring  of  benignity.  His  feelings  were  all  tremblingly 
alive  to  the  sense  of  the  sublime,  the  beautiful,  the  tender,  the  pious,  the 
vn-tuous.  Poetry  was  to  him  the  dear  solace  of  perpetual  blindness."  Tht 
was  not  tlie  man  to  act  as  Walpole  did  to  Chatterton ;  to  discourage  witL 
eeble  praise,  and  in  order  to  shift  off  the  trouble  of  future  patronage,  to 
bid  the  poet  relinquish  poetry  and  mind  his  plough.—"  Dr.  Blacklock  " 
says  Burns  himself,  "belonged  to  a  set  of  critics,  for  whose  applause  I  had 
not  dared  to  hope.  IIis  opinion  that  I  would  meet  with  encouragement  in 
Edinburgh,  fired  me  so  much,  that  away  I  posted  for  that  city,  without  a 
6.ngl(3  acquaintance,  or  a  single  letter  of  introduction.  The  baneful  star 
that  had  so  long  shed  its  blasting  influence  on  my  zenith,  for  once  niade  a 
revolution  to  tlie  nadir." 


CHAPTER  V. 

Odntents TTie  Poet  winters  in  EdinhurpTi,   17SC-7 — liy  his  advent,  the  condition  of  thai 

t;iy,  Literary,  Legal,  Philosophical,  Patrician,  and  Pedantic,  is  lighted  up,  as  hy  a  mete(k 
—  He  is  in  the  full  tide  of  his  fame  there,  and  for  a  while  caressed  by  the  fashionable— 
What  hap]>ens  to  him  generally  in  that  new  world,  and  his  behaviour  under  the  varying  and 
very  trying  circumstances — The  tavern  life  then  greatly  followed — The  Poet  tempted  beyond 
all  former  experience  by  bacchanals  of  every  degree — His  conversational  talent  universally 
admitted,  as  not  the  least  of  his  talents — The  Ladies  like  to  be  carried  off  their  feet  by  it, 
while  the  philosophers  hardly  keep  theirs — Edition  of  1500  copies  by  Creech,  which  yield* 
Hitch  money  to  the  Poet — Resolves  to  visit  the  classic  scenes  of  his  own  country — Assailed 
dth  thick-coming  visions  of  a  reflux  to  bear  him  hack  to  the  region  of  poverty  and  S€clusio'<u 


"  Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

nil  liail  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs, 
Wliere  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sdt  legislation''s  sovereipfn  powers  ; 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flow'ra, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade." 

BuKNs  found  several  of  his  old  Ayrshire  acquaintances  established  in 
Edinburgh,  and,  I  suppose,  felt  himself  constrained  to  give  himself  up 
for  a  brief  space  to  their  society.  He  printed,  hov/ever,  without  delay,  a 
prospectus  of  a  second  edition  of  his  poems,  and  being  introduced  by 
JNlr.  Dalrymple  of  Orangefield  to  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  that  amiable 
nobleman  easily  persuaded  Creech,  then  the  chief  bookseller  in  Edinburgh, 
to  undertake  the  publication.  The  Honourable  Henry  Erskine,  Dean  of 
the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  the  most  agreeable  of  companions,  and  the  most 
benignant  of  wits,  took  him  also,  as  the  poet  expresses  it,  "  under  his 
wing."  The  kind  Blacklock  received  him  with  all  the  warmth  of  j)aternal 
affection,  and  introduced  him  to  Dr.  Blair,  and  other  eminent  literuti ; 
liis  subscription  lists  were  soon  filled ;  Lord  Glencairn  made  interest 
with  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  (an  association  of  the  most  distinguished 
members  of  the  northern  aristocracy),  to  accept  the  dedication  of  the  forth- 
coming edition,  and  to  subscribe  individually  for  copies.  Several  noblemen, 
especially  of  the  west  of  Scotland,  came  forward  with  subscription-moneys 
con.siderably  beyond  the  usual  rate.  In  .so  small  a  capital,  where  everj 
body  knows  every  body,  that  which  becomes  a  favourite  topic  in  one 
leading  circle  of  society,  soon  excites  an  universal  interest :  and  bef  >re 
]3urns  had  been  a  fortnight  in  Edinburgh,  we  find  him  writing  to  nis 
earliest  patron,  Gavin  Hamilton,  in  these  terms  : — '  For  my  own  affairs,  I 
am  in  a  fair  way  of  becoming  as  eminent  as  Thomas  a  Kempisor  John  Ban* 
yan  ;  and  you  may  expect  henceforth  to  see  my  birth-day  incribed  among 
the  wonderful  events  \n  the  Foor  Robin  and  Aberdeen  Almanacks,  along 
with  tiie  l>lack  Monday,  and  the  Battle  of  Bothwell  Brid|je." 


LIFE  OF  ROBEUT  BURXS.  x  v 

It  is  but  a  nii'lanclioly  business  to  trace  ainon<^  tbe  records  of  literary 
liistory,  tb.e  manner  in  wliicb  most  great  original  geniuses  have  been  greet- 
ed on  their  first  appeals  to  the  world,  by  the  contemporary  arbiters  ot 
taste  :  coldly  and  timidly  indeed  have  the  sympathies  oi'  professional  criti- 
cism (lowed  on  most  such  occasions  in  past  times  and  in  the  present :  15i.'.t 
the  reception  of  Burns  was  worthy  of  TIte  Mini  of  Fedtnij.  Mr.  Henry 
Mackenzie  was  a  man  of  genius,  and  of  a  polished,  as  well  as  a  liberal  tast-e. 
After  alluding  to  the  provincial  circulation  and  reputation  of  the  first  edi- 
tion of  the  5)oems,  Mr.  Mackenzie  thus  wrote  in  the  Lounger,  an  Edin 
burgh  periodical  of  that  period  : — •'  I  hope  I  shall  not  bo  thought  to  assume 
too  much,  if  1  endeavour  to  place  him  in  a  higher  point  of  view,  to  rail 
for  a  verdict  of  his  country  on  the  merits  of  his  works,  and  to  claim  (c 
him  tliose  honours  which,  their  excellence  appears  to  deserve.  In  men- 
tioning the  circumstance  of  his  humble  station,  1  mean  not  to  rest  his  pre- 
tensions solely  on  that  title,  or  to  urge  the  merits  of  his  poetry,  when  con- 
sidered in  relation  to  the  lowness  of  liis  birth,  and  the  little  opportunity  of 
improvement  which  his  education  could  afford.  These  particulars,  indeed, 
must  excite  our  wonder  at  his  productions  ;  but  his  poetry,  considered  ab- 
stractedly, and  without  the  apologies  arising  from  his  situation,  seems  to 
me  fully  entitled  to   command   our  feelings,    and  to  obtain  our  applause." 

After  quoting  various  passages,  in  some  of  which  his  readera 

"  must  discover  a  high  tone  of  feeling,  and  power  and  energy  of  expres- 
sion, particularly  and  strongly  characteristic  of  the  mind  and  the  voice  ot 
a  poet,"  and  others  as  shewing  "  the  power  of  genius,  not  less  admirable 
in  tracing  the  manners,  than  in  painting  the  passions,  or  in  drawing  the 
scenery  of  nature,"  and  "  with  what  uncommon  penetration  and  sagacity 
this  heaven-taught  ploughman,  from  his  humble  and  unlettered  condition, 
had  looked  on  men  and  manners,"  the  critic  concluded  with  an  eloquent 
ajipeal  in  behalf  of  the  poet  personally  :  "  To  repair,"  said  he,  "  the  wrong 
of  suffering  or  neglected  merit ;  to  call  forth  genius  from  the  obscurity  in 
wh.ch  it  had  pined  indignant,  and  place  it  where  it  may  profit  or  delight 
the  world — these  are  exertions  which  give  to  wealth  an  enviable  superiori 
ty,  to  greatness  and  to  patronage  a  laudable  pride."* 

The  appeal  thus  made  for  such  a  candidate  was  not  unattended  to. 
Burns  was  only  a  very  short  time  in  Edinburgh  when  he  thus  wrote  to  one 
of  liis  early  friends  : — '•  I  was,  when  first  honoured  with  your  notice,  too 
obscure  ;  now  I  tremble  lest  I  should  be  ruined  by  being  dragged  too  sud- 
denly into  the  glare  of  polite  and  learned  observation  ;"  and  he  concludes 
the  same  lettt.r  with  an  ominous  prayer  for  "  better  health  and  more  spi- 
rits."!— Two  (ir  three  weeks  later,  we  find  him  writing  as  follows  : — "  (Ja- 
niiary  14,  17S7).  1  went  to  a  Mason  Lodge  yesternight,  where  the  M.W 
Grand  Master  Charteris,  and  all  the  (irand  Lodge  of  Scotland  visited.  The 
meeting  was  numerous  and  elegant :  all  the  different  lodges  about  town  were 
pre*jnt  in  all  their  pomp.  The  Grand  Master,  who  presided  with  great  so- 
lemnity, among  other  general  toasts  gave,  '  Caledonia  and  Caledonia's  bard, 
Brother  Burns,'  which  rung  througii  the  whole  assembly  with  multiplied 
honours  and  repeated  acclamations.  As  1  had  no  idea  such  a  thing  would 
happen,  I  was  downright  thunderstruck  ;  and  trembling  in  every  nerve, 
made   the  best  return  in   my  power.     Just  as  1  had  finished,  one  of  the 

•  The  Lounper  for  Saturday,  December  9,  \'iW>. 

+  I.<;tter  to  31r.  BaUantyne  of  Ayr,  December  13,  l/iiC  ;  Reliques,  p.  12. 


xir  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

Grand  Officers  said,  so  loud  that  I  could  hear,  with  a  most  comforting  ac- 
cent, '  very  well  indeed,'  which  set  me  something  to  rights  again." — And 
a  few  weeks  later  still,  he  is  thus  addressed  by  one  of  his  old  associates 
who  was  meditating  a  visit  to  Edinburgh.  "  By  all  accounts,  it  will  be  a 
difficult  matter  to  get  a  sight  of  you  at  all,  unless  your  company  is  bespoke 
a  week  beforehand.  There  are  great  rumours  here  of  your  intimacy  with 
the  Duchess  of  Gordon,  and  other  ladies  of  distinction.  I  am  really  told 
that — 

*'  Cards  to  invite,  fly  by  thousands  each  night ;" 

and  if  you  had  one,  there  would  also,  1  suppose,  be  '  bribes  for  your  old 
secretary.'  I  observe  you  are  resolved  to  make  hay  while  the  sun  shines 
and  avoid,  if  possible,  the  fate  of  poor  Ferguson.  Qucerenda  pccunia  prU 
mum  est  —  Virtus  post  nwnmos,  is  a  good  maxim  to  thrive  by.  You  seem- 
ed to  despise  it  while  in  this  country  ;  but,  probably,  some  philosopher? 
in  Edinburgh  have  taught  you  better  sense." 

In  this  proud  career,  however,  the  popular  idol  needed  no  slave  to  whis- 
per whence  he  had  risen,  and  whither  he  was   to  return  in  the  ebb  of  the 
spring-tide  of  fortune.     His  "  prophetic  soul"  carried  ahvays  a  sufficient 
memento.     He  bore  all  his  honours  in  a  manner  worthy  of  himself;  and 
of  this  the  testimonies  are  so  numerous,  that  the  only  difficulty  is  that  oi 
selection.  "  The  attentions  he  received,"  says  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart,  "  from 
all  ranks  and  descriptions  of  persons,  were  such  as  would  have  turned  any 
head  but  his  own.   I  cannot  say  that  I  could  perceive  any  unfavourable  effect 
which  they  left  on  his  mind.     He  retained  the  same  simplicity  of  manners 
and  appearance  which  had  struck  me  so  forcibly  when  I  first  saw  him  in  the 
country ;  nor  did  he  seem  to  feel  any  additional  self-importance  from  the 
number  and  rank  of  his  new  acquaintance." — Professor  Walker,  who  met  him 
for  the  first  time,  early  in  the  same  season,  at  breakfast  in  Dr.  Blacklock's 
house,  has  thus  recorded  his  impressions  : — "  I  was  not  much  struck  with  his 
first  appearance,  as  I  had  previously  heard  it  described.     His  person,  though 
strong  and  well  knit,  and  much  superior  to  what  might  be  expected  in  a 
ploughman,  was  still  rather  coarse  in  its  outline.     His  stature,  from  want 
of  setting  up,  appeared  to  be  only  of  the  middle  size,  but  was  rather  above 
it.     His  motions  were  firm  and  decided,  and  though  without  any  preten- 
sions to  grace,  were  at  the  same  time  so  free  from  clownish  constraint,  as 
to  show  that  he  had  not  always  been  confined  to  the  society  of  his  profes- 
sion.    His  countenance  was  not  of  that  elegant  cast,  which  is  most  fre- 
quent among  tlie  upper  ranks,  but  it  was  manly  and  intelligent,  and  marked 
oy  a  thoughtful  gravity  which  shaded  at  times  into  sternness.   In  his  large 
dark  eye  the  most  striking  index  of  his  genius  resided    It  was  full  of  mind ; 
and  would  have  been  singularly  expressive,  under  the  management  of  one 
who  could  employ  it  with  more  art,  for  the  purpose  of  expression.     He 
was  plainly,  but  properly  dressed,  in  a  style  mid-way  between  the  holiday 
costume  of  a  farmer,  and  that  of  the  company  with  which  he  now  associ- 
ated.    His  black  hair,  without  powder,  at  a  time  when  it  was  very  gene- 
rally worn,    was  tied  behind,    and  spread  upon  his  forehead.     Upon  the 
whole,  from  his  person,  physiognomy,  and  dress,  had  I  met  him  near  a  sea- 
port, and  been  required  to  guess  his  condition,  I  should  have  probably  con- 
jectured iiiin  to  be  the  master  of  a  merchant  vessel  of  the  most  respectable 
class.      In  no  part  of  his  manner  was  there  the  slightest  degree  of  ailecta- 
tiori,  nor  roiild  a  stranger  have  suspected,  from  any  thing  in  his  behaviou' 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS.  xlvii 

ar  conversation,  that  he  liad  been  for  some  months  the  favourite  of  all  the 
"a'^Iiioiiahle  circles  of  a  metropolis.  In  convcrr-ation  he  was  jioucrl'ul.  His 
concej>tions  and  expression  were  of  corresponding  vigour,  and  0!i  all  subjects 
were  as  remote  as  possible  from  common  places.  Though  someAvhat  autho- 
ritative, it  was  in  a  way  which  gave  little  olfence,  and  was  readily  imputed 
to  his  inexperience  in  those  modes  of  smoothing  dissent  and  sol'tening  asser^ 
tion,  M-hich  are  important  characteristics  of  pohshed  manners.  After  break- 
fast I  requested  him  to  communicate  some  of  his  unpublishf"'  pijCwo,  and 
he  recited  liis  farewell  song  to  the  Banks  of  Ayr,  introducing  it  with  a  des- 
cription of  the  circumstances  in  which  it  was  composed,  more  striking  than 
the  poem  itself  I  paid  particular  attention  to  his  recitation,  which  wau 
plain,  slow,  articulate,  and  forcible,  bat  without  any  eloquence  or  art.  He 
did  not  always  lay  the  emphasis  with  propriety,  nor  did  he  humour  the 
sentiment  by  the  variations  of  his  voice  He  was  standing,  during  the  time, 
with  his  face  towards  the  window,  to  which,  and  not  to  liis  auditors,  he  di- 
rected his  eye — thus  depriving  himself  of  any  additional  effect  which  the 
language  of  his  composition  might  have  borrowed  Irom  the  language  oi' his 
countenance.  In  this  he  resembled  the  generality  of  singers  in  ordinary 
company,  who,  to  shun  any  charge  of  affectation,  withdraw  all  meaning 
from  their  features,  and  lose  the  advantage  by  which  vocal  perlbrmers  on 
the  stage  augment  the  impression,  and  give  energy  to  the  sentiment  of  the 
^ong.  The  day  after  my  first  introduction  to  Burns,  I  supped  in  company 
witli  him  at  Dr.  Blair's.  The  other  guests  were  very  few,  and  as  each 
had  been  invited  chiefly  to  have  an  opportunity  of  meeting  with  the  poet, 
the  Doctor  endeavoured  to  draw  him  out,  and  to  nuike  him  the  central 
figure  of  the  group.  Though  he  therefore  furnished  the  greatest  i)r()])or- 
tion  of  the  conversation,  he  did  no  more  than  what  he  saw  evidently  was 
expected."  * 

To  these  reminiscences  I  shall  now  add  those  of  one  to  whom  is  always 
readily  accorded  the  willing  ear,  Sir  Walter  Scott. — He  thus  writes  : — 
*'  As  for  Burns,  I  may  truly  say,  Viryilinm  vidt  Unit  inn.  1  was  a  lad  of 
fifteen  in  178G-7,  when  he  came  first  to  Edinburgh,  but  had  sense  and 
feeling  enough  to  be  nmch  interested  in  his  poetry,  and  would  have  given 
the  world  to  know  him  ;  but  1  had  very  little  ac(juaintance  with  any  lite- 
rary people,  and  still  less  with  the  gentry  of  the  west  country,  the  two 
sets  that  he  most  frequented.  Mr.  Thomas  Grierson  was  at  that  time 
a  clerk  of  my  father's  He  knew  Burns,  and  promised  to  ask  him  to  liii! 
lodgings  to  dinner,  but  had  no  opportunity  to  keep  his  word  ;  otherwise  I 
might  have  seen  more  of  this  distinguished  man.  As  it  was,  1  saw  him 
one  day  at  the  late  venerable  Professor  Fergusson's,  where  there  were  se- 
veral gentlemen  of  literary  reputation,  among  whom  I  remember  the  cele- 
brated iMr.  Dugald  Stewart.  Of  course  we  youngsters  sat  silent,  looked, 
and  listened.  The  only  thing  I  remember  which  was  remarkable  in  Burns's 
manner,  was  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  a  print  of  Bunbury's,  re- 
presenting a  soldier  lying  dead  on  tlie  snow,  his  dog  sitting  in  misery  jn 
one  side, — on  the  other,  his  widow,  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  These  lines 
«refc  written  beneath, — 

"  Coltl  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Miiulen's  plain. 
Perhaps  that  ))arent  wept  her  soldier  slain — 
I'.eni  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew. 
The  big  drops,  mingling  witii  the  milk  *ie  drew, 

•  Morrisi)n'8  Burns,  vol.  i.  pp.  Ixxi,  IxxiL 


Xiviii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS, 

Gave  the  sad  presage  of  liis  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery  baptized  in  tears." 

"  Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or  ra'dier  the  ideas  which 
it  suggested  to  liis  mind.  He  actually  shed  tears.  He  asked  whose  the 
lines  were,  and  it  chanced  that  nobody  but  myself  remembered  that  they 
occur  in  a  half-forgotten  poem  of  Langhorne's,  called  by  the  unpromising 
title  of  The  Justice  of  Peace.  I  whispered  my  information  to  a  friend 
present,  who  mentioned  it  to  Burns,  who  rewarded  me  with  a  look  ant. 
a  word,  Arhich,  though  of  mere  civility,  I  then  received,  and  still  recollect, 
with  very  great  pleasure. 

"  His  person  was  strong  and  robust ;  his  manners  rustic,  not  clownish  ; 
a  f-ort  of  dignified  plainness  and  simplicity,  which  received  part  of  its  ef- 
fect, perhaps,  from  one's  knowledge  of  his  extraordinary  talents.  His 
features  are  represented  in  Mr.  Nasmyth's  picture,  but  to  me  it  ronveys 
the  idea,  that  they  are  diminished  as  if  seen  in  i^erspective.  I  think  his 
coinitenance  was  more  massive  than  it  looks  in  any  of  the  portraits.  I 
would  have  taken  the  poet,  had  I  not  known  what  he  was,  for  a  very  sa- 
gacious country  farmer  of  the  old  Scotch  school,  i.  e.  none  of  your  modern 
agriculturists,  who  keep  labourers  for  their  drudgery,  but  the  douce  gude- 
wan  who  held  his  own  plough.  There  was  a  strong  expression  of  sense  and 
shrewdness  in  all  his  lineaments;  the  eye  alone,  1  think,  indicated  the 
poetical  character  and  temperament.  It  was  large,  and  of  a  dark  cast, 
which  glowed  (1  say  literally  glniced)  when  he  spoke  with  feeling  or  inte- 
rest. I  never  saw  such  another  eye  in  a  human  head,  though  1  have  seen 
the  most  distinguished  men  of  my  time.  His  conversation  expressed  perfect 
self-confidence,  without  the  slightest  presumption.  Among  the  men  who 
were  the  most  learned  of  their  time  and  country,  he  expressed  himselt 
with  perfect  firmness,  but  without  the  least  intrusive  forwardness  ;  and 
when  he  differed  in  opinion,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  it  firmly,  yet  at 
the  same  time  with  modesty.  I  do  not  remember  any  part  of  his  conver- 
sation distinctly  enough  to  be  quoted,  nor  did  I  ever  see  him  again,  except 
in  the  street,  where  he  did  not  recognise  me,  as  I  could  not  expect  he 
should.  He  was  much  caressed  in  Edinburgh,  but  (considering  what  lite- 
rary emoluments  have  been  since  liis  day)  the  efforts  made  for  his  relict 
were  extremely  trilling.  I  remember  on  this  occasion  I  mention,  I  tliought 
Burns's  acquaintance  with  English  Poetry  was  rather  limited,  and  also,  that 
having  twenty  times  the  abilities  of  Allan  Ramsay  and  of  lerguson,  he 
talked  of  them  with  too  much  humility  as  his  models  ;  there  was,  doubt- 
less, national  predilection  in  his  estimate.  This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  about 
Burns.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  his  dress  correspontled  with  his  manner. 
Pie  was  like  a  fitrmer  dressed  in  his  best  to  dine  witli  the  Laird.  1  do  not 
sj)eak  in  inalnm  par/an,  when  I  say,  I  never  saw  a  man  in  comjiany  with 
his  superiors  in  station  and  information,  more  perfectly  free  fnmi  either 
the  reality  cr  the  affectation  of  em!)arrassment.  1  was  told,  but  did  not 
obseive  it,  that  his  address  to  females  was  extremely  deferential,  and  al- 
ways with  a  turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or  humorous,  which  engaged  th.eir 
attention  particularly.  I  have  heard  the  late  Duchess  of  (jordon  remark 
tills. —  I  do  not  know  any  thing  I  can  add  to  these  recollections  of  Ibrty 
years  since."' — 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Burns  made  his  first  appearance  at  a  period 
higiily  favourable  for  his  reception  as  a  I'ritish,  and  especially  as  a  Scottish 
poet.     Nearly  forty  years   had    elapsed  sin  e    the   death   of  Thomson  : — 


LIFE  OF  KOBERT  BURNS.  xlix 

Collins,  Gray,  Goldsmith,  had  successively  disappeared  : — Dr.  Jolinson 
tiad  belied  tlie  ricii  promise  of  his  eurly  appearance,  and  confined  liim- 
self  to  prose  ;  and  Cowper  liad  liardly  begun  to  be  recognized  as  having 
anv  considerable  pretensions  to  fdl  the  long-vacant  throne  in  England.  At 
home — without  derogation  from  the  merits  cither  o("  Doufjhis  or  the  Min- 
strel, be  it  said — men  must  have  gone  back  at  least  three  centuries  to  find 
a  Scottish  poet  at  all  entitled  to  be  considered  as  of  that  high  order  to  which 
the  generous  criticism  of  iMackenzie  at  once  admitted  "  the  Ayrshire 
Ploughman."  Of  the  form  and  garb  of  his  composition,  much,  un(]ueslion- 
ably  and  avowedly,  was  derived  from  his  more  immediate  predecessors, 
Ramsay  and  Ferguson  :  but  there  was  a  bold  mastery  of  hand  in  his  pic- 
turesque descriptions,  to  produce  any  thing  equal  to  which  it  was  neces- 
sary to  recall  the  days  of  Christ's  Kirk  on  the  Green,  and  Peebles  to  the 
Pi(i;/  ;  and  in  his  more  solemn  pieces,  a  depth  of  inspiration,  and  a  massive 
energy  of  language,  to  which  the  dialect  of  his  country  had  been  a  stranger, 
at  least  since  "  Dunbar  the  Mackar."  The  IMuses  of  Scotland  had  never 
indeed  been  silent;  and  the  ancient  minstrelsy  of  the  land,  of  which  a  slen- 
der portion  had  as  yet  been  committed  to  the  safeguard  of  the  press,  was 
handed  from  generation  to  generation,  and  preserved,  in  many  a  fragment, 
faithful  images  of  the  peculiar  tenderness,  and  peculiar  humour,  of  the  na- 
tional fancy  and  character — precious  representations,  which  Burns  himself 
never  surpassed  in  his  happiest  efforts.  But  these  were  fragments  ;  and 
with  a  scanty  handful  of  exceptions,  the  best  of  them,  at  least  of  the  seri- 
ous kind,  were  very  ancient.  Among  the  numberless  effusions  of  the 
Jacobite  Muse,  valuable  as  we  now  consider  them  for  the  record  of  man- 
ners and  events,  it  would  be  difficult  to  point  out  half-a-dozen  strains 
worthy,  for  poetical  excellence  alone,  of  a  place  among  the  old  chivalrous 
ballads  of  the  Southern,  or  even  of  the  Highland  Border.  Generations  had 
passed  away  since  any  Scottish  poet  had  appealed  to  the  sympathies  of  Iiii 
countrymen  in  a  lofty  Scottish  strain. 

The  dialect  itself  had  been  hardly  dealt  with.  "  It  is  my  opinion,"  saic) 
Dr.  Geddes,  "  that  those  who,  for  almost  a  century  past,  have  written  in 
Scotch,  Allan  Ramsay  not  excepted,  have  not  duly  discriminated  the  ge- 
nuine idiom  from  its  vulgarisms.  They  seem  to  have  acted  a  similar  part 
to  certain  pretended  imitators  of  Spenser  and  Milton,  who  fondly  imagine 
that  they  are  copying  from  these  great  models,  when  they  only  mimic  tlieir 
antique  mode  of  spelling,  their  obsolete  terms,  and  their  irregular  construc- 
tions." And  although  1  cannot  well  guess  what  the  doctor  considered  as 
the  irregular  constructions  of  JNlilton,  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  general 
justice  of  his  observations.  Ramsay  and  Ferguson  w^rc  both  men  of  hum- 
ble condition,  the  latter  of  the  meanest,  the  former  of  no  very  elegant 
habits ;  and  the  dialect  which  had  once  pleased  the  ears  of  kings,  who 
thfmsclvcs  did  not  disdain  to  display  its  powers  and  elegances  in  verse, 
did  not  come  untarnished  through  their  hands.  Ferguson,  who  was  en- 
tirely town-bred,  smells  more  of  the  Cowgate  than  of  the  country ;  and 
pleasing  as  Ramsay's  rustics  are,  he  appears  rather  to  have  observed  the 
surface  of  rural  manners,  in  casual  excursions  to  Pennycuikand  the  Hun- 
ter's Tryste,  than  to  have  expressed  the  rtjsults  of  iutiuiate  knowledge  anc 
sympathy.  His  dialect  was  a  somewhat  incongruous  mixture  of  the  Uppei 
Ward  of  Lanarkshire  and  the  Luckcnbooths  ;  and  he  could  neithc»  write 
English  verses,  nor  engraft  English  phraseology  on  his  Scotch,  without  be- 
traying a  lamentable  want  of  skill  in  the  use  oi"  his  instruments.    It  was  re- 

D 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

served  for  Burns  to  interpret  the  inmost  soul  of  the  S>_^)ttish  peasant  in  all 
its  moods,  and  in  verse  exquisitely  and  intensely  Scottish,  without  degrad- 
ing either  his  sentiments  or  his  language  with  one  touch  of  vulgarity.  Such  is 
the  delicacy  of  native  taste,  and  the  power  of  a  truly  masculine  genius.  This 
is  the  more  remarkable,  when  we  consider  that  the  dialect  of  Burns's  na- 
tive district  is,  in  all  mouths  but  his  own,  a  peculiarly  offensive  one.  The 
"ew  poeis  *  whom  the  west  of  Scotland  had  produced  in  the  old  time,  were 
all  men  of  high  condition  ;  and  who,  of  course,  used  the  language,  not  of 
their  own  villages,  buc  of  Holyrood.  Their  productions,  moreover,  in  o 
far  as  they  have  been  produced,  had  nothing  to  do  witii  the  peculiar  cha- 
lacter  and  feelings  of  the  men  of  the  west.  As  Burns  himself  has  said, — 
"  It  is  somewhat  singular,  that  in  Lanark,  Renfrew,  Ayr,  &c.  there  is 
scarcel}'  an  old  song  cr  tune,  which,  from  the  title,  <S:c.  can  be  guessed  to 
belong  to,  or  be  the  production  of,  those  counties." 

']'he  history  of  Scottish  literature,  from  the  union  of  the  crowns  to  that 
of  the  kingdoms,  h.as  not  yet  been  made  the  subject  of  any  separate  work 
at  all  worthy  of  its  importance  ;  nay,  however  much  we  are  indebted  to  the 
learned  labours  of  Pinkerton,  Irving,  and  others,  enough  of  the  general  ob- 
scurity of  which  Warton  complained  still  continues,  to  the  no  small  discre- 
dit of  so  accomplished  a  nation.  But  how  miserably  the  literature  of  the 
country  was  affected  by  the  loss  of  the  court  under  whose  immediate  pa- 
tronage it  had,  in  almost  all  preceding  times,  found  a  measure  of  protec- 
tion that  will  ever  do  honour  to  the  memory  of  the  unfortunate  house  of 
Stuart,  appears  to  be  indicated  with  sufficient  plainness  in  the  single  fact, 
that  no  man  can  point  out  any  Scottish  author  of  the  first  rank  in  all  the 
long  period  which  intervened  between  Buchanan  and  Hume.  The  re- 
moval of  the  chief  nobility  and  gentry,  consequent  on  the  Legislative  Union, 
appeared  to  destroy  our  last  hopes  as  a  separate  nation,  possessing  a  se- 
parate literature  of  our  own  ;  nay,  for  a  time,  to  have  all  but  extinguished 
the  flame  of  intellectual  exertion  and  ambition.  Long  torn  and  harassed 
by  religious  and  political  feuds,  this  people  had  at  last  heard,  as  many  be- 
lieved, the  sentence  of  irremediable  degradation  pronounced  by  the  lips  of 
their  own  prince  and  parliament.  The  universal  spirit  of  Scotland  was 
humbled;  the  unhappy  insurrections  of  1715  and  1743  revealed  the  full 
extent  of  her  internal  disunion  ;  and  England  took,  in  some  respects,  mer- 
ciless advantage  of  the  fallen. 

Time,  however,  passed  on ;  and  Scotland,  recovering  at  last  from  the 
blow  which  had  stunned  her  energies,  began  to  vindicate  her  pretensions, 
in  the  only  departments  which  had  been  left  open  to  her,  with  a  zeal  and 
a  success  v.-hich  will  ever  distinguish  one  of  the  brightest  pages  of  her  his- 
tor)\  Deprived  of  every  national  honour  and  distinction  which  it  was  pos- 
sible to  remove — all  the  high  branches  of  external  ambition  lopped  off, — 
sunk  at  last,  as  men  thought,  effectually  into  a  province,  willing  to  take 
law  v.'ilh  passive  submission,  in  letters  as  well  as  ])olity,  from  her  poweriul 
sister — th.e  old  kingdom  revived  suddenly  fi-om  her  stupor,  and  once  more 
asserted  her  name  in  reclamations  which  England  was  compelled  not  only 
to  hear,  but  to  applaud,  and  "  v.-herewith  all  Europe  rung  from  side  to 
side,"  at  the  moment  when  a  national  poet  came  forward  to  profit  by  the 
reflux  of  a  thousand  half-forgotten  sympathies — amidst  the  full  joy  of  a  na- 
tional pride  revived  and  re-established  beyond  the  dream  of  hope. 

•  Such  as  Kennedy,  Sinw,  JMontgomery,  and,  more  lately,  Ilamilton  of  Vilbertfield. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURN\S.  li 

It  will  always  reflect  honour  on  the  galaxy  of  e.iilncnt  men  of  letter-, 
5i-ho,  in  th(Mr  various  departments,  shed  lustre  at  that  period  on  the  name 
of  Scotland,  that  they  suffered  no  pedantic  prejudices  to  interfere  with 
their  "eception  of  Burns.  Had  he  not  appeared  personally  among  them, 
it  may  be  reasonably  doubted  whether  this  would  have  been  so.  They 
were  men,  generally  speakins;,  of  very  social  habits;  living  together  in  a 
small  capital  ;  nay,  almost  al'i  </f  '.lie  n  ,  "ir,  .» ■  .''Lout  one  street,  maintaining 
friendly  inlcrcouise  contiiiuall)'  ;  nui  a  {"vw  of  them  considerably  addicted 
to  the  pleasures  which  have  been  called,  by  way  of  excellence,  I  presume, 
convivial.  I'urns's  poetry  might  have  procured  him  access  to  these  circles  : 
but  it  was  the  extraordinary  resources  he  displayed  in  conversation,  the 
strong  vigorous  sagacity  of  his  observations  on  life  and  manners,  the  sj)len- 
dour  nf  his  wit,  and  the  glowing  energy  of  his  eloquence  when  his  feelings 
H'ere  stirred,  that  made  him  the  object  of  serious  admiration  among  these 
practised  masters  of  the  arts  of  ta//{.  There  were  several  of  them  who 
probably  adopted  in  their  hearts  the  opinion  of  Newton,  that  "  poetry  is 
ingenious  nonsense."  Adam  Smith,  for  one,  could  have  had  no  very  ready 
respect  at  the  service  of  such  an  unproductive  labourer  as  a  maker  of  Scot- 
tish ballads ;  but  the  stateliest  of  these  philosophers  had  enough  to  do  to 
maintain  the  attitude  of  equality,  when  brought  into  personal  contact  with 
i'nu'ns's /^igantic  understanding;  and  every  one  of  them  whose  impressions 
on  the  subject  have  been  recorded,  agrees  in  pronouncing  his  conversation 
to  have  been  the  most  remarkable  thing  about  him.  And  yet  it  is  amus- 
ing enough  to  trace  the  lingering  reluctance  of  some  of  these  polish.ed  scho- 
lars, about  admitting,  even  to  themselves,  in  his  absence,  what  it  is  cer- 
tain they  all  felt  sufficiently  when  they  were  actually  in  his  presence.  It 
is  difficult,  for  example,  to  read  without  a  smile  that  letter  of  Mr.  Dugald 
Stewart,  in  which  he  describes  himself  and  Mr.  Alison  as  being  surprised 
to  discover  that  Burns,  after  reading  the  latter  author's  elegant  Essajj  on 
Tdste,  had  really  been  able  to  form  some  shrewd  enough  notion  of  the 
general  principles  of  the  association  of  ideas. 

Burns  would  probably  have  been  more  satisfied  with  himself  in  these 
learned  societies,  had  he  been  less  addicted  to  giving  free  utterance  in  con- 
versation to  the  very  feelings  whicii  formed  the  noblest  inspirations  of  his 
poetry.  His  sensibility  was  a?  tremblingly  excjuisite,  as  his  sense  was 
masculine  and  solid  ;  and  he  seems  to  have  ere  long  suspected  that  the  pro- 
fessional metaphysicians  who  applauded  his  rapturous  bursts,  surveyed  them 
in  reality  with  something  of  the  same  feeling  which  may  be  suj)])Osed  to 
attend  a  skilful  surgeon's  inspection  of  a  curious  sjiecimen  of  morbid  ana- 
tomy. Why  should  he  lay  his  inmost  heart  thus  open  to  dissectors,  who 
took  special  care  to  keep  the  knife  from  their  own  breasts  ?  The  secret 
nluih  that  overspread  his  haughty  countenance  when  such  suggestions  oc- 
cured  to  him  in  his  solitary  hours,  may  be  traced  in  the  opening  lines  of  a 
diary  which  he  began  to  keep  ere  he  had  been  long  in  Edinburgh.  "  April 
9,  1787. — As  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  human  life  in  Edinburgh,  a 
great  many  characters  which  are  new  to  one  bred  up  in  the  shades  of  lif(;, 
as  I  have  been,  I  anj  determined  to  take  down  my  remarks  on  the  spoU 
Gray  observes,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Palgrave,  that,  '  half  a  word  fixed,  upon, 
or  near  the  spot,  is  worth  a  cart-load  of  recollection.'  I  don't  know  how 
it  is  with  the  world  in  general,  but  witli  me,  making  my  remarks  is  by  no 
means  a  solitary  pleasure.  I  want  some  one  to  laugh  with  me,  some  one 
to  be  grave  with  me,  some  one  to  please  me  and  help  my  discrimination. 


Hi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

with  his  or  her  own  remark,  and  at  times,  no  doubt,  to  admire  my  acute- 
ncss  and  penetration.  The  world  are  so  busied  with  selfish  pursuits,  am- 
bition, vanity,  interest,  or  pleasure,  that  very  few  think  it  worth  their  while 
to  make  any  observation  on  what  passes  around  them,  except  where  thai 
observation  is  a  sucker,  or  branch,  of  the  darling  plant  they  are  rearing  in 
their  fancy.  Nor  am  I  sure,  notwithstanding  all  the  sentimental  flights  of 
novel-writers,  and  the  sage  philosophy  of  moralists,  whether  we  are  cap- 
able of  so  intimate  and  cordial  a  coalition  of  friendship,  as  that  one  man  may 
pour  out  his  bosom,  his  every  thought  and  floating  fancy,  his  very  inmost 
soul,  with  unreserved  confidence,  to  another,  without  hazard  of  losing  part 
jf  that  respect  which  man  deserves  from  man  ;  or,  from  the  unavoidable 
imperfections  attending  human  nature,  of  one  day  repenting  his  confidence. 
For  these  reasons  I  am  determined  to  make  these  pages  my  confidant. 
I  will  sketch  every  character  that  any  way  strikes  me,  to  the  best  of  my 
power,  with  unshrinking  justice.  I  will  insert  anecdotes,  and  take  down 
remarks,  in  the  old  law  jihrase,  loithout  feud  or  favour. — Where  I  hit  on 
any  thing  clever,  my  own  applause  will,  in  some  measure,  feast  my  vanity 
and.  begging  Patroclus'  and  Achates'  pardon,  I  think  a  lock  and  key  a  se- 
curity, at  least  equal  to  the  bosom  of  any  friend  whatever."  And  the  same 
lurking  thorn  of  suspicion  peeps  out  elsewhere  in  this  complaint :  "  1  know 
not  how  it  is  ;  I  find  I  can  win  liking — but  not  respect." 

"  Burns  (says  a  great  living  poet,  in  commenting  on  the  free  style  of  Dr. 
Currie)  was  a  man  of  extraordinary  genius,  whose  birth,  education,  and  em- 
ployments had  placed  and  kept  him  in  a  situation  for  below  that  in  which  the 
writers  and  readers  of  expensive  volumes  are  usually  found.  Critics  upon 
works  of  fiction  have  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  that  remoteness  of  place,  in 
fixing  the  choice  of  a  subject,  and  in  prescribing  the  mode  of  treating  it,  is 
equal  in  eiTect  to  distance  of  time  ; — restraints  may  be  thrown  off  accord- 
ingly. Judge  tlien  of  the  delusions  which  artificial  distinctions  impose, 
when  to  a  man  like  Dr.  Currie,  writing  with  views  so  honourable,  the  so- 
cial condition  t.f  the  individual  of  whom  he  was  treating,  could  seem  to 
place  him  at  such  a  distance  from  the  exalted  reader,  that  ceremony  might 
be  discarded  with  him,  and  his  memory  sacrificed,  as  it  were,  almost  with- 
out compunction.  This  is  indeed  to  be  crushed  beneath  the  furrow's 
weight."-^  It  would  be  idle  to  suppose  that  the  feelings  here  ascribed,  and 
justly,  no  question,  to  the  amiable  and  benevolent  Currie,  did  not  often 
find  their  way  into  the  bosoms  of  those  persons  of  superior  condition  and 
attainments,  with  whom  Burns  associated  at  the  period  when  he  first  e- 
merged  into  the  blaze  of  reputation  ;  and  what  found  its  way  into  men's 
bosoms  was  not  likely  to  avoid  betraying  itself  to  the  perspicacious  glance 
of  the  proud  peasant.  How  perpetually  he  was  alive  to  the  dread  of  being 
looked  down  upon  as  a  man,  even  by  those  who  most  zealously  applauded 
the  works  of  his  genius,  might  perhaps  be  traced  through  the  whole  se- 
■juence  of  his  letters.  When  writing  to  men  of  high  station,  at  least,  he 
preserves,  in  every  instance,  the  attitude  of  self-defence.  But  it  is  only 
in  his  own  secret  tables  that  we  have  the  fibres  of  his  heart  laid  bare ;  and 
the  cancer  of  this  jealousy  is  seen  distinctly  at  its  painful  Mork :  hahoniis 
renin  et.  cnvfilenlew.  "  There  are  'i<i\s  of  the  sore  evils  under  the  sun  give 
me  more  uneasiness  and  chagrin  tlian  the  comparison  how  a  man  of  genius, 
nay,  of  avowed  worth,  is  received  everywhere,  with  the  reception  which  a 

•  Mr.  Wocdswonh's  letter  to  a  friend  of  Burns,  p.  12. 


LIFE  OF  UOnERT  BURNS.  \\v. 

mere  ordinary  cliaractcr,  decorated  with  the  traj)pin^s  and  futile  distinc- 
tions of  fortune,  meets.  I  imagine  a  man  of  abilities,  his  breast  glowing 
wiili  ho^le^t  pride,  conscious  that  men  are  born  equal,  still  giving  honour 
to  wliouj  honour  is  due  ;  he  meets,  at  a  great  man's  table,  a  Squire  some- 
thing, or  a  Sir  somebody  ;  he  knows  the  noble  landlord,  at  heart,  gives  the 
bard,  or  whatever  he  is,  a  share  of  his  good  wishes,  beyond,  perhaps,  any 
one  at  table  ;  yet  how  wiil  it  mortify  him  to  see  a  fellow,  whose  abili- 
ties would  scarcely  have  made  an  eiglitpenny  tailor,  and  whose  heart  is  not 
worth  three  farthings,  meet  with  attention  and  notice,  that  are  withheld 
from  the  son  of  genius  and  poverty?  The  noble  (jlencaim  has  wounded 
me  to  the  soul  here,  because  I  dearly  esteem,  respect,  and  love  him.  He 
showed  so  much  attention — engrossing  attention,  one  day,  to  the  only 
blockhead  at  table,  (the  whole  company  consisted  of  his  lordship,  dunder- 
pate,  and  n)ysclfi',  that  I  was  within  half  a  point  of  throwing  down  my  gage 
of  contemptuous  defiance  ;  but  he  shook  my  hand,  and  looked  so  benevo- 
lently good  at  parting — God  bless  him  !  though  I  should  never  see  him 
more.  I  shall  love  him  until  my  dying  day  !  I  am  pleased  to  think  I  am  so 
capable  of  the  throes  of  gratitude,  as  I  am  miserably  deficient  in  some  other 
virtues.  With  Dr  Ijlair  I  am  moreat  my  ease  I  never  respect  him  with 
humble  veneration  ;  but  uhen  he  kindly  interests  himself  in  my  welfare,  or 
still  more,  when  he  descends  from  his  pinnacle,  and  meets  me  on  equal 
ground  in  conversation,  my  heart  overflows  with  what  is  called  liking. 
\Nhen  he  neglects  me  for  the  mere  carcass  of  greatness,  or  when  his  eye 
measures  the  difference  of  our  points  of  elevation,  I  say  to  myself,  with 
scarcely  any  emotion,  what  do  1  care  for  him,  or  his  pomp  either?"  "  It 
is  n(  t  easy  (says  Burns)  forming  an  exact  judgment  of  any  one;  but,  in 
my  opinion.  Dr.  Blair  is  merely  an  astonishing  proof  of  what  industry  and 
application  can  do.  Natural  parts  like  his  are  frequently  to  be  met  with  ; 
liis  vanity  is  proverbially  known  among  his  own  acquaintances  ;  but  he  is 
justly  at  the  head  of  what  may  be  called  fine  writing,  and  a  critic  of  the 
first,  the  very  first  rank  in  prose  ;  even  in  poetry  a  bard  of  natures  mak- 
ing can  only  take  the  pass  of  him.  He  has  a  heart,  not  of  the  very  finest 
v/ater,  but  far  from  being  an  ordinary  one.  In  short,  he  is  a  truly  worthy 
and  most  respectable  character." 

A  nice  speculator  on  the  '  follies  of  the  wise,'  D'Israeli,  *  says — ■'  Once 
we  were  nearly  receiving  from  the  hand  of  genius  the  most  curious  sketches 
of  the  temper,  the  irascible  humours,  the  delicacy  of  soul,  even  to  its 
shadowiness,  from  the  vrarm  shozzhs  of  Burns,  when  he  began  a  diary  of 
his  heart — a  narrative  of  characters  and  events,  and  a  chronology  of  his 
emotions.  It  was  natural  for  such  a  creature  of  sensation  and  passion  to 
project  such  a  regular  task,  but  quite  impossible  to  get  through  it."  This 
most  curious  document,  it  is  to  be  observed,  has  not  yet  been  printed  en- 
tire. Another  generation  will,  no  doubt,  see  the  whole  of  the  confession  ; 
however,  what  has  already  been  given,  it  may  be  surmised,  indicates  suf- 
ficiently the  complexion  of  liurns's  prevailing  moods  during  his  moments 
of  retirement  at  this  interesting  period  of  his  history.  It  was  in  such  a 
mood  (they  recurred  often  enough)  that  he  thus  .-eproached  "  Nature,  par- 
tial nature  :"  — 


"  Thou  pivest  the  ass  his  Iiiile,  the  snail  his  shell ; 
The  inveiiom'd  wasp  victoiious  guards  his  cell: 

•  D'Israeli  on  the  Literary  Charaifter,  vol.  i.  p.  136. 


liv  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 

Bu(,  on  !  thou  bitter  stepmotlieT,  and  hard. 
To  thy  poor  fenceless  naked  child,  the  bard.     . 
In  naked  feeling  and  in  aching  pride, 
He  bears  the  unbroken  blast  from  every  side.' 

No  bla?t  picrcrd  this  haughty  soul  so  sharply  as  the  contumely  of  conde 
Ecension, 

One  of  the  poet's  remarks,  when  he  first  came  to  Edinbu'gh,  has  been 
handed  down  to  us  by  Cromek — It  was,  "  that  between  the  men  of  rustic 
life  and  the  polite  world  he  obser'ed  little  difference — that  in  the  former, 
though  unpolished  by  fashion  aud  imenlightened  by  science,  he  had  found 
much  observation,  and  much  intelligence — but  a  refined  and  accomplished 
woman  was  a  thing  almost  new  to  hini,  and  of  which  he  had  formed  but  a 
very  inadequate  idea."  To  be  pleased,  is  the  old  and  the  best  receipt  how 
to  please  ;  and  there  is  abundant  evidence  that  Burns's  success,  among  the 
high-born  ladies  of  Edinburgh,  was  much  greater  than  among  the  "  stately 
patricians,"  as  he  calls  them,  of  his  own  sex.  The  vivid  expression  of  one 
of  them  has  almost  become  proverbial — that  she  never  met  with  a  man^ 
"  Vv'hose  conversation  so  completely  carried  her  off  her  feet,"  as  Burns's. 
The  late  Duchess  of  Gordon,  who  was  remarkable  for  her  own  conversa- 
tional talent,  as  well  as  for  her  beauty  and  address,  is  supposed  to  be  here 
referred  to.  But  even  here,  he  was  destined  to  feel  ere  long  something  of 
the  fickleness  of  fashion.  He  confessed  to  one  of  his  old  friends,  ere  tlie 
season  v.as  over,  that  some  who  had  caressed  him  the  most  zealously,  no 
longer  seemed  to  knov,-  him,  when  he  bowed  in  passing  their  carriages, 
and  many  more  acknowledged  his  salute  but  coldly. 

It  is  but  too  true,  that  ere  this  season  was  over.  Burns  had  formed  con- 
nexions in  Edinburgh  which  could  not  have  been  regarded  with  much  ap 
probation  by  the  eminent  literati,  in  whose  society  his  dehiit  had  made  so 
powerful  an  impression.  But  how  much  of  the  blame,  if  serious  blame, 
indeed,  there  was  in  the  matter,  ought  to  attach  to  his  own  fastidious  jea- 
lousy— how  much  to  the  mere  caprice  of  human  favour,  we  have  scanty 
means  of  ascertaining :  No  doubt,  both  had  their  share;  and  it  is  also  suf- 
ficiently apparent  that  there  were  many  points  in  Burns's  conversational 
habits  which  men,  accustomed  to  the  delicate  o'oservances  of  refined  so- 
ciety, might  be  more  v.-illing  to  tolerate  under  the  first  excitement  of  per- 
sonal curiosity,  than  from  any  very  deliberate  estimate  of  the  claims  of  such 
a  genius,  under  such  circumstances  developed  He  by  no  means  restricted 
his  sarcastic  observations  on  those  whom  he  encountered  in  the  world  to 
the  confidence  of  his  note-book  ;  but  startled  polite  ears  with  the  utterance 
of  audacious  epigrams,  far  too  witty  not  to  obtain  general  circulation  in  so 
small  a  society  as  that  of  the  northern  capital,  far  too  bitter  not  to  produce 
deep  resentment,  far  too  numerous  not  to  spread  fear  almost  as  widely  as 
admiration.  Even  when  nothing  was  farther  from  his  thoughts  than  to  in- 
flict pain,  his  ardour  often  carried  him  headlong  into  sad  scrapes  ;  witness, 
for  example,  the  anecdote  given  by  Professor  Walker,  of  his  entering  into 
a  long  discussion  of  the  merits  of  the  popular  preachers  of  the  day.  at  tlie 
table  of  Dr.  lilair,  and  enthusiastically  avowing  his  low  opinion  of  all  the 
rest  ir  comparison  with  Dr.  Blair's  own  colleague  *  and  most  formidable 
rival — a  man,  certainly,  endowed  with  extraordinary  graces  of  voice  and 
manner,  a  generous  and  amiable  strain  of  feeling,  and  a  copious  fiow  o^ 
lanjjuage  ;  but  having  no  pretensions  either  to  the  general  accomplishment; 

•   Dr.  Koben  Walker. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  1- 

/or  ivliicli  Blair  was  lionoured  in  a  most  accomplislicd  society,  or  to  the 
p;iliA!ie(l  elegance  u'liich  lie  first  iMtroduccd  into  the  elcxjuence  of  the  Scot- 
tisli  [)al})it.  Mr.  Walker  well  describes  the  unpleasing  eU'ects  of  such  an 
earn  pad e ;  the  conversation  during  the  rest  of  the  evening,  •'  hibouring  un- 
der that  conijHilsory  elfort  winch  was  unavoidable,  while  the  thougiits  ol 
all  were  full  of  the  only  subject  on  which  it  was  improper  to  speak."  Burns 
Jiowed  his  good  sense  by  making  no  effort  to  repair  this  bhmder  ;  but  years 
afterwards,  lie  confessed  that  ha  could  never  recall  it  without  ex(]uisite 
pain.  !Mr.  Walker  properly  says,  it  did  honour  to  Dr.  Blair  that  his  kind- 
ness remained  totally  unaltered  by  this  occurrence  ;  but  the  I'rofessor 
would  have  found  nothing  to  admire  in  that  circumstance,  had  he  not  been 
well  aware  of  tlie  rarity  of  such  good-nature  among  \[\q  gains  inilabih  ol 
authors,  orators,  and  wits. 

A  specimen  (which  some  will  think  worse,  some  better)  is  thus  recorded 
by  Cromek : — "  At  a  private  breakfast,  in  a  literary  circle  of  Edinljurgh, 
the  conversation  turned  on  the  poetical  merit  and  pathos  of  Gray  ft  Eh(/i/ 
a  poem  of  which  lie  was  enthusiastically  fond.  A  clergyman  present,  re- 
markable for  his  love  of  paradox  and  for  his  eccentric  notions  upon  every 
subject,  distinguished  himself  by  an  injudicious  and  ill-timed  attack  on  tliis 
excjuisite  poem,  which  Burns,  with  generous  warmth  for  the  reputation  or 
(Jray,  manfully  defended.  As  the  gentleman's  remarks  were  rather  gene- 
ral than  specific,  Burns  urged  him  to  bring  forward  the  passages  which  he 
thought  exceptionable.  He  made  several  attempts  to  quote  the  jioem,  but 
always  in  a  blundering,  inaccurate  manner.  Burns  bore  all  this  for  a  good 
while  \\ith  his  usual  good-natured  forbearance,  till  at  length,  goaded  by 
the  fastidious  criticisms  and  wretched  quibblings  of  his  opponent,  he  roused 
himself  and  with  an  eye  flashing  contempt  and  indignation,  and  with  great 
vehemence  of  gesticulation,  he  thus  addressed  the  cold  critic  : — '  Sir,  1  now 
perceive  a  man  may  be  an  excellent  judge  of  poetry  by  square  and  rule, 

and  after  all  be  a  d d  blockhead.'  " — Another  of  the  instances  may  be 

mentioned,  which  shew  the  poet's  bluntness  of  manner,  and  hov/  true  the 
remark  afterwards  made  by  Mr.  Kamsay  is,  that  in  the  game  of  society  l>e 
did  not  know  when  to  play  on  or  off.  Wliile  the  second  edition  of  his  Poems 
was  passing  through  tlie  press,  Burns  was  favoured  with  many  critical  sug- 
gestions and  amendments  ;  to  one  of  which  only  he  attended.  Blair,  read- 
ing over  with  him,  or  hearirtg  him  recite  (which  he  delighted  at  all  times 
in  doing)  his  IIulj  Fair,  stopped  him  at  the  stanza — 

Now  ;i'  tlie  cotifjrej-Mtion  o'er 

I>  silent  exjHciatioii, 
For  Uussel  specls  tlie  holy  door 

\l  i'  tidings  o'  Salvation — 

Nay,  said  the  Doctor,  read  damnation.  Burns  improved  the  wit  of  this 
verse,  undoubtedly,  by  adopting  the  emendation ;  but  he  gave  another 
strange  specimen  of  wantof  t'art,  when  he  insisted  that  Dr.  Blair,  one  of 
the  most  scrupulous  observers  of  clerical  propriety,  should  permit  him  to 
acknowledge  the  obligation  in  a  note. 

But  to  pass  from  tliese  trifles,   it  needs  no  effort  of  imagination  to  con 
ceive  what  the  sensations  of  an  isolated  set  of  scholars  (almost  all  either 
clergymen  or  professors    must  ha^e  been  in  the  presence  of  this  big  boned, 
black-browed,  brawny  stranger,   with  his  great  flashing  eyes,  who,  ha\ing 
Q3tc,t>d  ids  way  among  tlieitf  from  the  plough-tail  at  a  single  stride,  niao' 


.vi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

fested,  in  the  whole  strain  of  his  bearing  and  conversation,  a  most  thorougti 
conviction,  that,  in  the  society  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his  nation,  he 
was  exactly  where  he  was  entitled  to  be ;  hardly  deigned  to  flatter  them 
by  exhibiting  even  an  occasional  symptom  of  being  flattered  by  their  no- 
tice;  by  turns  calmly  measured  himself  against  the  most  cultivated  under- 
standiiig.-;  of  his  time  in  discussion  ;  overpowered  the  bo7i  vmts  of  the  mcst 
celebrated  convivialists  by  broad  floods  of  merriment,  impregnated  with  all 
the  burning  life  of  genius  ;  astounded  bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in  the 
thrice-piled  folds  of  social  reserve,  by  compelling  them  to  tremble — ray  to 
tremble  visibly — beneath  the  fearless  touch  of  natural  pathos;  and  all  this 
M'ithout  indii  ating  the  smallest  willingness  to  be  ranked  among  those  pro- 
fessional ministers  of  excitement,  who  are  content  to  be  paid  'n  money  and 
smiles  for  doing  what  the  spectators  and  auditors  would  be  ashamed  'if  do- 
ing in  their  own  persons,  even  if  they  had  the  power  of  doing  it :  and, — 
last  and  probably  worst  of  all, — v.ho  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of  en- 
livening societies  which  they  would  have  scorned  to  approach,  still  more 
frequently  than  their  own,  with  eloquence  no  less  magnificent ;  with  wit  in 
all  likelihood  still  more  daring  ;  often  enough,  as  the  superiors  whom  he 
fronted  without  alarm  might  have  guessed  from  the  beginning,  and  had, 
ere  long,  no  occasion  to  guess,  with  wit  pointed  at  themselves. 

The  lawyers  of  Edinburgh,  in  v/hose  wider  circles  Burns  figured  at  his 
outset,  with  at  least  as  much  success  as  among  the  professional  literati, 
were  a  very  different  race  of  men  from  these  ;  they  would  neither,  1  take 
it,  have  pardoned  rudeness,  nor  been  alarmed  by  wit.  But  being,  in  those 
days,  with  scarcely  an  exception,  members  of  the  landed  aristocracy  of  the 
country,  and  forming  by  far  the  most  influential  body  (as  indeed  they  still 
do)  in  the  society  of  Scotland,  they  were,  perhaps,  as  proud  a  set  of  men 
as  ever  enjoyed  the  tranquil  pleasures  of  unquestioned  superiority.  What 
their  haughtiness,  as  a  body,  was.  may  be  guessed,  when  we  know  that  in- 
ferior birth  was  reckoned  a  fair  and  legitimate  ground  for  excluding  any 
man  from  the  bar.  In  one  remarkable  insta-nce,  about  this  very  time,  a 
man  of  very  extraordinar3'  talents  and  accomplishments  was  chiefly  opposed 
in  a  long  and  painful  struggle  tor  admission,  and,  in  reality,  for  no  reasons 
but  those  I  have  been  alluding  to.  by  gentlemen  who  in  the  sequel  stood 
at  the  very  head  of  the  Whig  party  in  Kdinburgh  ;  *  and  the  same  aristo- 
cratical  prejudice  has,  within  the  memory  of  the  present  generation,  kept 
more  persons  of  eminent  qualihcations  in  the  background,  for  a  season, 
than  any  English  reader  would  easily  believe.  To  this  body  belonged 
nineteen  out  of  twenty  of  those  "patricians,"  whose  stateliness  Burns  so 
lou!^  remembered  and  so  b  tterly  resented.  It  might,  perhaj)s,  have  been 
well  for  liim  had  stateliness  been  the  worst  fault  of  their  manners.  Wine- 
bibbing  appears  to  be  in  most  regions  a  favourite  indulgence  with  those 
whose  branis  and  lungs  are  subjected  to  the  severe  exercises  q?  legal  study 
and  forensic  practice.  To  this  day,  more  traces  of  these  old  habits  linger 
about  the  inns  of  court  than  in  any  other  section  of  London.  In  Dublin 
and  Edinburgh,  the  barristers  are  even  now  eminently  convival  bodies  of 
men  ;  but  among  the  Scotch  lawyers  of  the  time  of  Burns,  the  principle  of 
jollity  was  indeed  in  its  "  high  and  palmy  state."  He  partook  largciy  in 
tho.se  tavern  scenes  of  audacious  hilarity,  which  then  soothed,  as  a  n)atter 

*  .Mr.  .'olri  \\'ilil,  son  of  a  Tobacconist  in  ilic  Flijrli  Street,  lyilinbur},'h.  lie  came  to  be 
Professor  uf  Civil  law  in  tliat  L'n  er&ity  ;  but,  in  ill.:  end,  was  also  an  inbtanct  of  unhapiiv 
genius 


I 


li 


X.IFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS  1\  h 

of  course,  the  arid  labours  of  tlie  northern  vobhssc  de  la  riihc.  T]ie  tavern- 
life  is  iio\v-a-(lays  nearly  extinct  everywhere;  but  it  was  then  in  full 
vigour  in  Ixlinhurgh,  and  there  can  be  no  doubc  tliat  Burns  rapidly  fami- 
liarized himself  with  it  during  his  residence.  He  had,  after  aH,  tasted  but 
rarely  of  such  excesses  while  in  Ayrshire.  So  little  are  we  to  consider 
his  Svntrh  Drink,  and  other  jovial  strains  of  the  eariy  period,  as  conveying 
any  thing  like  a  fair  notion  of  his  actual  course  of  life,  that  "  Auld  Nanse 
Tinn-xk,"  or  "  Poosie  Nancie,"  the  Mauchline  landlady,  is  known  to  have 
expressed,  amusfingly  enough,  her  surprise  at  the  style  in  which  she  found 
her  name  celebrated  in  tlie  Kilmarnock  edition,  saying,  "  that  Robert 
Burns  might  be  a  very  clever  lad,  but  he  certainly  was  rrf/arrl/css,  as,  to  the 
best  of  her  belief,  he  had  never  taken  three  half-mutchkins  in  her  house  in 
all  his  life."  And  in  addition  to  (Gilbert's  testimony  to  the  same  purpose, 
we  have  on  record  that  of  Mr.  Archibald  Bruce,  a  gentleman  of  great 
worth  and  discernment,  that  he  had  observed  Burns  closely  during  that 
period  of  his  life,  and  seen  him  "  steadily  resist  such  solicitations  and  al- 
lurements to  excessive  convivial  enjoyment,  as  hardly  any  other  person  could 
have  withstood." — The  unfortunate  Heron  knew  Burns  wel.  ,  and  himself 
mingled  largely  in  some  of  the  scenes  to  which  he  adverts  in  tlie  following 
strong  language  :  "  The  enticements  of  pleasure  too  often  unman  our  vir- 
tuous resolution,  even  while  we  wear  the  air  of  rejecting  them  with  a  stern 
brow.  We  resist,  and  resist,  and  resist  ;  but,  at  last,  suddenly  turn,  and 
passionately  embrace  the  enchantress.  The  biic/is  of  Edinburgh  accom- 
plished, in  regard  to  Burns,  that  in  which  the  boors  of  Ayrshire  had  failed. 
After  residing  some  months  in  Edinburgh,  he  began  to  estrange  himself, 
not  altogether,  but  in  some  measure,  from  graver  friends.  Too  many  of 
his  hours  were  now  spent  at  the  tables  of  persons  who  delighted  to  urge 
conviviality  to  drunkenness — in  the  tavern — and  in  the  brothel."  It  would 
be  idle  ?inw  to  attempt  passing  over  these  things  in  silence  ;  but  it  could 
serve  no  good  purpose  to  dwell  on  them.  During  this  u-i>tler.  Burns  con- 
tinued to  lodge  with  John  Kichmond,  indeed,  to  share  liis  bed;  and  we 
have  the  authority  of  this,  one  of  the  earliest  and  kindest  friends  of  the 
poet,  for  the  statement,  that  while  he  did  so.  "  he  kept  good  liours."  lie 
removed  afterwards  to  the  house  of  Mr.  William  Nicoll,  one  of  the  teachers 
of  the  High  School  of  Edinburgh.  Nicoll  was  a  man  of  quick  parts  and 
considerable  learning — who  had  risen  from  a  rank  as  humble  as  Burns"s 
from  the  beginning  an  enthusiastic  admirer,  and,  ere  long,  a  constant  associ 
ate  o'i  the  poet,  and  a  most  dangerous  associate  ;  for,  with  a  warm  heart, 
the  man  united  an  irascible  temper,  a  contempt  of  the  religious  institutions 
of  his  country,  and  an  occasional  propensity  for  the  bottle.  Of  Nicoil's 
letters  to  Burns,  and  about  him,  I  have  seen  many  that  have  never  been, 
and  probably  that  never  will  be,  printed — cumbrous  and  pedantic  elfusions, 
exhibiting  nothing  that  one  can  imagine  to  have  been  pK  asing  to  the  poet, 
except  a  rapturous  admiration  of  his  genius.  This  man,  nevertheless,  was, 
I  susipect,  very  far  from  being  an  unflivourable  specimen  of  the  society  to 
which  Heron  thus  alludes: — "  He  (the  poet)  snfftred  himself  to  be  sur- 
rouniled  by  a  race  of  miserable  beings,  who  were  proud  to  tell  that  they 
had  been  in  company  with  Bukns,  and  had  seen  Ijurns  as  loose  and  as 
f:o!ish  as  themselves.  He  was  not  yet  irrecoverably  lost  to  temperance 
and  moderation  ;  but  he  was  already  almost  too  mucli  captivated  with  theii 
wanton  revels,  to  be  ever  more  won  back  to  a  faithful  attachment  to  then 

more  sober  charms  "   Heron  adds — "  He  now  also  began  to  contract  some- 
Da 


IviJi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

thing  of  new  arrogance  in  conversation.  Accustomed  lo  be,  among  hi? 
favoLirite  associates,  what  is  vulgarly,  but  expressively  called,  the  cock  ol 
the  company,  lie  could  scarcely  refrain  from  indulging  in  similar  freedom 
and  dictatorial  decision  of  talk,  even  in  the  presence  of  persons  who  could 
less  patiently  endure  his  presumption  ;"  *  an  account  ex  facie  probable,  and 
vyhich  sufficiently  tallies  with  some  hints  in  Mr.  Dugald  Stevrart's  descrip- 
tion of  the  poet's  manners,  as  he  first  observed  him  at  Catrine,  and  with 
one  or  two  anecdotes  already  cited  from  Walker  and  Cromek. 

Of  these  failings,  and  indeed  of  all  Burns's  failings,  it  may  be  safely  as- 
serted, that  there  was  more  in  his  history  to  account  and  apologize  for 
them,  than  can  be  alleged  in  regard  to  almost  any  other  great  man's  imper- 
fections. We  have  seen,  how,  even  in  his  earliest  days,  the  strong  thirst 
of  distinction  glowed  within  him — how  in  his  first  and  rude«t  rhymes  he 
sung, 

" to  be  great  is  charming  ;" 


and  we  have  also  seen,  that  the  display  of  talent  in  conversation  was  the 
first  means  of  distinction  that  occurred  to  him.  It  was  by  that  talent  that 
he  first  attracted  notice  among  his  fellow  peasants,  and  after  he  mingled 
with  the  first  Scotsmen  of  his  time,  this  talent  was  still  that  which  appear- 
ed the  most  astonishing  of  all  he  possessed.  What  wonder  that  he  should 
delight  in  exerting  it  where  he  could  exert  it  the  most  freely — where  there 
was  no  check  upon  a  tongue  that  had  been  accustomed  to  revel  in  tlie  li- 
cense of  village-mastery  ?  where  every  sally,  however  bold,  was  sure  to  be 
received  with  triumphant  applause — where  there  were  no  claims  to  rival 
his — no  proud  brows  to  convey  rebuke,  above  all,  perhaps,  no  grave  eyes 
to  convey  regret  i" 

But  these,  assuredly,  were  not  the  only  feelings  that  influenced  Burns  : 
In  his  own  letters,  written  during  his  stay  in  Edinburgh,  v.-e  have  the  best 
evidence  to  the  contrary.  He  shrewdly  suspected,  from  the  very  begin- 
ning, that  the  personal  notice  of  the  great  and  the  illustrious  was  not  to  be 
as  lasting  as  it  was  eager :  he  foresaw,  that  sooner  or  later  he  was  destined 
to  revert  to  societies  less  elevated  above  the  pretensions  of  his  birth ;  and, 
though  his  jealous  pride  might  induce  him  to  record  his  suspicions  in  lan- 
guage rather  too  strong  than  too  weak,  it  is  quite  impossible  to  read  what 
he  wrote  without  believing  that  a  sincere  distrust  lay  rankling  at  the  roots 
of  his  heart,  all  the  while  that  he  appeared  to  be  surrounded  u  ith  an  at- 
mosphere of  joy  and  hope.  On  the  i.Hh  of  January  1787,  we  find  him 
thus  addressing  his  kind  patroness,  ■Mrs.  Dunlop  : — "You  are  afraid  I  shall 
grow  intoxicated  with  my  prosperity  as  a  poet.  Alas  !  Madam,  i  know 
myself  and  the  world  too  well.  1  do  not  mean  any  airs  of  affected  modesty  ; 
I  am  willing  to  believe  th.at  my  abilities  deserved  some  notice  ;  but  in  a 
most  enlightened,  informed  age  and  nation,  when  poetry  is  and  has  been 
the  study  of  men  of  the  first  natural  genius,  aided  with  all  the  powers  of 
polite  learning,  polite  books,  and  polite  company— to  be  dragged  forth  to 
the  full  glare  of  learned  and  polite  observation,  with  all  my  imperfections 
of  awkward  rusticity,  and  crude  unjiolished  ideas,  on  my  head, — I  assure 
you.  Madam,  I  do  not  dissemble,  when  1  tell  you  I  tremble  for  the  conse- 
quences. The  novelty  of  a  poet  in  my  obscure  situation,  uithout  any  of 
tliose  advantagcB  which  arc  reckoned  necessarj-  for  that  character,  at  leas 

"  Heron,  11.  2n. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  lix 

n\  (hh  time  of  day.  lias  raised  a  partial  tide  of  public  notice,  whicli  lias 
borne  nic  to  a  height  where  I  am  absolutely,  feelingly  certain,  niy  abilities 
jre  inadequate  to  support  me  ;  and  too  surely  do  I  see  that  time,  when  the 
same  tide  will  leave  me,  and  recede  perhaps  as  far  below  the  mark  of 
truth.  ...  1  mention  this  once  for  all,  to  disburden  my  mind,  and  I 
do  not  wish  to  hear  or  say  any  more  about  it.  But — '  When  proud  for- 
tune's ebbing  tide  recedes,'  you  will  bear  me  witness,  that  when  my  bubble 
of  fame  was  at  the  highest,  I  stood  unintoxicated  with  the  inebriating  cup 
in  my  hand,  looking  forward  witli  rueful  resolve." — And  about  the  same 
time,  to  Dr.  ^.loore  : — "  The  hope  to  be  admired  for  ages  is,  in  by  far  the 
greater  part  of  those  even  Avho  are  authors  of  repute,  an  unsubstantial 
dream.  For  my  part,  my  first  ambition  was,  and  still  my  strongest  wish 
is,  to  please  my  compeers,  the  rustic  inmates  of  the  hamlet,  while  ever- 
changing  language  and  manners  shall  allow  me  to  be  relished  and  under- 
stood. I  am  very  willing  to  admit  that  I  have  some  poetical  abilities  ;  and 
as  few,  if  any  writers,  either  moral  or  poetical,  are  intimately  acquainted 
with  the  classes  of  mankind  among  whom  I  have  chiefly  mingled,  I  may 
have  seen  men  and  manners  in  a  different  phasis  from  what  is  common, 
W'hich  may  assist  originality  of  thought I  scorn  the  affecta- 
tion of  seeming  modesty  to  cover  self-conceit.  That  I  have  some  merit,  I 
do  not  deny ;  but  I  see,  with  frequent  wringings  of  heart,  that  the  novelty 
of  my  character,  and  the  honest  national  prejudice  of  my  countrymen,  have 
borne  me  to  a  height  altogether  untenable  to  my  abilities." — And  lastly, 
April  the  '23d,  1787,  we  have  the  following  passage  in  a  letter  also  to  Dr. 
IMoore: — "  I  leave  Edinburgh  in  the  course  often  days  or  a  fortnight.  I 
shall  return  to  my  rural  shades,  in  all  likeliliood  never  more  to  quit  them. 
I  have  formed  many  intimacies  and  friendships  here,  but  I  am  afraid  they  are 
all  of  too  tender  a  construction  to  bear  carriaije  a  hundred  and  fifty  nnles." 
One  v,'ord  more  on  the  subject  which  introduced  these  quotations: — .Mr. 
Dugald  Stewart,  no  doubt,  hints  at  what  was  a  common  enough  complaint 
among  the  elegant  literati  of  Edinburgh,  when  he  alludes,  in  his  letter  to 
Currie,  to  the  "  not  very  select  society"  in  which  Burns  indulged  himself. 
But  two  points  still  remain  somewhat  doubtful  ;  namely,  whether,  shovr 
and  marvel  of  the  season  as  he  M-as,  the  "  Ayrshire  ploughman"  really  had 
it  in  his  power  to  live  always  in  society  which  Mr.  Stewart  would  have  con- 
sidered as  "  very  select ;"  and  secondly,  whether,  in  so  doing,  he  could 
have  failed  to  chill  the  affection  of  those  humble  Ayrshire  friends,  who,  hav- 
-ing  shared  with  him  all  that  they  possessed  on  his  nrst  arrival  in  the  metro- 
polis, faitlifully  and  fondly  adhered  to  him,  after  the  springtide  of  fashion- 
able favour  did,  as  he  foresaw  it  would  do,  "  recede;"  and,  moreover,  per- 
haps to  provoke,  among  the  higher  circles  themselves,  criticisms  more  dis- 
tasteful to  his  proud  stomach,  than  any  probable  consequences  of  the  course 
of  conduct  which  he  actually  pursued,  'ihe  second  edition  of  Burns's 
poems  was  published  early  in  .March,  by  Creech  ;  there  were  no  less  tlian 
1500  subscribers,  many  of  whom  paid  more  than  the  shop-price  of  the  vo- 
lume. Although,  therefore,  the  final  settlement  with  the  bookseller  did  not 
take  place  till  nearly  a  year  after,  Burns  now  found  himself  in  possession 
of  a  considerable  sum  of  ready  money;  and  the  first  impulse  of  his  mind 
was  to  visit  some  of  the  classic  scenes  of  Scottish  history  and  romance.  He 
had  as  yet  seen  but  a  small  part  of  his  own  country,  and  this  by  no  means 
among  the  most  interesting  of  her  districts,  until,  indeed,  his  own  j)0(.'try 
niade  it  equal,  on  that  score,  to  any  other — "  The  appellat'.-.':  of  a  Scottisif 


Ix:  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURMS. 

bard  is  by  (ap  my  highest  pride ;  to  continue  to  deserve  it,  is  my  most  ex. 
alted  ambition.  Scottish  scenes,  and  Scottish  story,  are  the  themes  I 
could  v'kh  to  sing.  I  have  no  dearer  aim  than  to  have  it  in  my  power, 
unplagued  with  the  routine  of  business,  for  which,  Heaven  knows,  I  am 
unfit  enough,  to  make  leisurely  pilgrimages  through  Caledonia ;  to  sit  on 
the  fields  of  her  battles,  to  wander  on  the  romantic  banks  of  her  rivers, 
and  tc  Tiuse  by  the  stately  towers  or  venerable  ruins,  once  the  honoured 
abodes  if  her  heroes.     But  these  are  Utopian  views."  * 

The  magnificent  scenery  of  the  capital  itself  had  filled  him  with  extraor. 
ainary  delight.  In  the  spring  mornings,  he  walked  very  often  to  the  top  ol 
Arthur's  Seat,  and,  lying  prostrate  on  the  turf,  surveyed  the  rising  of  the 
sun  out  of  the  sea,  in  silent  admiration  ;  his  chosen  companion  on  such  oc- 
casions being  that  ardent  lover  of  nature,  and  learned  artist,  Mr.  Alexander 
Nasmyth.  It  was  to  this  gentleman,  equally  devoted  to  the  fine  arts,  as  to 
liberal  opinions,  that  Burns  sat  for  the  portrait  engraved  to  Creech's  edi- 
tion, and  which  is  here  repeated.  Indeed,  it  has  been  so  often  repeated,  and 
has  become  so  familiar,  that  to  omit  it  now  would  be  felt  as  a  blank  equal 
almost  to  the  leaving  out  of  one  of  the  principal  poems.  The  poet's  dress 
has  also  been  chronicled,  remarkably  as  he  then  appeared  in  the  first  hey- 
day of  his  reputation, — blue  coat  and  buff  vest,  with  blue  stripes,  (the 
Whig-livery),  very  tight  buckskin  breeches,  and  tight  jockey  boots 

The  Braid  hills,  to  the  south  of  Edinburgh,  were  also  among  his  favourite 
morning  walks  ;  and  it  was  in  some  of  these  that  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart  tells 
us,  "  he  charmed  him  still  more  by  his  private  conversation  than  he  had 
ever  done  in  company."  "  He  was,"  adds  the  professor,  "  passionately  fond 
of  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  I  recollect  once  he  told  me,  when  I  was  ad- 
miring a  distant  prospect  in  one  of  our  morning  walks,  that  the  sight  of  so 
many  smoking  cottages  gave  a  pleasure  to  his  mind  which  none  could  un- 
derstand vv'ho  had  not  witnessed,  like  himself,  the  happiness  and  the  worth 
which  they  contained."  Burns  was  far  too  busy  with  society  and  observa- 
tion to  find  time  for  poetical  composition,  during  his  first  residence  in 
Edinburgli.  Creech's  edition  included  some  pieces  of  great  merit,  which 
Iiad  not  been  previously  printed;  but,  with  the  exception  of  the  Address  to 
Eduiburgli,  all  of  them  appear  to  have  been  written  before  he  left  Ayrshire. 
Several  of  them,  indeed,  were  very  early  productions  :  The  most  important 
additions  were.  Death  and  Doctor  Ilornbuoh,  The  Brigs  of  Ayr,  The  Ordi' 
nation,  and  the  Address  to  the  tinco  Guid.  In  this  edition  also,  \VJie)i  Guild- 
ford fjidd  our  pilot  stood,  made  its  first  appearance. 

The  evening  before  l.c  quitted  Edinburgh,  the  poet  addressed  a  let- 
ter to  Dr.  lUair,  in  which,  taking  a  most  respectful  farewell  of  him,  and 
expressing,  in  lively  terms,  his  sense  of  gratitude  for  the  kindness  he  had 
shown  him,  he  thus  recurs  to  his  own  views  of  his  own  past  and  future  con- 
dition :  "  I  have  often  felt  the  embarrassment  of  my  singular  situation 
However  the  metor  like  novelty  of  my  appearance  in  the  world  might  at- 
tract notice,  1  knew  very  well,  that  my  utmost  merit  was  far  unequal  tc 
the  task  of  preserving  that  character  when  once  the  novelty  was  over.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind,  that  abuse,  or  almost  even  neglect,  will  not  sur- 
prise me  in  my  quarters." 

It  ought  not  to  be  omitted,  (liat  our  poet  bestowed  some  of  the  first  fruits 
of  Creech's  edition  in  the  erection  of  a  decent  tombstone  over  the  hitherto 

•  Letter  to  Mrs.  Dunlop   Edinburgh,  22d  I\Iarch  1787. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


1x1 


nei^Iccteci  rcnmins  of  his  unfortunate  predecessor,  Robert  Ferguson,  in  the 
C;uion<i:ati'  churchj'ard.  It  seems  also  due  to  him  here  to  insert  his  Address 
to  h.dinhurgh, — so  graphic  and  compreliensive, — as  tlie  proper  record  of 
the  feehngs  engendered  in  his  susceptible  and  grateful  mind  by  the  kind- 
ness shoun  to  him,  in  his  long  visit,  and  under  which  feelings  he  was  now 
about  to  quit  it  for  a  time. 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 


EniWA  !  Scoiia\<i  darling  scat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 
^\'here  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  legislation's  sovereign  pow'rs  • 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flowers, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ai/r  I  stray 'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingermg  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 

Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide. 

As  busy  trade  his  labours  plies'; 
There  architecture's  noble  pride 

Bids  elegance  and  splendour  rise  ; 
Here  justice,  from  her  native  skies, 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod  ; 
There  learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  science  in  her  coy  abode. 

Thy  sons,  Ediha,  social,  kind, 

\\'ith  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 
Their  views  enlarged,  their  liberal  mind, 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale  ; 
Attentive  still  to  sorrow's  wail. 

Or  modest  merit's  silent  claim  ; 
And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name. 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn  ! 

<jay  as  the  gilded  summer's  sky, 
Bweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn. 

Dear  as  the  raptured  thrill  of  joy  I 
Fail  Burnet  strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 

Hoftv'n's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine : 
I  see  the  sire  of  love  on  high, 

A I  d  own  his  work  indeed  divine  ! 


There,  watching  high  the  least  alarnis, 

Thy  rough  rude  fortress  gleams  afar  : 
Like  some  bold  vet'ran  grey  in  arms, 

And  mark'd  witi)  many  a  seamy  scar: 
The  pon'drous  wall  and  massy  bar. 

Grim-rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock  : 
Plave  oft  withstood  assailing  war. 

And  oft  repell'd  th'  invader's  shock. 

With  awe-struck  thought  and  pitying  teari 

I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 
Where  Scoiia''s  kings  of  other  years. 

Famed  heroes,  had  their  royal  home. 
Alas  !  how  changed  the  times  to  come  ! 

'I'heir  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ; 
Their  hapless  race  wild-wand'ring  roam  ! 

Tbo'  rigid  law  cries  out,  'twas  just ! 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 

\Vhose  ancestors  in  days  of  yore. 
Thro'  hostile  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps 

Old  Scotia''s  bloody  lion  bote  : 
E'en  /  who  sing  in  rustic  lore. 

Haply  mi/  siirs  have  left  their  shed, 
And  faced  grim  danger's  loudest  roar. 

Bold  following  where  i/our  fathers  led  { 

Eptxa  !  Scnfia'g  darling  seat ! 

All  haU  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs, 
M'here  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flowcra, 

As  on  the  banks  of  At/r  I  stray'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  Hng'ring  hourS) 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  aliad^ 


CHAPTER  VI 

Contents. — Makes  three  several  pilgrimages  in  Caledonia — Lands  from  the  first  if  them, 
after  an  ahsence  (f  six  months,  amonpU  his  friends  in  the  "  Auld  Clay  lii(;gin" — Finds 
honour  in  his  own  country — Falls  in  with  many  kind  friends  during  those  pilgrimages,  and 
is  familiar  icith  the  great,  but  ne'er  secures  one  effective  patron — Anecdotes  and  Sketches — 
Lingers  in  Edinburgh  amidst  the  fleshpts,  winter  17S7-8 — Upset  in  a  hackney  coach^ 
U'hich  produces  a  bruised  limb,  and  mournful  musings  for  six  weeks — Is  enrolled  in  the  EX' 
else — Another  crisis,  in  which  the  Poet  finds  it  necessary  to  implore  even  his  friend  Mrs. 
Dnnlop  not  to  desert  hij7i — Growls  over  his  publisher,  but  after  settling  with  him  Icaret 
E-V'nhurgh  with  £bQO — Steps  towards  a  more  regular  life. 


"  Ramsay  and  famous  Fer^juson, 
(lied  Forth  and  Tay  a  lift  aboon  ; 
Yarrow  and  Tweed  to  monie  a  tunc 

Thro'  Scotlajid  rings, 
"VATiile  Irvine,  L;ij;ar,  Ayr,  and  Doon, 

>«'aebody  sings." 

On  the  Q>U.  of  May,  Burns  left  Edinburgh,  in  company  with  IMr.  Robert 
7\inshe,  Writer  to  the  Signet,  the  son  of  a  proprietor  in  Berwickshire. — 
Among  ether  changes  "  which  fleeting  time  procureth,"  tliis  amiable  gen- 
tleman, whose  yoathtul  gaiety  made  him  a  chosen  associate  of  Burns,  is  now 
chiefly  known  as  the  author  of  some  Manuals  of  Devotion. — They  had 
formed  the  design  of  perambulating  the  picturesque  scenery  of  the  south- 
ern border,  and  in  particular  of  visiting  the  localities  celebrated  by  the 
old  minstrels,  of  whose  works  Burns  was  a  passionate  admirer. 

This  was  long  before  the  time  when  those  fields  of  Scottish  romance  were 
to  be  made  accessible  to  the  curiosity  of  citizens  by  stage-coaches  ;  and 
Burns  and  his  friend  performed  tlieir  tour  on  horseback ;  the  former  being 
mounted  on  a  favourite  mare,  whom  lie  had  named  Jenny  Geddes,  in  ho- 
nour of  the  good  woman  who  threw  her  stool  at  the  Dean  c'  Edinburgh's 
head  on  the  'Sid  of  July  l(i37,  when  jjie  attempt  was  made  co  introduce  a 
Scottish  Liturgy  into  the  service  of  St.  Giles's.  The  merits  of  the  trusty 
animal  have  been  set  forth  by  the  poet  in  very  expressive  and  humorous 
terms,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Nicoll  while  on  the  road,  and  which  will  be 
found  entire  in  the  Correspondence.  He  writes  : — "  INIy  auld  ga'd  gleyde 
o'  a  meere  has  huchyalled  up  hill  and  down  brae,  as  teuch  and  birnie  as  a 
vera  tievil,  wi'  me.  It's  true  she's  as  puir's  a  sangmaker,  and  as  hard's  a. 
kirk,  and  lipper-Iaipers  when  she  takes  the  gate,  like  a  lady's  gentlewoman 
in  a  minuwae,  or  a  hen  on  a  het  girdle  ;  but  slie's  a  j'auld  poutherin  girran 
for  a'  that.  When  ance  her  ringbanes  and  pavies,  her  cruiks  and  cramps, 
are  fairly  soupled,  she  beets  to,  beets  to,  and  a^'e  the  hindmost  hour  tlie 
lightest,"  (Jlc.  &c. 

Burns  passed  from  Edinburgh  to  Berrywell,  the  residence  of  Mr.  Ainslie's 
family,  and  visited  successively  Dunse,  Coklstream,  Kelso,  Eleurs,  and  the 
ruins  of  Uoxburgh  Castle,  nea*-  mIucIi  a  holly  bush  still  marks  the  spot  or 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Ixiii 

whico  James  II.  of  Scotland  was  killed  by  the  bursting  of  a  ( annon.  Jedburgh 
— where  he  admired  the  "  charming  romantic  situation  of  the  town,  with  gar- 
dens and  orchards  intermingled  among  the  houses  of  a  once  magnificent  ca- 
thedral (abbey);"  and  was  struck,  (as  in  the  other  towns  of  the  same  district), 
with  tlie  appearance  of  "  old  rude  grandure,"  and  the  idleness  of  decay ; 
Melrose.  "  that  far-famed  glorious  ruin,"  Selkirk,  Ettrick,  and  the  braes  ol 
Yarrow,  Having  spent  throe  weeks  in  this  district,  of  which  it  has  been 
justl}''  said,  "  that  every  field  has  its  battle,  and  every  rivulet  its  icng," 
Burns  passed  the  Border,  and  visited  Alnwick,  Warkworth,  Morpeth,  New- 
castle, Hexliam,  Wardrue,  and  Carlisle.  He  then  turned  northwards,  and 
rode  by  Annan  and  Dumfries  to  Dalswinton,  where  he  examined  Mr. 
Milkr's  proj)erty,  and  was  so  much  pleased  with  the  soil,  and  the  terms 
on  wliich  the  landlord  was  willing  to  grant  him  a  lease,  that  he  resolved  to 
return  again  in  the  course  of  the  summer. 

The  poet  visited,  in  the  course  of  his  tour.  Sir  James  Hall  of  DunglaSj 
author  of  the  well  known  Essat/ on  Gulhic  ArcJtitccture,  Sec;  Sir  Alexander 
and  Lady  Harriet  Don,  (sister  to  his  patron.  Lord  Glencairn),  at  Newton- 
Don  ;  IMr.  Brjdone,  the  author  of  Travels  in  Sicily ;  the  amiable  and 
learned  Dr.  Somerville  of  Jedburgh,  the  historian  of  Queen  Anne,  S:c. ;  and, 
as  usual,  recorded  in  his  journal  his  impressions  as  to  their  manners  and 
characters.  His  reception  was  everywhere  most  flattering.  The  sketch 
of  his  tour  is  a  very  brief  one.     It  runs  thus  : — 

"  Saturday,  May  6.  Left  Edinburgh — Lammer-muir  hills,  miserably 
dreary  in  general,  but  at  times  very  picturesque. 

"  Lanson-edge,  a  glorious  view  of  the  Merse.     Reach  Berrywell.     .     . 
The  family-meeting  with  my  compagnon  de  voyage,  very  charming  ;  parti- 
cularly the  sister. 

"  Sunday.     Went  to  church  at  Dunse.     Heard  Dr.  Bowmaker. 

"  Monday.  Coldstream — glorious  river  Tweed — clear  and  majestic — 
fine  bi'idge — dine  at  Coldstream  with  Mr.  Ainslie  and  Mr.  Foreman.  Beat 
Mr.  Foreman  in  a  dispute  about  ^'oltaire.  Drink  tea  at  Lenncl-House  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brydone.  .  .  .  Reception  extremely  flattering.  Sleep  at 
Coldstream. 

"  Titesday.  Breakfast  at  Kelso — charming  situation  of  the  town — fine 
Dridge  over  the  Tweed.  Enchanting  views  and  prospects  on  both  sides  oi 
the  river,  especially  on  the  Scotch  side.  .  .  .  Visit  Roxburgh  Palace 
— fine  situation  of  it.  Ruins  of  Roxburgh  Caslle — a  holly  bush  growing 
where  James  the  Second  was  accidentally  killed  by  the  bursting  of  a  can- 
non. A  small  old  religious  ruin  and  a  fine  old  garden  planted  by  the  reli- 
gious, rooted  out  and  destroyed  by  a  Hottentot,  a  maitre  d'  hoicl  of  the 
Duke's  ! — Climate  and  soil  of  Berwickshire,  and  even  Roxburglishire,  su- 
perior to  Ayrshire — bad  roads — turnip  and  sheep  husbandry,  their  great 
improvements.  .  .  .  Low  markets,  consequently  low  lands — magnifi- 
cence of  farmers  and  farm  houses.  Come  up  the  Teviot,  and  up  the  Jed 
to  Jedburgh,  to  lie,  and  so  wish  myself  good  night. 

"  Wednesday.  Breakfast  with  Mr.  Fair.  .  .  .  Charming  romantic 
situation  of  Jedburgh,  with  gardens  and  orchards,  intermingled  among  the 
houses  and  the  ruins  of  a  once  magnificent  cathedral.  All  the  towns  here 
have  the  appearance  of  old  rude  grandeur,  but  extremely  idle. — Jed,  a  fine 
romantic  little  river.  Dined  with  Capt.  liutherford,  .  .  .  return  tc 
Jedburgh.  Walked  up  the  Jed  v  ith  some  ladies  to  be  shown  Love-lane, 
and  Blackburn,  two  fairy  scenes      Introduced  to  Mr.  Potts,  writer,  and  to 


.xi/  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Mr.  Somerville,  the  clergyman  of  the  parish,  a  man,  and  a  gentleman,  but 
eadly  addicted  to  punnin<^. 


"  Jedburgh,  Saturday.  Was  presented  by  the  Magistrates  with  the  free- 
dom of  the  town.  Took  farewell  of  Jedburgh,  with  some  melancholy  sen- 
sations. 

"  Monday,  May  14,  Kelso.  Dine  with  the  farmer's  club— all  gentlemen 
talking  of  high  matters — each  of  them  keeps  a  hunter  from  .iJBO  to  150 
value,  and  attends  the  fox-hunting  club  in  the  country.  Go  out  with  Mr. 
Ker,  one  of  the  club,  and  a  friend  of  Mr.  Ainslie's,  to  sleep.  In  his  mind 
and  manners,  Mr.  Ker  is  astonishingly  like  my  dear  old  friend  Robert  Muir 
— Every  thing  in  his  house  elegant.  He  offers  to  accompany  me  in  my 
English  tour. 

"  Tuesday.     Dins  with  Sir  Alexander  Don  ;   a  very  wet  day.     .    . 
Sleep  at  Mr.  Ker's  again,  and  set  out  next  day  for  Melrose — visit  Dryburgh 
a  fine  old  ruined  abbey,  by  the  way.     Cross  the  Leader,  and  come  up  the 
Tweed  to  Melrose.     Dine  there,  and  visit  that  far-famed  glorious  ruin — 
Come  to  Selkirk  up  the  banks  of  Ettrick.     The  whole  country  hereabouts, 
both  on  Tweed  and  Ettrick,  remarkably  stony." 

He  wrote  no  verses,  as  far  as  is  known,  during  this  tour,  except  a  humor- 
ous Epistle  to  his  bookseller,  Creech,  dated  Selkirk,  l.Sth  May.  In  this 
he  makes  complimentary  allusions  to  some  of  the  men  of  letters  who  were 
used  to  meet  at  breakfast  in  Creech's  apartments  in  those  days — whence 
the  name  of  Creech's  Ltvce  ;  and  touches,  too,  briefly  on  some  of  the  sce- 
nery he  had  visited. 

"  Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I've  sped. 
And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 
And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red, 

^\'hile  tempests  blav/." 

Burns  returned  to  INIauchline  on  the  8th  of  July.  It  is  pleasing  to  imagine 
ihe  delight  with  which  he  must  have  been  received  by  the  family  after  the 
absence  of  six  months,  in  which  his  fortunes  and  prospects  had  undergone 
so  wonderful  a  change.  He  left  them  comparatively  unknown,  his  tender- 
est  feelings  torn  and  wounded  by  the  behaviour  of  the  Armours,  and  so 
miserably  poor,  that  he  had  been  for  some  weeks  obliged  to  skulk  from  the 
Sheriff's  oificers,  to  avoid  the  payment  of  a  paltry  debt.  He  returned, 
his  poetical  fame  established,  the  whole  country  ringing  with  his  praises, 
from  a  capital  in  which  he  was  known  to  have  formed  the  wonder  and  de- 
light of  the  polite  and  the  learned  ;  if  not  rich,  yet  with  more  money  al- 
ready than  any  of  his  kindred  had  ever  hoped  to  see  him  possess,  and  with 
prospects  of  future  patronage  and  permanent  elevation  in  the  scale  of  so- 
ciety, which  might  have  dazzled  steadier  eyes  than  those  of  maternal  and 
fraternal  affection.  The  prophet  had  at  last  honour  in  his  own  country  : 
but  the  haughty  spirit  that  had  preserved  its  balance  in  Edinburgh,  was 
not  likely  to  lose  it  at  Mauchline  ;  and  we  have  him  writing  from  the  auld 
clay  biggin  on  the  18th  of  June,  in  terms  as  strongly  expressive  as  any 
that  ever  came  from  his  pen,  of  that  jealous  pride  which  formed  tlie  ground- 
work of  his  character;  that  dark  suspiciousness  of  fortune,  which  the  sub- 
sequent course  of  his  history  too  well  justified  ;  that  nervous  intolerance  ol 
condescension,  and  consummate  scorn  of  meanness,  which  attended  him 
through  life,  and  made  the  study  of  his  species,  for  which  nature  had  giver 
him  such  extraordinary  qualifications,  the  source  of  more  pain  tlian  was 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  ix> 

ever  counterbalanced  by  tbe  exquisite  capacity  for  enjoyment  witli  wliich 
he  was  also  endowed.  There  are  few  ol"  liis  letters  in  which  more  of  the 
dark  traits  of  his  spirit  come  to  light  than  in  the  followinj^  extract: — 
"  I  never,  my  friend,  thought  mankind  capable  of  any  thing  very  gene- 
rous ;  but  the  stateliness  of  the  i)atricians  of  Edinburgh,  and  the  ser\ility 
of  my  plebeian  brethren,  (who,  perhaps,  formerly  eyed  me  askance),  since  I 
returned  home,  have  nearly  put  me  out  of  conceit  altogether  with  my  spe- 
cies. I  have  bought  a  pocket-Milton,  which  I  carry  perpetually  about  me, 
in  order  to  study  the  sentiments,  the  dauntless  magnanimity,  the  intrepid 
unyielding  independence,  the  desperate  daring,  and  noble  defiance  of  hard- 
ship, in  that  great  personage — Satan.  .  .  .  The  many  ties  of  acquaintance 
and  friendship  I  have,  or  think  I  have,  in  life — I  have  felt  along  the  lines, 
and,  d — n  them,  they  are  almost  all  of  them  of  such  frail  texture,  that  I 
am  sure  they  would  not  stand  the  breath  of  the  least  adverse  breeze  of 
fortune." 

Among  those  who  now  appeared  sufficiently  ready  to  court  his  society, 
were  the  family  of  Jean  Armour.  Burns's  regard  for  this  aflectionate  young 
woman  had  outlived  his  resentment  of  her  father's  disavowal  of  him  in  the 
preceding  summer;  and  from  the  time  of  this  reconciliation,  it  is  probable 
he  looked  forward  to  a  permanent  union  with  the  mother  of  his  children. 

Burns  at  least  fancied  himself  to  be  busy  with  serious  plans  for  his  fu- 
ture establishment;  and  Avas  very  naturally  disposed  to  avail  himself,  as  far 
as  he  could,  of  the  opportunities  of  travel  and  observation,  which  an  inter- 
val of  leisure  might  present.  Moreover,  in  spite  of  his  gloomy  language,  a 
specimen  of  which  has  just  been  quoted,  we  are  not  to  doubt  that  he  de- 
rived much  pleasure  from  witnessing  the  extensive  popularity  of  his  writ- 
ings, and  from  the  flattering  homage  he  was  sure  to  receive  in  his  own  per- 
son in  the  various  districts  of  his  native  country ;  nor  can  any  one  wonder 
that,  after  the  state  of  high  excitement  in  which  he  had  spent  the  winter 
and  spring,  he,  fond  as  he  was  of  his  family,  and  eager  to  make  them  ])ar- 
takers  in  all  his  good  fortune,  should  have,  just  at  this  time,  found  himself 
incapable  of  sitting  down  contentedly  for  any  considerable  period  together 
in  so  humble  and  quiet  a  circle  as  that  of  Mossgiel.  His  appetite  for  wan 
dering  appears  to  have  been  only  sharpened  by  his  Border  excursion.  After 
remaining  a  few  days  at  home,  he  returned  to  Edinburgh,  and  thence  pro- 
ceeded on  another  short  tour,  by  way  of  Stirling,  to  Invcrary,  and  so  back 
again,  by  Dumbarton  and  Glasgow,  to  JMauchline.  Of  this  second  excur- 
sion, no  journal  has  been  discovered  ;  nor  do  the  extracts  from  his  corres- 
pondence, printed  by  Ur.  Currie,  appear  to  be  worthy  of  much  notice.  In 
one,  he  briefly  describes  the  West  Highlands  as  a  country  "  where  savage 
streams  tumble  over  savage  mountains,  thinly  overspread  with  savage  flocks, 
which  starvingly  support  as  savage  inhabitants  :"  and  in  anotner,  he  gives 
an  account  of  Jenny  (Jeddes  running  a  race  (ifier  clnmer  with  a  Highlander's 
pony — of  his  dancing  and  drinking  till  sunrise  at  a  gentleman's  house  on 
Loch  Lomond ;  and  of  other  similar  matters. — "  I  have  as  yet,"  says  he, 
"  fixed  on  nothing  with  respect  to  the  serious  business  of  life.  I  am,  just 
as  usual,  a  rhyming,  mason-making,  raking,  aimless,  idle  fellow.  However, 
I  shall  somewhere  have  a  farm  soon." 

In  the  course  of  this  tour,  Burns  visited  the  mother  and  sisters  of  his 
friend,  Gavin  Hamilton,  then  residing  at  Harvieston,  in  Clackmannanshire, 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  the  magnificent  scenery  of  Castle  Camp- 
bell, and  the  vale  of  Devon.     Castle  Cauipbell,  called  otherwise  the  Cuslle 


Ixvi  LIFE  Oi'  ROBERT  BURNS 

cf  Glonm,  is  grandly  situated  in  a  gorge  of  the  Ochills,  commanding  an 
extensive  view  of  the  plain  of  Stirling.  This  ancient  possession  of  the 
Argyll  family  was,  in  some  sort,  a  town-residence  of  those  chieftains  in  the 
days  when  the  court  was  usually  held  at  Stirling,  Linlithgow,  or  Falkland 
The  castle  was  burnt  by  Montrose,  and  has  never  been  repaired.  The 
Cauldron  Linn  and  Rumbling  Brigg  of  the  Devon  lie  near  Castle  Camp- 
bell, on  the  verge  of  the  plain.  He  was  especially  delighted  with  one  oi 
the  young  ladies  ;  and,  according  to  his  usual  custom,  celebrated  her  in 
a  song,  in  which,  in  opposition  to  his  general  custom,  there  is  nothing  but 
the  respectfulness  of  admiration. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear-winding;  Devon, 

^Vith  green  sprsading  bushes,  and  flowers  blooming  fair; 

But  the  bonniest  flower  on  tlie  banks  of  the  Devon 
AVas  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the  Ayr. 

.Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet  blushing  flower. 

In  the  gay  rosy  morn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew  ! 
And  gentle  the  fall  of  the  soft  vernal  shower. 

That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew. 

O  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 

AVith  chill  hoary  wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn  ! 
And  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizes 

The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  and  lawn  ! 

I>et  Bourbon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies. 

And  England  triumphant  display  her  proud  rose  ; 
A  fairer  than  eitlier  adorns  tlie  green  valleys, 

AVhere  Devon,  sweet  Devon,  meandering  flows. 

At  Harviestonbank,  also,  the  poet  first  became  acquainted  with  Miss 
Chalmers,  afterwards  Mrs.  Hay,  to  whom  one  of  the  most  interesting  se- 
ries of  his  letters  is  addressed.  Indeed,  with  the  exception  of  his  letters  to 
]Mrs.  Dunlop,  there  is,  perhaps,  no  part  of  his  correspondence  which  may 
be  quoted  so  uniformly  to  his  honour.  It  was  on  this  expedition  that, 
liaving  been  visited  with  a  high  flow  of  Jacobite  indignation  while  viewing 
the  neglected  palace  at  Stirling,  he  was  imprudent  enough  to  write  some 
verses  bitterly  vituperative  of  the  reigning  familj^  on  the  window  of  his 
inn.  These  verses  were  copied  and  talked  of;  and  although  the  next  time 
Burns  passed  through  Stirling,  he  himself  broke  the  pane  of  glass  contain- 
ing them,  they  were  remembered  years  afterwards  to  his  disadvantage,  and 
even  danger. — As  these  verses  have  never  appeared  in  any  edition  of  his 
works  hitliei  to  published  in  Britain,  we  present  them  to  our  reatlers  as  a 
literary  curiosity. 

Here  once  in  triumph  Stuarts  reign'd. 
And  laws  for  Scotia  wlH  ordain'd  ; 
I'ut  now  unroof 'd  their  palace  st-.mds  ; 
Tlicir  sceptre's  sway'd  by  other  hands. 

The  injured  Stuart  line  is  gone, 

A  race  ouilandisli  fills  the  throne  ; — 

An  idiot  race,  to  lionour  lost. 

Who  know  them  best,  despise  them  most 

The  young  ladies  of  Harvieston  were,  according  tc  Dr.  Currie,  surprised 
with  the  calm  manner  in  which  Burns  contemplated  their  fine  scenery  on 
Devon  water  and  the  Doctor  enters  into  a  little  dissertation  on  the  subject, 
showing  that  a  man  of  Burns's  lively  imagination  might  probably  have  form- 
f-A  anticipations  which  the  realities  oi"  the  prosjiect  might  rather  disappoint 


I  I 


! 


I 

I    ! 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Ixvii 

This  is  possible  enough ;  but  I  suppose  few  will  take  it  for  gnv/.tcd  that 
Bums  surveyed  any  seenes  either  of  beauty  or  of  grandeur  without  emo- 
tion, merely  beeause  he  did  not  choose  to  be  ecstatic  for  the  benefit  ot  a 
company  of  young  ladies.  He  was  indeed  very  impatient  of  interruption 
on  such  occasions  :  riding  one  dark  night  near  Carron,  liis  companion  teased 
him  with  noisy  exclamations  of  delight  and  wonder,  whenever  an  opening 
in  tlie  wood  permitted  them  to  see  the  magnificent  glare  of  the  furnaces  ; 
"  Look,  Burns  !  Good  Heaven  !  look  !  look  !  wliat  a  glorious  sight  !" 
"  Sir,"  said  Burns,  clapping  spurs  to  Jenny  Geddes,  "  1  would  not  look! 
look  !   at  your  bidding,  if  it  were  the  mouth  of  hell  !" 

Burns  spent  the  month  of  July  at  Mossgiel ;  and  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart, 
in  a  letter  to  Currie,  gives  some  recollections  of  him  as  he  then  appeared : 

"  Notwithstanding  the  various  reports  I  heard  daring  the  preceding  win- 
ter of  Burns's  predilection  for  convivial,  and  not  very  select  society,  I 
should  have  concluded  in  favour  of  liis  habits  of  sobriety,  from  all  of  him 
that  ever  fell  under  my  own  observation.  He  told  me  indeed  himself,  that 
the  weakness  of  his  stomach  was  such  as  to  deprive  him  entirely  of  any 
merit  in  his  temperance.  1  was,  however,  somewhat  alarmed  about  the 
effect  of  his  now  comparatively  sedentary  and  luxurious  life,  when  he  con- 
fessed to  me,  the  first  night  he  spent  in  my  house  after  his  winter's  cam- 
paign in  town,  that  he  had  been  much  disturbed  when  in  bed,  by  a  palpi- 
tatio;i  at  h.is  heart,  which,  he  said,  was  a  complaint  to  which  he  had  of  late 
become  subject.  In  the  course  of  the  same  season  I  was  led  by  curiosity 
to  attend  for  an  hour  or  two  a  Masonic  Lodge  in  Maucldine,  where  Burns 
presided.  He  had  occasion  to  make  some  short  unpremeditated  com- 
pliments to  different  individuals  from  whom  he  had  no  reason  to  expect  a 
visit,  and  every  thing  he  said  was  happily  conceived,  and  forcibly  as  well 
as  fluently  expressed.  His  manner  of  speaking  in  public  had  evidently  the 
marks  of  some  practice  in  extempore  elocution." 

In  August,  Burns  revisited  Stirlingshire,  in  company  with  Dr.  Adair,  of 
Harrowgate,  and  remained  ten  days  at  Ilarvieston.  He  was  received  with 
particular  kindness  at  Ochtertyre,  on  the  Teith,  by  Air.  Ramsay  (a  friend 
of  Blacklock),  whose  beautiful  retreat  he  enthusiastically  admired.  His 
host  was  among  the  last  of  those  old  Scottish  La/ini.sfs  who  began  with  Bu- 
chanan. Mr.  Ramsay,  among  other  eccentricities,  had  sprinkled  the  walls 
of  his  house  with  Latin  inscriptions,  some  of  them  highly  elegant ;  and 
these  particularly  interested  Burns,  who  asked  and  obtained  copies  and 
translations  of  them.  This  amiable  man  (another  Monkbarns)  was  deeply 
read  in  Scottish  antiquities,  and  the  author  of  some  learned  essays  on  the 
elder  poetry  of  his  country.  His  conversation  must  have  delighted  any 
man  of  talents  ;  and  Burns  and  he  were  mutually  charmed  with  each  other. 
Ramsay  advised  him  strongly  to  turn  his  attention  to  the  romantic  drama, 
and  proposed  the  GeiUle  Shepherd  as  a  model :  he  also  urged  him  to  write 
Scnltish  Georgics,  observing  that  Thomson  had  by  no  means  exliausted  that 
field.  He  appears  to  have  relished  both  hints.  "  But,"  says  .Mr.  K.  "  to 
have  executed  either  plan,  steadiness  and  abstraction  from  company  were 
wanting." — Mr.  Ramsay  thus  writes  of  Burns  : — "  I  have  been  in  the  com- 
pany of  many  men  of  genius,  some  of  them  poets  ;  but  I  never  witnessed 
such  flashes  of  intellectual  brightness  as  from  him.  the  impulse  of  the  mo- 
ment, sparks  of  celestial  fire.  I  never  was  more  delighted,  therefore,  than 
with  his  company  two  days  tete-a-tete.  In  a  mixed  company  1  should  have 
j»iade  little  of  him  ;  for,  to  use  a  gamester's  phrase,  he  did  not  always  knovr 


Ixviii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

wlien  to  play  off  and  when  to  play  on.  When  I  asked  him  whether  the 
Edinburgh  literati  had  mended  his  poems  by  their  criticisms — *  Sir,'  saio 
he.  '  those  pjentlemen  remind  me  of  some  spinsters  in  my  country,  who  «pin 
their  thread  so  fine  that  it  is  neither  fit  for  weft  nor  woof.'  " 

At  Clackmannan  Tower,  the  Poet's  jacobitism  procured  him  a  hearty 
welcome  from  the  ancient  lady  of  the  place,  who  gloried  in  considering 
herself  a  lineal  descendant  of  Robert  Bruce.  She  bestowed  on  Burns  knight- 
hood with  the  touch  of  the  hero's  sword ;  and  delighted  him  by  giving  ag 
her  toast  after  dinner,  Hooki  imcos,  away  strangers ! — a  shepherd's  cry 
when  strange  sheep  mingle  in  the  flock.  At  Dunfermline  the  poet  betray- 
ed deep  emotion,  Dr.  Adair  tells  us,  on  seeing  the  grave  of  the  Bruce  ;  but, 
passing  to  another  mood  on  entering  the  adjoining  church,  he  mounted  the 
pulpit,  and  addressed  his  companions,  who  had,  at  his  desire,  ascended  the 
cutti/stool,  in  a  parody  of  the  rebuke  which  he  had  himself  undergone  some 
time  before  at  Mauchline.  From  Dunfermline  the  poet  crossed  the  Frith  ot 
Forth  to  Edinburgh  ;  and  forthwith  set  out  with  his  friend  Nicoll  on  a  more 
extensive  tour  than  he  had  as  yet  undertaken,  or  was  ever  again  to  under- 
take. Some  fragments  of  his  journal  have  recently  been  discovered,  and 
are  now  in  my  hands  ;  so  that  I  may  hope  to  add  some  interesting  particu- 
lars to  the  accout  of  Dr.  Currie.  The  travellers  hired  a  post-chaise  for 
their  expedition — the  schoolmaster  being,  probably,  no  very  skilful  eques- 
trian. 

*•  August  '25th,  17S7 This  day,"  says  Burns,  "  I  leave  Edinburgh  for 

a  tour,  in  company  with  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Nicoll,  whose  originality  ot 
humour  promises  me  much  entertainment. — IJnlithgoiv.  —A  fertile  im- 
proved country  is  West  Lothian.  The  more  elegance  and  luxury  among 
the  farmers,  1  always  observe,  in  equal  proportion,  the  rudeness  and  stupi- 
dity of  tlie  peasantry.  Tliis  remark  1  have  made  all  over  the  Lothians, 
Merse,  Roxburgh,  S:c. ;  and  for  this,  among  other  reasons,  I  think  that  a 
man  of  romantic  taste,  '  a  man  of  feeling,'  will  be  better  pleased  with  the 
poverty,  but  intelligent  minds  of  the  peasantry  of  Ayrshire,  (peasantry  they 
are  all,  below  the  Justice  of  Peace),  than  the  opulence  of  a  club  of  Merse 
farmers,  when  he,  at  the  same  time,  considers  the  Vandalism  of  their  plough- 
folks,  kc.  I  carry  this  idea  so  far,  that  an  uninclosed,  unimproved  coun- 
try is  to  me  actually  more  agreeable  as  a  prospect,  than  a  country  culti- 
vated like  a  garden." 

It  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  Robert  Burns  should  have  estimated 
the  wealth  of  nations  on  the  principles  of  a  political  economist;  or  that 
with  him  the  greatest  possible  produce, —  no  matter  how  derived, — was  to 
be  the  paramount  principle.  But.  where  the  greatness  and  happiness  of  a 
people  are  concerned,  perhaps  the  inspirations  of  the  poet  may  be  as  safelj 
tak^a  for  a  guide  as  the  inductions  of  the  political  economist: — 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs, 

That  makes  her  loved  at  hoine,  revered  abroad : 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  tlie  breath  of  kings, 

"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God  !" 
And  cotes,  in  fair  virtue's  heav'nly  road, 

'I'he  coUdf^e  leaves  the  pn lace   far  behind  ; 
^Vh•it  is  a  lordling's  poniji  !  a  cumbrous  load. 

Disjj'uising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined; 
O  Scothi  .'  my  dear,  my  native  soil  ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent 
Li'ng  may  thy  hardv  sons  of  rustic    oil. 

Be  blest  wiih  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet  content  1 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS.  Ixij 

And,  O  I  may  IIe:iv'n  ilieir  sim))le  lives  prevent 

From  Luxury's  contapon,  wc.ik  and  vile  ! 
Tlicn,  liowe'er  croivni  ;u.d  conmrlt  be  rciU, 
A  viit-^oiis  populace  may  rise  il>e  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  tire  around  their  much-Iovcd  Islr. 

Of  Linlithgow  the  poet  says,  "  the  town  carries  the  appearance  of  rude, 
decayed,  idle  grandeur — charnnngly  rural  retired  situation  — the  old  Roya. 
Palace  a  tolerably  fine  but  melancholy  ruin — sweetly  situated  by  the  brink 
of  a  loch.  Shown  the  room  where  the  beautiful  injured  Mary  Queen  ot 
Scots  was  born.  A  pretty  good  old  Gothic  church — the  infamous  stool  ot 
repentance,  in  the  old  Romish  way,  on  a  lofty  situation.  What  a  poor 
pimping  business  is  a  Presbyterian  place  of  worship ;  dirty,  narrow,  and 
squalid,  stuck  in  a  corner  oiold  Popish  grandeur,  such  as  Linlithgow,  and 
nmch  more  Melrose  !  Ceremony  and  show,  if  judiciously  thrown  in,  are  ab- 
solutely necessary  for  the  bulk  of  mankind,  both  in  religious  and  civil  mat- 
ters  " 

At  Bannockburn  he  writes  as  follows  : — "  Here  no  Scot  can  pass  unin- 
terested. I  fancy  to  myself  that  1  see  my  gallant  countrymen  coming  over 
the  hill,  and  down  upon  the  plunderers  of  their  country,  the  murderers  or 
their  fathers,  noble  revenge  and  just  hate  glowing  in  every  vein,  striding 
more  and  more  eagerly  as  they  approach  the  oppressive,  insulting,  blood- 
thirsty foe.  I  see  them  meet  in  glorious  triumphant  congratulation  on  the 
victorious  field,  exulting  in  their  heroic  royal  leader,  and  rescued  Mberty 
and  independence." — Here  we  have  the  germ  of  Burns"s  famous  ode  on  the 
battle  of  Bannockburn. 

At  Taymouth,  the  Journal  merely  has — "  described  in  rhyme."  This  al- 
ludes to  the  "  verses  written  with  a  pencil  over  the  mantle-piece  of  the 
parlour  in  the  inn  at  Kenmore ;"  some  of  which  are  among  his  best  purely 
Lnglish  heroics — 

"  Poetic  ardours  in  my  ha<iom  swell, 

Lone  wanderinjf  by  the  hermit  s  mossy  cell ; 

The  sweeping,'  theatre  of  hanging  woods  ; 

The  incessant  roar  of  headlong-tumbling  floods  .... 

Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  heaven-taught  lyre, 

And  look  through  nature  with  creative  fire  .... 

Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  fate  half  reconciled, 

misfortune's  lighten'd  steps  might  wander  wild  ; 

And  Disappointment,  in  tnese  lonely  bounds. 

Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter  rankling  wounds  ; 

Here  heart-struck  (irief  might  heavenward  stretch  her  scan. 

And  injured  Worth  forget  ar.d  pardon  man." 

Of  Glenlyon  we  have  this  memorandum: — •'  Druids*  temple,  three  cir. 
cles  of  stones  the  outermost  sunk,  the  second  has  thirteen  stones  remain- 
mg,  the  innermost  eight ;  two  large  detached  ones  like  a  gate  to  the  south- 
east— sny  prayers  on  if." 

His  notes  on  Dunkeld  and  Blair  of  Athole  are  as  follows: — "  Dunneld 
—  Breakfast  with  Dr.  Stuart — Neil  Gow  plays;  a  short,  stout-built,  High- 
land figure,  with  his  greyish  hair  shed  on  his  honest  social  brow — an  inte- 
resting face,  marking  strong  sense,  kind  openheartedness  mixed  with 
unmistrusting  simplicity — visit  his  house — Margaret  (jow.  —  Friday — 
ride  up  Tummel  river  to  IHair.  lascally,  a  beautilul  romantic  nest — wild 
grandeur  of  the  pass  of  Killikrankie — visit  the  gallant  Lord  Dundee's  stone. 
• — Bfcir — sup  with  the  Duchess — easy  and  happy  from  the  manners  of 
tliat  family — confirmed  in  my  good  opinion  of  my  friend  Walker. — Sutur* 
day — Tisit  tie  scenes  round  Blair — fine,  but  spoilt  with  bad  taste." 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS 

Mr.  Walker,  who,  as  we  have  seen,  formed  Burns's  acquaintance  in 
Edinburgh  tlirough  Blacklock,  was  at  this  period  tutor  in  the  family  ol 
Athole,  and  from  him  the  following  particulars  of  Burns's  reception  at  the 
Beat  of  his  noble  patron  are  derived  : — "  On  reaching  Blair,  he  sent  me  no- 
tice of  his  arrival  (as  I  had  been  previously  acquainted  with  him),  and  I 
hastened  to  meet  him  at  the  inn.  The  Duke,  to  whom  he  brought  a  letter 
of  introduction,  was  from  home  ;  but  the  Duchess,  being  informed  of  his  ar 
rival,  gave  him  an  invitation  to  sup  and  sleep  at  Athole  House.  He  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  ;  but,  as  the  hour  of  supper  was  at  some  distance, 
begged  I  would  in  the  interval  be  his  guide  through  the  grounds.  It  was 
already  growing  dark  ;  yet  the  softened,  though  faint  and  uncertain,  view 
of  tlieir  beauties,  which  the  moonlight  afforded  us,  seemed  exactly  suited 
to  the  state  of  his  feelings  at  the  time.  I  had  often,  like  others,  experienced 
the  pleasures  which  arise  from  the  sublime  or  elegant  landscape,  but  I  ne- 
ver saw  those  feelings  so  intense  as  in  Burns.  When  we  reached  a  rustic 
hut  on  the  river  Tilt,  where  it  is  overhung  by  a  woody  precipice,  from 
which  there  is  a  noble  water-fall,  he  threw  himse.lf  on  the  heathy  seat, 
and  gave  himself  up  to  a  tender,  abstracted,  and  voluptuous  enthusiasm  ot 
imagination.  It  v/as  v/ith  much  difficulty  I  prevailed  on  him  to  quit  this 
spot,  and  to  be  introduced  in  proper  time  to  supper.  My  curiosity  was 
great  to  see  how  he  would  conduct  himself  in  company  so  different  from 
what  he  had  been  accustomed  to.  His  manner  was  unembarrassed,  plain, 
aiid  firm.  He  appeared  to  have  complete  reliance  on  his  own  native  good 
sense  for  directing  his  behaviour.  He  seemed  at  once  to  perceive  and  to 
appreciate  what  was  due  to  the  company  and  to  himself,  and  never  to  for- 
get a  proper  respect  for  the  separate  species  cf  dignity  belonging  to  each. 
He  did  not  arrogate  conversation,  but,  when  led  into  it,  he  spoke  with  ease, 
propriet3\  and  manliness.  He  tried  to  exert  his  abilities,  because  he  kncv/ 
it  was  ability  alone  gave  him  a  title  to  be  there.  'Jhe  Duke's  fine  young 
family  attracted  much  of  his  admiration;  he  drank  their  healths  as  honesl 
men  and  bnnnie  lay.scs,  an  idea  which  Avas  much  applauded  by  the  company, 
aiid  A'ith  which  he  has  very  felicitously  closed  his  poem.  Next  day  I  took 
a  ride  with  him  tlirough  some  of  the  most  romantic  parts  of  that  neigh- 
bourhood, and  was  highly  gratified  by  his  conversation.  As  a  specimen 
pf  his  happiness  of  concei)tion  and  strength  of  expression.  I  will  mention  a 
cmark  which  he  made  on  his  fellow-traveller,  who  was  walking  at  the  time 
3  few  paces  before  us.  He  was  a  man  of  a  robust  but  clumsy  person  ;  and 
wliile  Burns  was  expressing  to  me  the  value  he  entertained  for  him,  on 
account  of  his  vigorous  talents,  although  they  were  clouded  at  t  mos  by 
coarseness  of  manners ;  "  in  ^ihort,'  he  added,  "  his  mind  is  like  his  body, 
he  has  a  confounded  strong  in-kneed  sort  of  a  soul."' — Much  attention  was 
paid  to  Burns  both  before  and  after  the  Duke's  return,  of  which  he  was 
perfectly  sensible,  without  being  vain  ;  and  at  his  departure  1  recommended 
to  him  as  the  most  appropriate  return  he  could  make,  to  write  some  des- 
criptive verses  on  any  of  the  scenes  with  which  he  had  been  so  much  de- 
lighted. After  leaving  Blair,  he,  by  the  Duke's  advice,  visited  the  ]-\ills  (J 
Jiriiar,  and  in  a  i'ew  days  1  received  a  letter  from  Inverness,  with  the  versej 
enclosed."  * 

At  Blair,    Burns  first  met  with  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintray,  a  gentleman  tc 
whose  kindness  he  was  afterwards  indebted  on  more  tlian  one  important 

"  Extract  of  a  letter  from  I\ir.  ^\'alker  to  I\lr.  Ciini.ingliam,  dated  Pcrtli.  24th  Octobci 
7t»7 


LIFb  OF  ROBCar  BURNS.  Ixx 

occasion  ;  and  ?>Ir.  Walker  expresses  great  regret  tliat  he  did  not  remain 
p  day  or  two  more,  in  which  case  he  must  liave  been  introduced  to  Mr. 
Dundas,  the  first  Lord  Melville,  who  was  then  Treasurer  of  the  Navy,  and 
had  the  chief  manatiement  of  the  affairs  of  Scotland.  This  statesman  was 
but  little  addicted  to  literature;  still,  had  such  an  introduction  taken 
place,  he  might  probably  have  been  induced  to  bestow  that  consideration 
on  the  claims  of  the  poet,  which,  in  the  absence  of  any  personal  acquain- 
tance, Burns's  works  should  have  commanded  at  his  hands. 

I'roni  Blair,  Burns  passed  "  many  miles  through  a  wild  country,  among 
cliffs  grey  with  eternal  snows,  and  gloomy  savage  glens,  till  he  crossed  the 
Spey  ;  and  went  down  the  stream  through  Strathspey,  (so  famous  in  Scot- 
tish music),  Badenoch,  tSrc.  to  Grant  Castle,  where  he  spent  half  a  day  with 
Sir  James  Grant ;  crossed  the  country  to  Fort  George,  but  called  by  the 
way  at  Cawdor,  the  ancient  seat  of  Macbeth,  where  he  saw  the  identical 
bed  in  which,  tradition  srn/s.  King  Duncan  was  murdered ;  lastly,  from  I'ort 
George  to  Inverness.     From  Inverness,  he  went  along  the  Murray  Frith  to 

Fochabers,  taking  Culloden  Muir  and  Brodic  House  in  his  way T/iitrS' 

flay,  Came  over  Culloden  Muir — reflections  on  the  field  of  battle — break- 
fast at  Kilraick — old  iMrs.  Hose — sterling  sense,  warm  heart,  strong  j)as- 
sion,  honest  pride — all  to  an  uncommon  degree — a  true  chieftain's  wife, 
daughter  of  Clephane — Mrs.  Rose  junior,  a  little  milder  than  the  motlier, 
perha[)s  owing  to  her  being  younger — two  young  ladies — Miss  Rose  sung 
two  (jaelic  songs — beautiful  and  lovely — Miss  Sophy  Brodie,  not  very 
beautiful,  but  most  agreeable  and  amiable — both  of  them  the  gentlest,  niikl- 
est,  sweetest  creatures  on  earth,  and  hapjjiness  be  with  them  !  Brodie 
House  to  lie — Mr.  B.  truly  polite,  but  not  quite  the  Highland  cordiality. — 
Fridaj/,  Cross  the  Findhorn  to  Forres — famous  stone  at  Forres — INIr.  Bro- 
dic tells  me  the  muir  where  Shakspeare  lays  Macbeth's  witch  meeting,  is 
stiil  haunted — that  the  country  folks  won't  pass  by  night. — Ehpn — vene- 
rable ruins  of  the  abbey,  a  grander  effect  at  first  glance  than  Alelrose,  but 
nothing  near  so  beautiful. — Cross  Spey  to  Fochabers — fine  palace,  worthy 
of  the  noble,  the  polite,  the  generous  proprietor — the  Duke  makes  me  hap- 
pier than  ever  great  man  did  ;  noble,  princely,  yet  mild,  condescending, 
and  aflable — gay  and  kind — The  Duchess  charming,  witty,  kind,  and  sen- 
sible— God  bless  them."* 

Burns,  who  had  been  much  noticed  by  this  noble  family  when  in  Edin- 
burgh, happened  to  present  himself  at  Gordon  Castle,  just  at  the  diimer 
hour,  and  being  invited  to  take  a  place  at  the  table,  did  so,  without  for  the 
moment  adverting  to  the  circumstance  that  his  travelling  conrpanion  had 
i  been  left  alone  at  the  inn,  in  the  adjacent  village.  On  remembering  this 
soon  after  dinner,  he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  rejoin  his  friend  ;  and  the 
Duke  of  Gordon,  who  now  for  the  first  time  learned  that  he  was  not  jour- 
neying alone,  immediately  proposed  to  send  an  invitation  to  Mr  Nicoll  to 
come  to  the  Castle.  His  Grace's  messenger  found  the  haughty  school- 
master striding  up  and  down  before  the  inn  door,  in  a  state  of  high  wrath 
and  indignation,  at  what  he  considered  Burns's  neglect,  and  no  apologies 
could  solten  his  mood.  He  had  already  ordered  horses,  and  the  poet  find- 
ing that  he  must  choose  between  the  ducal  circle  and  his  irritable  associ 
ate,  at  once  left  Gordon  Castle,  and  repaired  to  the  inn  ;  whence  Nicoll 
ind  he,  in  silence  an('  mutual  displeasure,  pursued  their  journey  along  the 

•  Extract  from  JournaL 


rxxii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

coast  of  the  IMurra}'  Frith.  The  abridgment  of  Burns's  \isi.t  at  Gordon 
Castle,  "  was  not  only,"  says  Mr.  Walker,  "  a  mortifying  disappointment, 
but  in  all  probability  a  serious  misfortune,  as  a  longer  stay  among  persons 
of  such  influence,  might  hav ;  begot  a  permanent  intimacy,  and  on  theii 
parts,  an  active  concern  for  his  future  advancement."  *  But  this  touches 
on  a  delicate  subject,  which  we  shall  not  at  present  pause  to  consider. 

Pursuing  his  journey  along  the  coast,  the  poet  visited  successively 
Nairn,  Forres,  .Aberdeen,  and  Stonehive  ;  where  one  of  his  relations,  James 
Burness.  writer  in  Montrose,  met  him  by  appointment,  and  conducted  him 
int--)  the  circle  of  his  paternal  kindred,  among  whom  he  spent  two  or  three 
days.  When  William  Burness.  his  father,  abandoned  his  native  c'lstrict, 
never  to  uevisit  it,  he,  as  he  used  to  tell  his  children,  took  a  sorrowful  fare- 
well oi'  his  brother  on  the  summit  of  the  last  hill  from  which  the  roof  of 
their  lowly  home  could  be  descried ;  and  the  old  man  appears  to  have 
ever  after  kept  up  an  affectionate  correspondence  with  his  family.  It  fell 
to  the  poet's  lot  to  communicate  his  father's  death  to  the  Kincardineshire 
kindred,  and  afte  that  he  seems  to  liuve  maintained  the  same  sort  of  cor- 
respondence. Ue  now  formed  a  personal  acquaintance  with  these  good 
people,  and  in  a  letter  to  liis  brother  Gilbert,  we  find  him  describing  therr 
in  terms  which  show  the  lively  interest  he  took  in  ail  tlieir  concerns.   ■ 

"  The  rest  of  my  stages,"  says  he,  "  are  not  worth  rehearsing :  warm 
as  I  was  from  Ossian's  country,  where  I  had  seen  his  very  grave,  what 
cared  I  for  fishing  towns  and  fertile  carses  .^"  lie  arrived  once  more  in 
Auld  lleekie,  on  the  Kith  of  September,  having  travelled  about  six  hun- 
dred miles  in  two-and-twenty  days — greatly  extended  his  acquaintance 
with  his  own  countrv,  and  visited  some  of  its  most  classical  .scenery — ob- 
served something  of  Highland  manners,  v\-l'iieh  must  have  been  as  interest 
ing  as  they  were  novel  to  him — and  strengthened  considerably  among  tlu 
sturdy  .Jacobites  of  the  North  those  political  opinions  which  he  at  this  pe 
riod  avowed. 

Of  the  i'cw  poems  composed  during  this  Highland  tour,  we  have  already 
mentioned  two  or  three.  While  standing  by  the  Fall  of  Fyers,  near  Loch 
Ness,  he  wrote  with  his  pencil  the  vigorous  couplets — 

"   .Among  the  heathy  liills  aid  rufjired  \voO(l>, 
The  roaring  Fyers  pours  his  mossy  floods,'  &c. 

When  at  Sir  Wifiam  Murray's  of  Ochtertyre,  he  celebrated  Miss  Murray 
of  Lintrose,  commonly  called  "  The  Flower  of  Sutherland,"  in  the  Song — 

"  P.lvthe,  lilyihe,  and  merry  was  she, 
lilythe  was  she  but  aiul  ben,"  &c. 

And  the  verses  On  Scariiig  some  IVildfoicl  on  Loch  Tiirit, — 

"  ^\'hy,  ye  tenant.s  of  the  lake. 

Vox  me  your  wat'ry  haunts  forsake,"  &c. 

were  composed  while  under  the  same  roof  Th.esc  last,  except  perhaps 
liriKir  Wtiter,  are  the  best  that  he  added  to  his  collection  during  the  wan- 
derings of  the  sunnner.  But  in  Burns's  subsequent  productions,  we  find 
many  traces  t  the  delight  with  which  he  had  contemplated  r.ature  in  tliese 
alpine  regions 

•  fiencral  Corre.spondenco. 


LIFii  OF  ROBi^Iir  BURNS.  ixxiii 

Tlic  poet  or.ro  more  visited  liis  family  at  iMossii^iel,  and  Mr.  IMiilcr  at 
Dalsu'iiitoii,  tTc  tlie  winter  set  in  ;  and  on  more  leisurely  examination  of 
that  f^entleman's  estate,  we  find  him  writing  as  if  he  had  all  but  deeidea 
to  become  his  tenant  on  the  farm  of  Elliesland.  It  was  not.  however,  un- 
til he  liad  for  the  tliird  time  visited  Dumfriesshire,  in  March  17hS,  that  a 
bargain  was  actually  concluded.  More  than  lialf  of  the  intervening 
months  were  spent  in  Edinburgh,  M-here  Burns  found,  or  fancied  that  his 
presence  was  necessary  for  the  sat.sfactory  completion  of  his  affairs  with 
the  booksellers.  It  seems  to  be  clear  enough  tluit  one  great  object  was  the 
society  of  his  jovial  intimates  in  the  capital.  Nor  was  he  without  the 
annisement  of  a  little  romance  to  fill  up  what  vacant  hours  they  lei't  Jiim. 
He  lodged  that  winter  in  Bristo  Street,  on  purpose  to  be  near  a  beautiful 
widow — the  same  to  whom  he  addressed  the  song, 

"  Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul,"  &c. 

and  a  series  of  prose  epistles,  which  have  been  separately  published,  and 
which  present  more  instances  of  bad  taste,  bombastic  language,  and  fulsome 
sentiment,   than  could  be  produced  from  all  his  writings  besides. 

At  this  time  the  publication  called  Johnsons  Museum  of  Scottish  So7ig 
was  going  on  in  Edinburgh  ;  and  the  editor  appears  to  have  early  prevailed  on 
Burns  to  give  him  his  assistance  in  the  arrangement  of  his  materials.  Though 
Green  prow  the  nishcs  is  the  only  song,  entirely  his,  which  appears  in  the 
first  volume,  published  in  17H7,  many  of  the  old  ballads  included  in  that 
volume  bear  traces  of  his  hand  ;  but  in  the  second  volume,  which  appeared 
in  March  I  788.  we  find  no  fewer  than  five  songs  by  Burns  ;  two  that  have 
been  already  mentioned,  *  and  three  far  better  than  them,  viz.  'Jlieniel 
Mcnzies  bonnij  Mary  ;  that  grand  lyric, 

"  Farewell,  ye  dungeons  dark  and  strong, 
The  wretch's  destiny, 
JVIacpherson's  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows  tree  ;" 

both  of  which  performances  bespeak  the  recent  impressions  of  his  Highland 
visit;  and,  lastly.  Whistle  and  I'll  come  to  yoxi^  my  lad.  Burns  had  been 
from  his  youth  upwards  an  enthusiastic  lover  of  the  old  minstrelsy  and 
music  of  his  country  ;  but  he  now  studied  both  subjects  with  far  better  op- 
portunities ar.d  appliances  than  he  could  have  commanded  previously;  and 
it  is  from  this  time  that  we  must  date  his  ambition  to  transmit  his  own 
poetry  to  posterity,  in  eternal  association  with  those  exquisite  airs  which 
had  hitherto,  in  far  too  many  instances,  been  married  to  verses  that  did 
not  deserve  to  be  immortal.  It  is  well  known  that  from  this  time  Burns 
composed  very  inw  pieces  but  songs  ;  and  whether  we  ought  or  not  to  re- 
gret that  such  was  the  case,  must  depend  on  the  estimate  we  make  of  his 
s(wigs  as  compared  with  his  other  poems  ;  a  point  on  which  critics  are  to  this 
hour  divided,  and  on  which  their  descendants  are  not  very  like  y  to  agree. 
Mr.  Walker,  who  is  one  of  those  that  lament  Burns's  comparative  derelic- 
tion of  the  species  of  composition  which  he  most  cultivated  in  the  early 
days  of  his  inspiration,  suggests  very  sensibly,  that  if  Burns  had  not  taken 
to  song-writing,  he  would  probably  have  written  little  or  nothing  amidst 
the  various  temptations  to  company  and  dissipation  which  now  and  hence- 
forth surrounded  him — to  say  nothing  of  the  active  duties  of  life  in  which 

"  ■'  Clarinda,'  and  "  How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding  Devoi." 


iXXlV 


I.1FE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS 


he  wtis  at  lenpjtn  about  to  be  engaged.  Burr.s  was  present,  on  the  3  1  st  oi 
December,  at  a  dinner  to  celebrate  the  birth-day  of  the  unfortunate  Prince 
Charles  Edward  Stuart,  and  produced  on  the  occasion  an  ode,  part  of  which 
Dr.  Currie  has  preserved.  The  specimen  will  not  induce  any  regret  that 
the  remainder  of  the  piece  has  been  suppressed.  It  appears  to  be  a  mouth- 
ing  rhapsody — far,  far  different  indeed  from  the  Chevalier's  Lament,  which 
the  poet  composed  some  months  afterwards,  with  probably  the  tithe  of 
the  effort,  while  riding  alone  "  through  a  track  of  melancholy  muirs  be- 
tween Galloway  and  Ayrshire,  it  being  Sunday."  * 

For  six  weeks  of  the  time  that  Burns  spent  this  year  in  Edinburgh,  he 
was  confined  to  his  room,  in  consequence  of  an  overturn  in  a  hackney  coach. 
«'  Here  I  am,"  he  writes,  "  under  the  care  of  a  surgeon,  with  a  bruised 
limb  extended  on  a  cushion,  and  the  tints  of  my  mind  vying  with  the  livid 
iiorrors  preceding  a  midnight  thunder-storm.  A  drunken  coachman  was 
the  cause  of  the  first,  and  incomparably  the  lightest  evil ;  misfortune,  bodi- 
ly constitution,  hell,  and  myself,  have  formed  a  quadruple  alliance  to  gua- 
rantee the  other.  I  have  taken  tooth  and  nail  to  the  Bible,  and  am  got 
halfway  through  the  five  books  of  Moses,  and  halfway  in  Joshua.  It  ia 
really  a  glorious  book.  I  sent  for  my  bookbinder  to-day,  and  ordered  him 
to  get  an  8vo.  Bible  in  sheets,  the  best  paper  and  print  in  town,  and  bind 
it  with  all  the  elegance  of  his  craft."  f— In  another  letter,  which  opens  gaily 
enough,  we  find  liini  reverting  to  the  same  prevailing  darkness  of  mood. 
"  I  can  t  say  I  am  altogether  at  my  ease  when  I  see  anywhere  in  my  path 
that  meagre,  squalid,  iamine-lijced  spectre,  Poverty,  attended  as  he  always 
is  by  iron-fisted  Oppression,  and  leering  Contempt.  But  I  have  sturdily 
withstood  his  buiTctings  many  a  hard-laboured  day,  and  still  my  motto  is  1 
DARE.  My  worst  enemy  is  moi-nitme.  There  are  just  two  creatures  that 
I  would  envy — a  horse  in  his  wild  state  traversing  the  forests  of  Asia,  or 
an  oyster  on  some  of  the  desert  shores  of  Europe.  The  one  has  not  a  wish 
without  enjoyment ;  the  other  has  neither  wish  nor  fear."  \ — One  more 
specimen  may  be  sufficient,  i]  "  These  have  been  six  horrible  weeks. 
Anf^uish  and  low  spirits  have  made  me  unfit  to  read,  write,  or  think.  1  have 
a  hundred  times  v.ished  that  one  could  resign  life  as  an  officer  does  a  com- 
mission ;  for  I  would  not  dihe  in  any  poor  ignorant  wretch  by  svUing  out. 
Lately,  I  was  a  sixpenny  private,  and  Clod  knows  a  miserable  soldier  enough  : 
now  I  march  to  the  campaign  a  starving  cadet,  a  little  more  cons])icuously 
wretched.  1  am  ashamed  of  all  this  ;  for  though  I  do  not  want  bravery  for 
the  warfare  of  life,  I  could  wish,  like  some  other  soldiers,  to  have  as  much 
fortitude  or  cunning  as  to  dissemble  or  conceal  my  cowardice." 

it  seems  impossible  to  doubt  that  Burns  had  in  fact  lingered  In  Edin- 
burgh, in  the  hope  tliat,  to  use  a  vague  but  sufficiently  expressive  phrase, 
goniething  would  be  done  for  him.  He  visited  and  revisited  a  farm, — talked 
and  wrote  about  "  having  a  fortune  at  the  plough-tail,"  and  so  forth  ;  but 
all  the  while  murished,  and  assuredly  it  would  hove  been  most  strange  if 
he  had  not,  the  fond  dream  that  the  admiration  of  his  country  would  ere 
long  present  itself  in  some  solid  and  tangible  shape.  His  illness  and  cui  - 
finemcnt  gave  him  leisure  to  concentrate  his  imagination  on  the  darker  side 
of  his  prospects  ;  and  the  letters  which  we  have  qucted  may  t*ach  those 
(vho  envy  the  powers  and  the  fame  of  genius,  to  paue  for  a  moment  over 


•  Ocn'  ral  Correspondence,  No.  40 

■\  Hcliinie-*,  p,  43. 

11  Geutriil  '  ;orrespo!idence.  No.  43. 


Ibid.  p.  44. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Ux.f 

the  annals  of  literature,  and  think  Avhat  superior  capabilities  of  miscT/ have 
been,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases,  interwoven  with  the  possession  ol 
those  very  talents,  from  which  all  but  their  j)ossessors  derive  uimiingled 
gratification.  Burns's  distresses,  however,  v.ere  to  be  still  farther  aggravated. 
While  still  under  the  hands  of  h.is  surgeon,  he  received  intelligence  from 
Mauchllne  that  his  intimacy  with  Jean  Armour  had  once  more  exj)osec' 
her  to  the  reproaches  of  her  family.  Tlie  father  sternly  and  at  once  turnec' 
her  out  of  doors;  and  IUumis,  unable  to  walk  across  his  room,  had  to  writs 
to  his  friends  in  iMauchlinc  to  ]>rocure  shelter  for  his  childi'en,  and  for  hei 
whom  he  considered  as — all  but  his  wife.  In  a  letter  to  3.1rs.  Dunlop, 
written  on  hearing  of  th.is  new  misfortune,  he  says,  "  '  I  tvish  I  were  cleud, 
hut  I'm  no  like  to  die.'  1  fear  I  am  something  like — undone  ;  but  I  hope  for 
the  best.  You  must  not  desert  me.  Your  Iriendship  I  think  I  can  count 
on,  though  I  should  date  my  letters  from  a  marching  regiment.  Early  in 
life,  and  all  my  life,  I  reckoned  on  a  recruiting  drum  as  my  forlorn  hoj)e.  Se- 
riously, though,  life  at  present  presents  me  with  but  a  melancholy  path 

But  my  limb  will  soon  be  sound,  and  I  shall  struggle  on."  * 

It  seems  to  have  been  noio  that  Burns  at  last  screwed  up  his  courage  to 
solicit  the  active  interference  in  his  br'.ialf  of  the  Earl  of  (jlcncairn.  Tlie 
letter  is  a  brief  one.  Burns  could  i/1  endure  this  novel  attitude,  and  he 
rushed  at  once  to  his  request.  "  1  wish,"  says  he,  "  to  get  into  the  excise. 
I  am  told  3'our  Lordship  will  easily  procure  me  the  grant  from  the  com- 
missioners ;  and  your  lordship's  patronage  and  kindness,  which  have  already 
rescued  me  from  obscurity,  wretchedness,  and  exile,  embolden  me  to  ask 
that  interest.  You  have  likewise  put  it  in  my  power  to  save  the  little  tie 
of  liome,  that  sheltered  an  aged  mother,  two  brothers,  and  three  sisters 
from  destruction,    'i'hcre,  my  lord,  you  have  bound  nie  over  to  the  highest 

gratitude My  heart  sinks  within  me  at  the  idea  of  applying  to  any 

other  of  The  Great  who  have  honoured  me  with  their  countenance.  I  am 
ill  qualified  to  dog  the  heels  of  greatness  with  the  impertinence  of  solicita- 
tion ;  and  tremble  nearly  as  much  at  the  thought  of  the  cold  promise  as  ot 
the  cold  denial."  f  It  would  be  hard  to  tliink  that  this  letter  was  coldly  or 
negligently  received;  on  the  contrary,  we  know  that  Burns's  gratitude  to 
Lord  Glencairn  lasted  as  long  as  his  life.  But  the  excise  appointment 
which  he  coveted  was  not  procured  by  any  exertion  of  his  noble  patron's 
iniiuence.  Mr.  Alexander  Wood,  surgeon,  (still  afl'ectionately  remenihcred 
in  Edinburgh  as  "  kind  old  Sandy  Wood,') happening  to  hear  Lurns,  ^vlule 
'lis  patient,  mention  the  object  of  his  wishes,  went  immediately,  witliout 
dropping  any  hint  of  his  intention,  and  conm^imicated  the  state  of  the 
poet's  case  to  Mr.  Graham  of  Fin  tray,  one  of  the  conmiissioners  of  excise, 
wljo  had  met  Hums  at  the  Duke  of  Athole's  in  the  autumn,  and  who  im- 
mediately had  the  poet's  name  put  on  the  roll.  —  "  I  have  chosen  this,  my 
dear  friend,"  (thus  wrote  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop),  "  after  mature  delibera- 
tii.in.  '1  lie  question  is  not  at  what  door  of  lortune's  palace  shall  we  enter 
in  :  but  what  doors  does  she  open  to  us  ?  I  was  not  likely  to  get  any  thing 
to  do.  1  wanted  ini  hut,  which  is  a  dangerous,  an  unhappy  situation.  I  got 
this  without  any  hanging  on  or  mortifying  solicitation.  It  is  immediate 
bread,  and,  though  poor  in  comparison  of  the  last  eighteen  months  of  my 
existence,  'tis  luxury  in  comparison  of  all  my  preceding  life.  Besides,  the 
cciomissioners  are  some  of  them  my  acquaintances,  and  all  of  them  my 
firm  friends."  % 

•  Reliques,  p.  411.  -f-  General  Coriespondence,  No.  40.  J  Reliques,  p.  50 


.XXVI  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Our  poet  seems  to  have  kept  up  an  angry  correspondence  during  his  con 
fniement  with  his  bookseller,  Mr.  Creech,  whom  he  'l-^'i  abuses  very  heartil} 
in  his  letters  to  his  friends  in  Ayrshire.  The  publisher's  accounts,  however, 
when  they  were  at  last  made  up,  mus*.  have  given  the  impatient  author  a 
very  agreeable  surprise  ;.  for,  in  his  letter  above  quoted,  to  Lord  Glencairn, 
we  find  him  expressing  his  hopes  that  the  gross  profits  of  his  book  might 
amount  to  "  better  than  i  200,"  whereas,  on  the  day  of  settling  with  Mr 
Creech,  he  found  himself  in  possession  of  £500,  if  not  of  i  GOU.  Mr.  Ni 
coll,  the  most  intimate  fHend  Burns  had,  writes  to  Mr  John  Lewars,  ex- 
cise officer  at  Dumfries,  immediately  on  hearing  of  the  poet's  death, — "  He 
certainly  told  me  that  he  received  £000  for  the  first  Edinburgh  edition,  and 
i'lOO  afterwards  for  the  copyright." — Dr.  Currie  states  the  gross  product 
of  Creech's  edition  at  i  500,  and  Burns  himself,  in  one  of  his  printed  let- 
ters, at  £M00  only.  Nicoll  hints,  in  the  letter  already  referred  to,  that 
Burns  had  contracted  debts  while  in  Edinburgh,  which  he  might  not  wish 
to  avow  on  all  occasions  ;  and  if  we  are  to  believe  this — and,  as  is  probable, 
the  expense  of  printing  the  subscription  edition,  should,  moreover,  be  de- 
ducted from  the  £7  00  stated  by  Mr.  Nicoll — the  apparent  contradictions 
in  these  stories  may  be  pretty  nearly  reconciled.  There  appears  to  be 
reason  for  thinking  fhat  Creech  subsequently  paid  more  than  A  100  for  the 
copyright.  Jf  he  did  not,  how  eame  Burns  to  realize,  as  Currie  states  it 
at  the  end  of  his  Memoir,  "  nearly  1900  in  all  by  his  poems?" 

This  supply  came  truly  in  the  hour  of  need  ;  and  it  seems  to  have  ele- 
vated his  spirits  greatly,  and  given  him  for  the  time  a  new  stock  of  confi- 
dence ;  for  he  now  resumed  immediately  his  purpose  of  taking  Mr.  Miller's 
farm,  retaining  his  excise  commission  in  his  pocket  as  a  dernier  resorf,  to  be 
made  use  of  only  should  some  reverse  of  fortune  come  upon  him.  His  first 
act,  however,  was  to  relieve  his  brother  from  his  difficulties,  by  advancing 
£  180  or  i  200,  to  assist  him  in  the  management  of  Mossgiel.  "  I  give  my- 
self no  airs  on  this,"  he  generously  says,  in  a  letter  to  Dr.  IMoore,  "  for  it 
was  mere  selfishness  on  my  jiart.  I  was  conscious  that  the  wrong  scale  of 
the  balance  was  pretty  heavily  charged,  and  1  thought  that  the  throwing  a 
little  filial  piety  and  fraternal  affection  into  the  scale  in  my  favour,  miglu 
liel[t  /)  snif.oth  matters  at  the  grand  reckoniny"  • 

•  General  Corrcspoad«ic«, Nq,  c6. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

li'jyTF.Nls  — MuTTtes  —  Announcement!:,  fapnlogetical),  of  the  event — Remaiin — Eecnmes 
(  788)  Farmer  nt  Elliesland,  on  the  Nith,  in  a  rn/nant/c  vicinity,  six  miles  from  Dumfries — 
The  Muse  wakeful  as  ever,  while  the  Poet  maintains  a  varied  and  exteiLsive  literary  corre- 
ipondence  with  all  and  sundry — liemarks  upon  the  correspondence — Sketch  of  his  person 
and  MaLits  at  this  period  by  a  brother  poet,  who  shoirs  cause  ayninst  success  in  farming— 
The  untoward  cnnjunction  of  (iauaer  to  Farmer — The  notice  of  the  squirearchy,  and  the 
calls  of  admiring  visitors,  lead  too  uniformly  to  the  ultra  i^-nvivial  life — Ideates  Ellieslana 
C 1791)  ij  be  exciseman  in  the  town  of  JJumfries. 


*'  To  make  a  happy  fireside  clime 
For  weans  and  wife — 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 
Of  human  life." 

Burns,  as  soon  as  his  bruised  limb  was  able  for  a  journey,  went  to  Moss- 
piel,  and  went  through  the  ceremony  of  a  Justiceof  l^eace  marriage  with 
Jean  Armour,  in  the  writing-cb.ambers  of  his  friend  Gavin  Hamilton.  He 
then  crossed  the  country  to  Dalswinton,  and  concluded  his  bargain  with 
Mr.  Miller  as  to  the  tarm  of  L-^lliesland,  on  terms  which  must  undoubtedly 
have  been  considered  by  both  parties,  as  highly  favourable  to  the  poet ; 
they  were  indeed  fixed  by  two  of  Burns's  own  friends,  who  accompanied 
him  for  that  purpose  from  Ayrshire.  The  lease  was  for  four  successive 
terms,  of  nineteen  years  each, — in  all  seventy  six  years;  the  rent  for  the 
first  three  years  and  crops  ,t'5()  ;  during  the  remainder  of  the  period  i  70 
per  annum.  Mr.  Miller  bound  himself  to  defray  the  expense  of  any  plan- 
tations which  Burns  might  please  to  make  on  the  banks  of  the  river ;  and, 
the  farm-house  and  offices  being  in  a  delapidated  condition,  the  new  tenant 
was  to  receive  £300  fiom  the  proprietor,  tor  the  ejection  of  suitable  build- 
ings. Burns  entered  on  possession  of  his  farm  at  Whitsuntide  178S,  but 
the  necessary  rebuilding  of  the  house  prevented  his  removing  Mrs.  Burns 
thither  until  the  season  was  far  advanced.  He  had,  moreover,  to  qualify 
himself  for  holding  his  excise  connnission  by  six  weeks'  attendance  on  the 
business  of  that  profession  at  Ayr.  From  these  circumstances,  he  led  all 
the  summer  a  wandering  and  unsettled  life,  and  Dr.  Currie  mentions  this 
as  one  of  his  chief  misfortunes.  The  poet,  as  he  says,  was  continually  rid- 
ing between  Ayrshire  and  Dumfriesshire,  and  often  spending  a  night  on 
the  road,  "  sometimes  fell  into  company,  and  forgot  the  resolutions  he  had 
formed."  What  these  resolutions  were,  the  poet  himself  shall  tell  us.  On 
the  third  day  of  his  residence  at  Elliesland,  he  thus  writes  to  Mr.  Ainslie  : 
— "  1  have  all  along  hitherto,  in  the  warfare  of  life,  been  bred  to  arms, 
among  the  light-horse,  the  piquet  guards  of  fancy,  a  kind  of  hussars  aiul 
Highlanders  of  the  brain  ;  but  1  am  firmly  resolved  to  sell  out  of  these  giddy 
battalions.  Cost  what  it  will,  I  am  determined  to  buy  in  among  the  grave 
squadrons  of  heavy-armed  thought,  or  the  artillery  corps  of  plodding  cop 


ixxyjii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

trivance.  .  .  .  Were  it  not  for  the  terrors  of  my  ticklish  situation  e^ 
specting  a  family  of  children,  I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that  the  step  1  have 
taken  is  vastly  for  my  happiness."  * 

To  ail  his  friends  he  expresses  himself  in  terms  of  similar  satisfacticn  in 
regard  ti  his  marriage.  '*  Your  surmise,  Madam,"  he  writes  to  Mrs.  Dun- 
lop,  "  is  just.  I  am  indeed  a  husband.  I  found  a  once  much-loved,  and 
still  mu.  h-loved  female,  literally  and  truly  cast  out  to  the  mercy  of  the 
naked  elements,  but  as  I  enabled  her  to  purchase  a  shelter  ;  and  there  is  no 
sporting  with  a  fellovr-crcature's  happiness  or  misery.  The  most  placid 
goodnature  and  sweetness  of  disposition  ;  a  warm  heart,  gratefully  devoted 
with  all  its  powers  to  love  me  ;  vigorous  health  and  spriglitly  cheerfulness, 
set  off  to  the  best  advantage  by  a  more  than  commonly  handsome  figure  ; 
these,  1  think,  in  a  woman,  may  make  a  good  wife,  though  she  should  ne- 
ver have  read  a  page  but  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament, 

nor  danced  in  a  brighter  assembly  than  a  penny-pay  wedding 

To  jealousy  or  infidelity  I  am  an  equal  stranger;  my  preservative  from  the 
first,  is  tne  most  thorough  consciousness  of  her  sentiments  of  honour,  and 
her  attachment  to  me  ;  my  antidote  against  the  last,  is  my  long  and  deep- 
rooted  affection  for  her.  In  housewife  matters,  of  aptness  to  learn,  and 
activity  to  execute,  she  io  eminently  mistress,  and  during  my  absence  in 
Kithsdale,  sne  is  regularly  and  constantly  an  apprentice  to  my  mother  and 

sisters  in  their  ctairy,  and  other  rural  business You  are  ri<''ht, 

that  a  bachelor  state  would  have  ensured  me  more  friends ;  but  from  a 
cause  you  will  easily  guess,  conscious  peace  in  the  enjoyment  of  my  own 
mind,  and  unmistrusting  confidence  in  approaching  my  God,  would  f^eldorw 
have  been  of  the  number."  f 

Some  montiis  later  he  tells  Miss  Chalmers  that  his  marriage  "  was  not, 
perhaps,  in  consequence  of  the  attachment  of  romance," — (he  is  addressing 
a  young  lady), — "  but,"  he  continues,  "  1  have  no  cause  to  repent  it.  If 
I  have  not  got  polite  laliie,  modish  manners,  and  fashionable  dress,  1  am  not 
sickcried  and  disgusted  with  the  multiform  curse  of  boarding-school  afiec- 
tatiun  ;  and  I  have  got  the  handsomest  figure,  the  sweetest  temper,  the 
soundest  constitution,  and  the  kindcbt  heart  in  the  country.  Mrs.  Burns 
believes  as  firmly  as  her  creed,  that  I  am  le plus  hel  csp/it  ct  k p/its  lumnele 
hnmnie  in  the  universe  ;  although  fche  scarcely  ever,  in  her  life,  except  the 
Scriptures  and  the  Psaims  of  David  in  Metre,  spent  five  minutes  together 
on  cither  prose  or  verse — I  must  except  also  a  certain  late  publication  of 
Scots  poems,  which  she  Juis  perused  very  devoutljs  and  all  the  ballads  of 
the  country,  as  she  has  (O  the  partial  lover,  you  will  say),  the  finest 
woodnote-wild  I  ever  heard." — It  was  during  this  honeymoon,  as  he  calls 
it,  while  chiefly  resident  in  a  miserable  hovel  sX  Ellit.'sland,  J  and  only 
occasionally  spending  a  day  or  two  in  Ayrshire,  Uiat  he  wrote  the  beat  tiliU 


song 


"  Of  a'  the  airts  tlie  wind  can  blaw  I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  tliere  the  bonnie  hissie  lives,  the  lassie  I  lo'e  best ; 
There  wildwoods  grow,  and  rivers  rov.',  and  iiioriy  a  hill  between  ; 
15ut  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight  is  ever  \vi'  my  Jean. 

O  blaw,  ye  wcstlin  winds,  blaw  saft  amang  the  leafy  trees, 
A\'i'  gentle  gale,  frae  nuiir  and  dale,  bring  hair.c  the  laden  bees. 
And  biiiig  tlie  lassie  back  to  me,  that's  aye  sac  neat  and  clean; 
Ae  blink  o'  her  wad  banish  care,  sae  lovely  is  my  Jean." 

•  Reliqncs,  p.  CS.  -I*  Sec  General  Correspondence,  No.  53  ;  and  Reliqucs,  p-  60, 

X  lldiiiues,  p.  75.  |i  Ibid.  p.  273. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


Ixxix 


One  of  Burns's  letters,  written  not  long  after  this,  contains  a  passage  strong- 
ly marked  with  his  haughtiness  of  character.  "  I  have  escaped,"  savs  he, 
*'  tlie  fantastic  caprice,  the  apish  aifectation,  with  all  the  other  blessed 
boarding-scliool  acquirements  v.-hich  are  sometimes  to  be  found  among  fe- 
males of  the  upper  ranks,  but  almost  universally  pervade  the  misses  of  the 
would-be  gentry."  * 

"  A  discerning  reader,"  saj^s  INTr.  Walker,  «  will  perceive  that  the  let- 
ters in  which  he  announces  his  marriage  to  some  of  his  most  respected  cor- 
respondents, are  written  in  that  state  when  the  mind  is  pained  by  reflect- 
ing on  an  ;:nwelcomc  step,  and  finds  relief  to  itself  in  seeking  arguments 
to  justify  the  deed,  anu  essen  its  disadvantages  in  the  opinion  of  others."  f 
I  confess  I  am  not  able  l.o  discern  any  traces  of  this  kind  of  feeling  in  any 
of  Burns's  letters  on  this  interesting  and  important  occasion.  The  Rev. 
Hamilton  Paul  takes  an  original  view  of  this  business  : — "  Much  praise," 
says  he,  •'  has  been  lavished  on  Burns  for  renewing  his  engagement  with 
Jean  wh.en  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame.  .  .  Tlie  praise  is  misplaced.  We 
do  not  think  a  man  entitled  to  credit  or  commendation  for  doing  what  tlie 
law  could  compel  him  to  perform.  Burns  was  in  reality  a  married  man, 
and  it  is  truly  ludicrous  to  hear  him,  aware  as  he  nuist  have  been,  of  the  in- 
dissoluble power  of  the  obligation,  tliough  every  document  was  destroyed, 
talking  of  himself  as  a  bachelor.'"  J  There  is  no  justice  in  these  remarks. 
It  is  very  true,  that,  by  a  merciful  fiction  of  the  law  of  Scotland,  the  fe- 
male, in  Miss  Armour's  condition,  who  produces  a  written  promise  of  mar- 
riage, is  considered  as  having  furnished  evidence  of  an  irregular  marriai^e 
having  taken  place  between  her  and  her  lover ;  but  in  this  case  the  female 
herself  had  destroyed  the  document,  and  lived  for  many  months  not  only 
not  assuming,  but  rejecting  the  character  of  I'urns's  wife  ;  and  had  she,  un- 
der such  circumstances,  attempted  to  establish  a  marriage,  with  no  docu- 
ment in  her  hand,  and  with  no  parole  evidence  to  show  that  any  such  do- 
cument had  ever  existed,  to  say  nothing  of  proving  its  exact  tenor,  but 
that  of  her  own  father,  it  is  clear  that  no  ecclesiastical  court  in  the  v.orld 
could  have  failed  to  decide  against  her.  So  far  from  Burns's  having  all 
along  regarded  her  as  his  wife,  it  is  extremely  doubtful  wliether  she  had 
ever  for  one  moment  considered  him  as  actually  her  husband,  until  he  de- 
clared the  marriage  of  178B.  Burns  did  no  more  than  justice  as  v.ell  as 
honour  demanded  ;  but  the  act  was  one  which  no  human  tribunal  could 
have  compelled  him  to  perform. 

To  return  to  our  story.  Burns  complains  sadly  of  his  solitary  condition, 
when  living  in  the  only  hovel  that  lie  found  extant  on  his  farm.  "  I  am," 
says  he,  (September  9th)  "busy  with  my  harvest,  but  for  all  that  most 
[ileasurable  part  of  life  called  social  intercourse,  I  am  here  at  the  very  el- 
bow of  existence.  The  only  things  that  are  to  be  found  in  this  country  in 
any  degree  of  perfection,  are  stupidity  and  canting.  Prose  they  only  know 
in  graces,  &c.,  and  the  value  ol' tiiese  they  estimate  as  they  do  their  plaid- 
ing  webs,  by  the  ell.  As  for  the  muses,  tliey  have  as  much  id(;a  of  a  rJiino- 
ceros  as  of  a  poet."  And  in  another  letter  (September  Kith)  he  says 
"  Tills  hovel  that  I  shelter  in  while  occasionally  here,  is  pervious  to  every 
blast  that  blows,  and  every  shower  that  falls,  and  I  am  only  preserved 
from  being  chilled  to  death  by  being  suffocated  by  smoke.  You  will  be 
pleased  to  hear  that  I  have  laid  aside  idle  eclat,  and  bind  every  day  alter 


•  Oe;ier:!l  rorresjjonilsr.ce,  No.  55. 
J  Paul's  Life  of  liuriis.  p.  4.1. 


i-  Hlorrisjon,  vol.  i.  p.  Ixxxvi;. 


lxx>-  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

myreajters."  His  .'■ouse,  however,  did  not  take  much  time  in  building, 
nor  had  he  reason  to  complain  of  want  of  society  long.  He  brought  his 
\Tife  home  to  Elliesland  about  the  end  of  November  ;  and  few  housekeepers 
start  with  a  larger  provision  of  young  mouths  to  feed  than  this  couple.  Mrs. 
Burns  had  lain  in  this  autumn,  for  the  second  time,  of  twins,  and  I  sup- 
pose "  sonsy,  smirking,  dear-bought  Bess,"*  accompanied  her  younger  bro- 
thers and  sisters  from  Mossgiel.  From  that  quarter  also  Burns  brought  a 
whole  establishment  of  servants,  male  and  female,  who,  of  course,  as  was 
then  the  universal  custom  amongst  the  small  farmers,  both  of  the  west  and 
of  the  south  of  Scotland,  partook,  at  the  san^e  table,  of  the  same  fare  with 
their  master  and  mistress. 

Elliesland  is  beautifully  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Nith,  about  six  rniles 
above  Dumfries,  exactly  opposite  to  the  h.ouse  of  Dalswinton,  ol"  those  noble 
woods  and  gardens  amidst  which  Burns's  landlord,  the  ingenious  Mr.  Pa- 
trick Miller,  found  relaxation  from  the  scientific  studies  and  researches  in 
which  he  so  greatly  excelled.  On  the  Dalswinton  side,  the  river  washes 
lawns  and  groves  ;  but  over  against  these  the  bank  rises  into  a  long  red 
scaur,  of  considerable  height,  along  the  verge  of  which,  where  the  bare 
shingle  of  the  precipice  all  but  overhangs  the  stream,  Burns  had  his  favou- 
rite walk,  and  might  now  be  seen  striding  alone,  early  and  late,  especially 
when  the  winds  were  loud,  and  the  waters  below  him  swollen  and  turbu- 
lent. For  he  was  one  of  those  that  enjoy  nature  most  in  the  more  serious 
and  severe  of  her  aspects  ;  and  throughout  his  poetry,  for  one  allusion 
to  the  liveliness  of  spring,  or  the  splendour  of  summer,  it  would  be  eas^ 
to  point  out  twenty  in  which  he  records  the  solemn  delight  with  which  he 
contemplated  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  autumn,  or  the  savage  gloom  ol 
winter  ;  and  he  has  himself  told  us,  that  it  was  his  custom  "  to  take  a 
gloamin'  shot  at  the  muses." 

The  poet  was  accustomed  to  say,  that  the  most  happy  period  c?  his  life 
was  the  first  winter  he  spent  at  Elliesland, — for  t'le  first  time  under  a  roof 
of  his  own — with  his  v/ife  and  children  about  him — and  in  spite  of  oc- 
casional lapses  into  the  melancholy  which  had  haunted  his  youth,  looking' 
forward  to  a  life  of  well-regulated,  and  not  ill-rewarded,  industry.  It  is 
known  that  he  welcomed  his  wife  to  her  rooftree  at  Elliesland  in  the  song, 

"  I  liae  a  wife  o'  mine  ain,  I'll  partake  wi'  naebody  ; 
I'll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane,  I'll  gie  cuckold  to  naebody; 
1  hae  a  penny  to  spend — there  —thanks  to  naebody  ; 
1  hae  naething  to  lend— I'll  burrow  frae  naebody." 

In  commenting  on  this  "  little  lively  lucky  song,"  as  he  well  calls  it,  Mr.  A 
Cunningham  says,  "  Burns  had  built  his  house,  he  had  committed  his 
seed-corn  to  the  ground,  he  was  in  the  prime,  nay  the  morning  of  life — 
health,  and  strength,  and  agricultural  skill  were  on  his  side — his  genms 
liad  been  acknowledged  by  his  country,  and  rewarded  by  a  subscription, 
more  extensive  than  any  Scottish  poet  ever  received  before  ;  no  wonder, 
therefore,  that  he  broke  out  into  voluntary  song,  expressive  of  his  sense  ot 
nnportance  and  independence." 

Burns,  in  his  letters  of  the  year  1  789,  maKcs  many  apologies  for  doing 
but  little  in  his  poetical  vocation  ;  his  farm,  without  doubt,  occupied  nmch 
of  his  attention,  but  the  want  of  social  intercourse,  of  which  he  complained 
on  his  first  arrival  in  Nithsdale,  had  by  this  time  totally  disappeared.      Oe 

•  Poetical  Ikventouy  to  Mr.  Aiken,  February  1/86. 


1.1FE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Ixxxl 

the  contrary,  his  company  was  courted  eagerly,  not  only  by  his  brother- 
farmers,  but  by  the  neigiibouriiig  gentry  of  all  chisses  ;  and  now,  too,  for 
the  first  time,  he  began  to  be  visited  continually  in  his  own  linuse  by  curi- 
ous travellers  of  all  sorts,  who  did  not  consider,  any  more  than  the  gene- 
rous poet  himself,  that  an  extensive  practice  of  hospitality  must  cost  more 
time  tlian  he  ought  to  have  had,  and  far  more  money  than  he  ever  had,  at 
his  disposal.  Meantime,  he  was  not  wholly  regardless  of  the  muses  ;  ibr 
in  addition  to  some  pieces  which  we  have  already  had  occasion  to  notice, 
he  contributed  to  this  year's  Muskum,  The  Thames  jiows  promUtj  (o  thQ 
Sea  ;  Tlic  lazy  mist  hangs,  S)-c.  ;  The  day  rctuins,  my  bosom  hnnis  ;  Tarn 
Glen,  (one  of  the  best  of  his  humorous  songs) ;  the  splendid  lyric,  Go 
fetch  lame  a  pint  of  wine,  and  My  heart's  in  the  Hielands,  (in  both  of  which, 
however,  he  adopted  some  lines  of  ancient  songs  to  the  same  tunes);  Jofm 
Anderson,  in  part  also  a  rifacciamento ;  the  best  of  all  his  Ijacchanalian 
pieces,  IViliie  hrewed  a  peck  a'  maut,  written  in  celebration  of  a  festive  meet- 
ing at  the  country  residence,  in  Dumfriesshire,  of  his  friend  Mr.  Nicoll  of 
the  High  School  ;  and  lastly,  that  noblest  of  all  his  ballads,  To  Mary  in 
Heaven.  This  celebrated  poem  was,  it  is  on  all  hands  admitted,  composed 
by  Burns  in  September  1789,  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on  which  he 
heard  cf  the  death  of  his  early  love,  Mary  Campbell ;  but  Mr.  Croniek 
lias  thought  fit  to  dress  up  the  story  with  circumstances  which  did  not  oc- 
cur. Mrs.  Burns,  the  only  person  who  could  appeal  to  personal  recollec- 
tion on  this  occasion,  and  whose  recollections  o^  all  circumstances  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  her  husband's  poems,  are  represented  as  being 
remarkably  distinct  and  vivid,  gives  what  may  at  first  appear  a  more  pro- 
saic edition  of  the  histcrj-.  *  According  to  her.  Burns  spent  that  day, 
though  labouring  under  cold,  in  the  usual  work  of  his  harvest,  and  appa- 
rently in  excellent  spirits.  But  as  the  twilight  deepened,  he  appeared  to 
grow  "  very  sad  about  something,"  and  at  length  wandered  out  into  the 
barn-yard,  to  which  his  wife,  in  her  anxiety  for  his  health,  followed  him, 
entreating  him  in  vain  to  observe  that  frost  had  set  in,  and  to  return 
to  the  fireside.  On  being  again  and  again  requested  to  do  so,  he  always 
promised  compliance — but  still  remained  where  he  %vas,  s,triding  up  and 
down  slowly,  and  contemplating  the  sky,  which  was  singularly  clear  and 
starry.  At  last  IMrs.  Burns  found  him  stretched  on  a  mass  of  strav/,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  a  beautiful  planet  "  that  shone  like  another  moon ;"  and 
prevailed  on  him  to  come  in.  Pie  immediately  on  catering  the  iiouse,  called 
for  his  desk,  and  wrote  exactly  as  they  now  stand,  with  al'  lie  case  of  one 
copying  from  memory,  the  sublime  and  pathetic  verses-- 

"  Thou  lingering  star  with  lessening  ray, 

Tliat  lovest  to  greet  ilie  early  mom, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

i\!y  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  i\lary,  ilear  dejiarted  shade. 

Where  is  thy  place  of  btisst'ul  rest ; 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid, 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ?"  &<;- 

Tlie  Mo.liefs  Lament  for  her  Son,  and  Inscription  in  an  Hermitage  in 
Nilhsdale,  were  also  written  this  year.  From  the  time  when  Burns  settled 
Iiimself  in  Dumfriesshire,  he  appears  to  have  conducted  with  much  care 
tlie  extensive  correspondence  in  which  his  celebrity  had  engagetl  liiin.    The 

•  I  0W9  these  particulars  to  ^!r.  Jl'Diarmid,  the  ahle  editor  of  ;he  Dumfries  Courier,  and 
brother  of  tlie  lamented  author  of  "  Lives  of  liriiish  Statesmen. " 


xxxii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

ettcrs  that  passed  between  him  and  his  brother  Gilbert,  are  among  iJie 
most  precious  of  the  collection.  That  the  brothers  had  entire  knoviledgc 
of  and  confidence  in  each  other,  no  one  can  doubt  ;  and  the  plain  manly 
affectionate  language  in  which  they  both  write,  is  truly  honourable  to  them, 
and  ir  '■he  parents  that  reared  them.  "  Dear  Brother,"  writes  Gilbert, 
January  l^t,  1789,  "  I  have  just  finished  my  new-year's-day  breakfast  in 
the  usual  form,  which  naturally  makes  me  call  to  mind  the  days  of  former 
years,  and  the  society  in  which  we  used  to  begin  them  ;  and  when  I  look 
at  our  family  vicissitudes,  '  through  the  dark  postern  of  time  long  elapsed,' 
I  cannot  help  remarking  to  you,  my  dear  brother,  how  good  the  God  of 
seasons  is  to  us  ;  and  that,  however  some  clouds  may  seem  to  lour  over 
the  portion  of  time  before  us,  we  have  great  reason  to  hope  that  all  will 
turn  out  well." 

It  was  on  the  same  new-year's-day  that  Burns  himself  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Dunlop  a  letter,  part  of  which  is  here  transcribed.  It  is  dated  Elliesland, 
New-year-day  morning,  1789,  and  certainly  cannot  be  read  too  often  : — 
"  This,  dear  Madam,  is  a  morning  of  wishes,  and  would  to  God  that  I 
came  under  the  apostle  James's  description! — the  prayer  of  a  righteous  tnan 
availeth  much.  In  that  case,  madam,  you  should  welcome  in  a  year  full  of 
blessings  ;  everything  that  obstructs  or  disturbs  tranquillity  and  self-enjoy- 
ment, should  be  removed,  and  every  pleasure  that  frail  humanity  can  taste, 
should  be  yours.  I  own  myself  so  little  a  Presbyterian,  that  1  approve  of 
set  times  and  seasons  of  more  than  ordinary  acts  of  devotion,  for  breaking 
in  on  that  habituated  routine  of  life  and  thought,  which  is  so  apt  to  reduce 
our  existence  to  a  kind  of  instinct,  or  even  sometimes,  and  with  some  minds, 
to  a  state  very  little  superior  to  mere  machinery.  This  day, — the  first 
Sunday  of  May, — a  breezy,  blue-skyed  moon  sometime  about  the  begin- 
ning, and  a  hoary  morning  and  calm  sunny  day  about  the  end  of  autumn  ; 
these,  time  out  of  mind,  have  been  with  me  a  kind  of  holiday. 

"  I  believe  I  owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper  in  the  Spectator,  '  The 
Vision  of  IMirza  ;'  a  piece  that  struck  my  young  fancy  before  1  was  capable 
of  fixing  an  idea  to  a  word  of  three  syllables  :  '  On  the  5th  day  of  the  moon, 
which,  according  to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers,  I  always  keep  holi/,  after 
having  washed  myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascended 
the  high  hill  of  Dagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation 
and  prayer.'  We  know  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  of  the  substance  or 
structure  of  our  souls,  so  cannot  account  for  those  seeming  caprices  in 
them,  that  one  should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  thing,  or  struck 
with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a  different  cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  im- 
pression. 1  have  some  favourite  flowers  in  spring,  among  which  are  the 
mountain-daisy,  the  hare-bell,  the  fox-glove,  the  wild  brier-rose,  the  bud- 
ding-birch, and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view  and  hang  over  with  par- 
ticular delight.  I  never  hear  the  loud,  solitary  whistle  of  tlie  curlew  in  a 
summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence  of  a  troop  of  grey  plover,  in  an 
autumnal  mornii)<r,  without  feeling  an  elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm 
of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  ow 
ing  ?  Arc  we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which,  like  the  TEolian  harp,  passive, 
takes  the  impression  of  the  passing  accident  ?  Or  do  these  workings  argue 
something  within  us  above  the  trodden  clod?  I  own  myself  partial  to  such 
proofs  of  those  awful  and  important  realities— a  God  that  made  all  things 
—man's  innnaterial  and  immortal  nature — and  a  world  of  weal  or  woe  b*^ 
vond  death  and  the  y.rave." 


LIl'E  OF  ROBEllT  BURXS.  .xxxia 

Few,  u  Is  to  be  hoped,  can  read  sucli  tliiniis  as  tlicsc  without  delight  ; 
none  surely,  that  taste  the  elevated  pleasure  they  are  calculated  to  in- 
spire can  turn  from  them  to  the  well-known  issue  of  Burn>.'s  history,  with- 
out being  afflicted.  The  "  golden  days"  of  Elliesland.  as  Dr.  Currie  justly 
calls  them,  were  not  destined  to  be  many.  Burns's  farming  s{)eculations 
once  more  failed  ;  and  he  himself  seems  to  have  been  aware  that  such  was 
likely  to  be  the  case  ere  he  had  given  the  business  many  months'  trial ;  for, 
ere  the  autumn  of  1788  was  over,  he  applied  to  his  patron,  Mr.  (irahani  of 
Fintray,  for  actual  emjiloyment  as  an  exciseman,  and  was  accordingly  aj)- 
pointed  to  do  duty,  in  that  capacity,  in  the  district  where  his  lands  were 
situated.  His  income,  as  a  revenue  officer,  was  at  first  only  XSo  ;  it  by 
nnd  by  rose  to  iaO  ;  and  sometimes  was  170.  These  pounds  were  hardly 
earned,  since  the  duties  of  his  new  calling  necessarily  withdrew  him  very 
often  from  the  farm,  whicli  needed  his  utmost  attention,  and  exposed  him, 
which  Avas  still  worse,  to  innumerable  temptations  of  the  kind  he  was  least 
hkely  to  resist. 

I  have  now  the  satisfaction  of  presenting  the  reader  with  some  particu- 
lars of  this  part  of  Burns's  history,   derived  from  a  source  which  every 
lover  of  Scotland  and  Scottish  ])octry  must  be  prepared  to  hear  mentioned 
]     with  respect.     It  happened  that  at  the  time  when  our  poet  went  to  Niths' 
•     dale,  th.e  father  of  Mr.  Allan  Cunniuijham  was  steward  on  the  estate  of 
>     Dalswinton  :  he  was,  as  all  m-1io  have  read  the  writings  of  his  sons  will 
I     readily  believe,  a  man  of  remarkable   talents  and  attainments:  he  was  a 
j     wise  and  good  man  ;  a  devout  admirer  of  Burns's  genius  ;  and  one  of  those 
!     sober  neighbours  who  in  vain  strove,  by  advice  and  warning,  to  arrest  the 
j    poet  in  the  downhill  path,  tov.-ards.  which  a  thousand  seductions  were  per- 
I    petually  drawing  him.     Mr.  Allan  Cunningham  was,   of  course,  almost  a 
I     child  when  he  first  saw  Burns  ;  but,   in  what  he  has  to  say  on  tliis  subject, 
we  may  be  sure  we  are  hearing  the  substance  of  his  benevolent  and  saga- 
cious father's  observations  and  reflections.     His  own  boyish  recollections 
of  the  poet's  personal  appearance  and  demeanour  v,i!l,   however,  be  read 
}    M'ith  interest.     "  1  was  very    young,"  says  Allan   Cunningham,   "  when  I 
first  saw  Burns.  He  came  to  see  my  father;  and  their  conversation  turned 
partly  on  farming,  partly  on  poetry,  in  both  of  which  my  father  had  taste 
j    and  skill.     Burns  had  just  come  to  Kithsdale  ;  and  I  think  he  appeared  a 
shade  more  swarth}'  than  he  does  in  Nasmytifs  ]iicture,  and  at  least  ten  years 
j    older  tlian   he   really  v>as  at  the  lime.      His  liice  v.as  deeply  marked   by 
I    thought,  nnd  the  habitual  expression  intensely  melancholy.   His  frame  was 
j    very  muscular  and   well  proj)ortioned,   though   he  had  a  short  neck,  and 
5on!ething  of  a  ploughman's  stoop  :  he  v.  as  strong,  and  proud  of  his  strength 
I  saw  him  one  evening  match  himself  with  a  number  of  masons  ;  and  out 
of  five-and- twenty  practised  hands,    the  most  vigorous  j'oung  men  in  the 
[)arish,  tliere  was  only  one  that  could  lift  the  same  weight  as  Burns       He 
luid  a  very  manly  face,  and  a  very  melancholy  look  ;   but  on  the  coming  of 
those  he  esteemed,  his   looks   brightened  up,    and  his  whole  face  beamed 
with   affection   and   genius.      His  voice   was   very  musical.     I  once  heard 
him  read  7\nii  o   SItindcr.     I  think  I  hear  him  now.     His  fine  manly  voice 
followed  all  the  undulations  of  the  sense,  and  expressed  as  well  as  his  ge- 
nius had  done,  the  patlios  and  humour,  the  horrible  and  the  awful,   of  that 
wonderi'ul  performance.      Asa  man  feels;  so  will  he  write;  and  in  propor- 
tion as  he  b'.-mnathizcs  with  his  author,  so  will  he  read  him  with  tirace  and 
ftnect 


! 


.xxxiv  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

"  I  said  tl'.at  Burns  and  my  father  conversed  about  poetrj  and  farming 
Tlie  poet  had  newly  taken  possession  of  his  farm  of  Elliesland, — the  masons 
w  ere  busy  building  his  house, — the  applause  of  the  world  was  with  him, 
and  a  little  of  its  ntoney  in  his  pocket, — in  short,  he  had  found  a  resting- 
place  at  last.  He  spoke  with  great  delight  about  the  excellence  of  his 
farm,  and  particularly  about  the  beauty  of  the  situation.  '  Yes,'  my  father 
said,  '  the  walks  on  the  river  bank  are  fine,  and  you  will  see  from  your  win- 
dows some  miles  of  the  Nith ;  but  you  will  also  see  several  farms  of  fine 
rich  holm,  *  any  ons  of  which  you  might  have  had.  You  have  made  a 
poet's  choice,  rather  than  a  farmer's.'  If  Burns  had  much  of  a  farmer's 
skill,  he  hp/d  little  of  a  farmer's  prudence  and  economy.  I  once  inquired 
of  James  Corrie,  a  sagacious  old  farmer,  whose  ground  marched  with  Ellies- 
land, the  cause  of  the  poet's  failure.  '  Faith,'  said  he,  '  how  could  he  miss 
but  fail,  wiien  his  servants  ate  the  bread  as  fast  as  it  was  baked  ?  I  don't 
mean  figuratively,  I  mean  literally.  Consider  a  little.  At  that  time  close 
economy  was  necessary  to  liave  enabled  a  man  to  clear  twent}  pounds  a- 
year  by  Elliesland.  Now,  Burns's  own  handy  work  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion :  he  neither  ploughed,  nor  sowed,  nor  reaped,  at  least  like  a  hard- 
working farmer  ;  and  then  he  had  a  bevy  of  servants  from  Ayrshire.  The 
lasses  did  nothing  but  bake  bread,  and  the  lads  sat  by  the  fireside,  and  ate 
it  warm  with  ale.  Waste  of  time  and  consumption  of  food  would  soon 
reach  to  tv/enty  pounds  a-year.' 

"  The  truth  of  the  case,"  says  Mr.  Cunningham,  in  another  letter  with 
which  he  has  favoured  me,  "  the  truth  is,  tl)at  if  Robert  Burns  liked  his 
farm,  it  v/as  more  for  the  beauty  of  the  situation  than  for  the  labours  which 
it  demanded.  He  was  ton  waj-ward  to  attend  to  the  stated  duties  of  a 
husbandman,  and  too  impatient  to  wait  till  the  ground  returned  in  gain  the 
cultivation  he  bestowed  upon  it.  The  condition  of  a  farmer,  a  Nithsdale 
one,  1  mean,  was  then  verj'  humble  His  one-story  house  had  a  covering 
of  straw,  and  a  clay  floor;  the  furniture  was  from  the  hands  of  a  country 
carpenter ;  and,  between  the  roof  and  fioor,  there  seldom  intervened  a 
smoother  ceiling  than  of  rough  rods  and  grassy  turf — while  a  huge  lang-settle 
of  black  oak  for  himself,  and  a  carved  arm  chair  for  his  wife,  were  the  only 
matters  out  of  keeping  with  the  homely  looks  of  his  residence.  He  took 
all  his  meals  in  his  own  kitchen,  and  presided  regularly  among  his  children 
and  domestics.  He  performed  family  worship  every  evening — except  dur- 
ing the  hurry  of  harvest,  when  that  duty  was  perhaps  limited  to  Saturday 
night.  A  few  religious  books  two  or  three  favourite  poets,  the  history  of 
his  country,  and  his  Bible,  aided  him  in  forming  the  minds  and  manners  of 
(he  family.  To  domestic  education,  Scotland  owes  as  much  as  to  the  care 
Df  her  clergy,  and  the  excellence  of  her  parish  schools. 

"•'  The  picture  out  of  doors  was  less  interesting.  'I'he  ground  from  which 
the  farmer  sought  support,  was  generally  in  a  very  moderate  state  of  culti- 
vation. The  implements  with  which  he  tilled  his  land  were  primitive  and 
clumsy,  and  his  ovt'n  knowledge  of  the  management  of  crops  exceedingly 
limited.  He  plodded  on  in  the  regular  slothful  routine  of  his  ancestors  ; 
he  rooted  out  no  bushes,  he  dug  up  no  stones  ;  lie  drained  not,  neither  did 
lie  enclose  .  and  weeds  obtained  then  iull  share  of  the  dung  and  the  lime, 
which  he  bestowed  more  like  a  medicine  than  a  meal  on  his  soil.  His 
plough  was  iJie  rude  old  Scotch  one  ;   his  harrows  had  as  ofcen  teeth   j1 

•  Ilohii  is  ff.it,  rich  meadow  liina,  intervsning  between  a  stream  and  tlie  general  elevation 
di'  tlic  adjoi.m  flg  cuuntiy. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Ixxxv 

ivood  as  of  iron  ;  his  carts  were  heavy  and  low-wlieclcd,  or  were,  more 
(iroperly  speaking,  tunibler-carts,  so  called  to  distinguish  tlieni  from  trail 
carts,  both  of  which  were  in  connnon  use.  On  these  rude  carriages  his 
manure  was  taken  to  the  field,  and  his  crop  brought  home.  The  iarmer 
himself  corresponded  in  all  respects  with  his  imperfect  instruments.  His 
poverty  secured  him  from  risking  costly  experiments  ;  and  his  hatred  ot 
innovation  made  him  entrench  himself  behind  a  breast-work  of  old  maxims 
and  rustic  saws,  which  he  interpreted  as  oiacles  delivered  against  improve- 
ment. With  ground  in  such  condition,  with  tools  so  uniit,  and  with  know- 
ledge so  imperfect,  he  sometimes  succeeded  in  wringing  a  ^t^w  hundred 
pouni  s  Scots  from  the  farm  he  occupied.  Sucli  was  generally  the  state  of 
agriculture  when  Burns  came  to  Nithsdale.  I  know  not  how  far  his  own 
skill  was  equal  to  the  task  of  improvement — his  trial  was  short  and  unfor- 
tunate. An  important  change  soon  took  place,  by  which  he  was  nat  fated 
to  profit ;  he  had  not  the  foresight  to  see  its  approach,  nor,  probabl}',  the 
fjrtitude  to  await  its  coming. 

"  in  the  year  1790,  much  of  the  ground  in  Nithsdale  was  leased  at  seven, 
and  ten.  and  fifteen  shillings  per  acre  ;  and  the  farmer,  in  his  person  and 
his  house,  differed  little  from  the  peasants  and  mechanics  around  him.  He 
would  have  thought  his  daughter  a<  edded  in  her  degree,  had  she  married  a 
joiner  or  a  mason  ;  and  at  kirk  or  market,  all  men  beneath  the  rank  of  a 
"  portioner"  of  the  soil  mingled  together,  equals  in  appearance  and  impor- 
tance. But  the  war  which  soon  commenced,  gave  a  decided  impulse  to 
agriculture;  the  army  and  navy  consumed  largely;  corn  rose  in  demand; 
the  price  augmented  ;  more  land  was  called  into  culiivation  ;  and,  as  leases 
expired,  the  proprietors  improved  the  grounds,  built  better  houses,  enlarg- 
ed the  rents  ;  and  the  farmer  was  soon  borne  on  the  wings  of  sudden  wealth 
above  his  original  condition.  His  house  obtained  a  slated  roof,  sash-windows, 
carpeted  floors,  plastered  walls,  and  even  bogan  to  exchange  the  hanks  of 
yarn  with  which  it  was  formerly  hung,  for  paintings  and  pianofortes.  He 
laid  aside  his  coat  of  home-made  cloth  ;  he  retired  from  his  seat  among  his 
servants  ;  he — I  am  grieved  to  mention  it — gave  up  family  worship  as  a 
thing  unfashionable,  and  became  a  kind  of  rustic  r/e/iihiiu/n,  v.ho  rode  a  blood 
horse,  and  galloped  home  on  market  nights  at  the  peril  of  his  own  neck,  and 
to  the  terror  of  every  modest  pedestrian.  \Vhen  a  change  like  this  took 
nlace,  and  a  farmer  could,  with  a  dozen  years'  industry,  be  able  to  purchase 
the  land  he  rented — which  many  were,  and  many  did — the  same,  or  a  still 
more  profitable  change  might  have  happened  with  respect  to  Elliesland ; 
and  Burns,  had  he  stuck  by  his  lease  and  his  plough,  avouUI,  in  all  human 
possibility,  have  found  the  independence  which  he  sought,  and  sought  in 
vain,  frara  the  coldness  and  parsimony  of  mankind." 

r.Ir.  Cunningham  sums  up  his  reminiscences  of  Burns  at  Elliesland  in 
these  terms : — '•  During  the  prosperity  of  his  farm,  my  father  often  said 
that  Burnis  conducted  himself  wisely,  and  like  one  anxious  for  his  name  as 
H  man.  and  his  fame  as  a  poet.  He  went  to  Dunscore  Kirk  on  ^Sunday, 
though  he  expressed  oftener  than  once  his  dislike  to  the  stern  Calvinism  of 
that  strict  old  divine,  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  ; — he  assisted  in  forming  a  reading 
club  ;  and  at  weddings  and  house-heatings,  and  kirns,  and  other  scenes  of  fes- 
ti  "'ty,  he  was  a  welcome  guest,  universally  liked  by  the  young  and  the  old. 
iiut  the  failure  of  his  farming  projects,  and  the  limited  income  with  which 
he  was  compelled  to  support  an  increasing  family  and  an  eypensive  station 
Ui  life,  preyed  on  his  spirits ;  and,  during  these  fits  of  despair,  he  was  will 


xxxvi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

ing  too  often  to  become  tlie  companion  of  the  thoughtless  and  the  gross.  J 
am  grieved  to  say,  that  besides  leaving  the  book  too  much  for  the  bowl, 
and  grave  and  wise  friends  for  lewd  and  reckless  companions,  he  was  also 
in  the  occasional  practice  of  composing  songs,  in  which  he  surpassed  the 
licentiousness,  as  well  as  the  wit  and  humour,  of  the  old  Scottish  muse. 
These  have  unfortunately  found  their  way  to  the  press,  and  I  am  afraid 
they  cannot  be  recalled.  In  conclusion,  I  may  say,  that  few  men  have  had 
so  much  of  the  poet  about  them,  and  fev/  poets  so  much  of  the  man  ; — the 
man  was  probably  less  pure  than  he  ought  to  have  been,  but  the  poet  was 
pure  and  bright  to  the  last." 

The  reader  must  be  sufficiently  prepared  to  hear,  that  from  the  time 
when  he  entered  on  his  excise  duties,  the  poet  more  and  more  neglected 
the  concerns  of  his  farm.  Occasionally,  he  might  be  seen  holding  the 
plough,  an  exercise  in  which  he  excelled,  and  was  proud  of  excelling,  or 
stalking  down  his  furrows,  with  the  white  sheet  of  grain  wrapt  about  him, 
a  "  tenty  seedsman  ;"  but  he  was  more  commonly  occupied  in  far  different 
pursuits.  •'  I  am  now,"  says  he,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  a  poor  rascally 
ganger,  condemned  to  gallop  two  hundred  miles  every  week,  to  inspect 
dirty  ponds  and  yeasty  barrels."  Both  in  verse  and  in  prose  he  has. recorded 
the  feelings  with  which  he  first  followed  his  new  vocation.  His  jests  on 
the  subject  are  uniform!}'  bitter.  "  I  have  the  same  consolation,"  he  tells 
Mr  Ainslie,  "  wliich  I  once  heard  a  recruiting  sergeant  give  to  his  audi- 
ence in  the  streets  of  Kilmarnock  :  '  Gentlemen,  for  your  farther  encourage  ■ 
ment,  I  can  assure  you  that  ours  is  the  most  blackguard  corps  under  the 
crown,  and,  consequently,  with  us  an  honest  fellow  has  th.e  surest  chance 
of  preferment.'  "  On  one  occasion,  however,  he  takes  a  higher  tone.  "  There 
is  a  certain  stigma,"  says  he  to  Bishop  Geddes,  "  in  the  name  of  Excise- 
man ;  but  I  do  not  intend  to  borrow  honour  from  any  profession  :" — which 
may  periiaps  remind  the  reader  of  (iibbon's  lofty  language,  en  finally  quit- 
ting the  learned  and  polished  circles  of  London  and  Paris,  for  his  Swiss  re- 
tirement :  "  I  am  too  modest,  or  too  j)roud,  to  rate  my  value  by  that  oi 
my  associates." 

Burns,  in  his  perpetual  perambulations  over  the  moors  of  Dumfriesshire, 
had  every  temptation  to  encounter,  which  bodily  fatigue,  the  blandishments 
of  hosts  and  hostesses,  and  the  habitual  manners  of  those  who  acted  along 
witli  him  in  the  duties  of  the  excise,  could  present.  He  was,  moreover, 
wherever  he  went,  exposed  to  perils  of  his  own.  by  the  reputiition  which 
he  had  earned  as  a  poet,  and  by  his  extraordinary  powers  of  cntc'tainment 
in  conversation.  I'rom  the  castle  to  the  cottage,  every  door  t!ew  open  at 
his  approach  ;  and  the  old  system  of  hospitality,  then  flourishing,  rendered 
it  difficult  for  the  most  soberly  inclined  guest  to  rise  from  any  man's  board 
in  the  same  trim  that  he  sat  down  to  it.  The  farmer,  if  Burns  was  seen 
passing,  left  his  reapers,  and  trotted  by  the  side  of  Jenny  Geddes,  until 
he  could  persuade  the  bard  that  the  day  was  hot  enough  to  demand  an 
extra-iibation.  If  he  entered  an  inn  at  midnight,  after  all  the  ii/Tiiate3 
were  in  bed,  the  news  of  his  arrival  circulated  from  the  cellar  to  the  garret; 
and  ere  ten  minutes  had  elapsed,  the  landlord  and  all  his  guests  were  as- 
sembled round  the  ingle;  the  largest  punch-bowl  was  produced  ;  and 

"  He  ours  tliis  i.iglu — wha  knows  what  comes  to-niovrow  ?" 

was  the  language  of  every  eye  in  the  circle  that  welcomed  him.     Tlie 
stateliest  L^entry  of  the  count}',    whenmei  tliey  had  es])ecial  merriment  in 


I  I 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  Ixxxvil 

\\o\v,  called  In  the  wit  and  eloquence  of  Burns  to  enliven  nieir  carousals.* 
The  t'anious  song  ot'  T/ic  Whistle  of  iCDiih  connneinorates  a  scene  of  this 
kind,  more  picturesque  in  some  of  its  circumstances  than  every  day  oc- 
curred, yet  strictly  in  character  with  the  usual  tenor  of  life  amo!!g  this  jo- 
vial squii-carchy.  Three  gentlemen  of  ancient  descent,  liad  met  to  deter- 
mine, by  a  solemn  drinking  match,  who  should  {)ossess  the  lf7ii.sf/i\  which 
a  common  ancestor  of  them  all  had  earned  ages  before,  in  a  Ijacchaiialian 
contest  of  the  same  sort  with  a  noble  t()[)er  from  Denmark  ;  and  the  poet 
was  summoned  to  watch  over  and  celebrate  the  issue  of  the  debate 

"  Then  up  rose  the  bard  like  a  prophet  in  ilrink, 
Crai^d-irroch  shall  soar  wlien  creation  sliall  sink  ; 
But  if  dioii  worild'st  flourish  inniiortal  in  rhyme. 
Come,  one  bottle  more,  and  luve  at  the  sublime." 

Nor,  as  has  already  been  hinted,  was  he  safe  fronj  temptations  of  this  kind, 
even  when  he  was  at  home,  and  most  disposed  to  enjoy  in  quiet  the  socie- 
ty of  hiis  wife  and  children.  Lion-gazers  from  all  quarters  beset  him  ;  they 
ate  and  drank  at  his  cost,  and  often  went  awav  to  criticise  him  and  his 
fare,  as  if  they  had  done  Burns  and  his  black  howl  f  great  honour  in  con- 
descending to  be  entertained  for  a  single  evening,  with  such  companj'  and 
such  li(|uor. 

We  have  on  record  various  glimpses  of  him,  as  he  appeared  while  he 
was  half-farmer,  half-exciseman  ;  and  some  of  these  present  him  in  atti- 
tudes and  aspects,  on  which  it  would  be  pleasing  to  dwell.  For  example, 
th.e  circumstances  under  which  the  verses  on  T/te  ivciindtd  Hare  were 
written,  are  mentioned  generally  by  the  poet  himself.  James  Thomson, 
son  of  the  occupier  of  a  farm  adjoining  Elliesland,  told  Allan  Cunnijigham, 
that  it  was  he  who  wounded  the  animal.  "  Burns,"  said  this  person,  "  was 
in  the  custom,  when  at  home,  of  strolling  by  himself  in  the  twilight  every 
evening,  along  the  Kith,  and  by  the  nutrrh  between  his  land  and  curs. 
The  hares  often  came  and  nibbled  our  wheat  braird ;  and  once,  in  the 
gloaming, — it  was  in  April, — I  got  a  shot  at  one.  and  wounded  her  :  she  ran 
bleeding  by  Burns,  \\ho  was  pacing  up  and  down  by  himself,  not  far  from 
me.  Me  started,  and  with  a  bitter  curse,  ordered  me  out  of  his  sight,  or 
he  would  throw  me  instantly  into  the  Nith.  And  had  I  stayed.  111  war- 
rant he  would  have  been  as  good  as  his  word  —  though  1  was  both  young 
and  strong." 

Among  other  curious  travellers  who  found  their  way  about  this  time  to 
Elliesland,  was  Captain  Grose,  tlie  celebrated  antiquarian,  whom  Burns 
briefly  describes  as 

"  A  fi:ie  fat  fod^'d  wlf^ht— 

Oi  stature  sliort,  but  genius  bright ;" 

and  who  has  painted  his  own  portrait,  both  with  pen  and  pencil,  at  full 
length,  in  his  Olio,  f  his  gentleman's  taste  and  pursuits  are  ludicrously  set 
fortli  in  the  copy  of  verses — 

•  Tlicsc  paiticulars  are  from  a  letter  of  Dayitl  Macculloch,  Es(^.,  who,  being  at  ihis  period 
a  very  yom.g  mun,  a  i)assi()i'.ate  ;;dmirer  of  Uurns,  and  a  capital  singer  of  many  of  iiis  serious 
sor.t>,  used  often,  in  his  etuhusiasm,  to  accompany  the  poet  on  his  professional  excursions. 

+  r.iirns's  fimous  black  punch-bowl,  of  Inverary  marljle,  was  die  nuptial  gift  of  Mi  At- 
n'liur.  I'i^  fat!'er-ii:-l  w,  who  himself  fashioned  it.  .After  passing  through  many  hands,  it  it 
r.mv  iii  excellent  keeping,  tliat  of  Alexander  Hastie,  Esq.  ot  London. 


xxxviii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

"  Hear,  Land  o'  Cakes  and  brither  Scots, 
Frae  ."Maidenkirk  to  John  O'Groats, 
A  chitld's  amaiig  ye  takin'  notes,"  &c. 

and,  infer  alia,  his  love  of  port  is  not  forgotten.  Grose  and  Burns  liad  too 
much  in  common,  not  to  become  great  friends.  The  poet's  accurate  know- 
ledge of  Scottisli  phraseology  and  customs,  was  of  great  use  to  the  re- 
searches of  the  humourous  antiquarian  ;  and,  above  all,  it  is  to  their  ac- 
quaintance that  vv'e  owe  Tarn  o  Shunter.  Burns  told  the  story  as  he  h.ad 
heard  it  in  Ayrshire,  in  a  letter  to  the  Captain,  and  v.as  easily  persuaded 
to  versify  it.  The  poem  was  the  work  of  one  day  ;  and  Mrs.  Burns  well  rc- 
nifmbers  the  circumstances.  He  spent  most  of  the  day  on  his  favourite  walk 
by  the  river,  where,  in  the  afternoon,  she  joined  him  with  some  of  her 
children.  "  He  was  busily  engaged  crooning  to  liinissll,  and  .Mrs.  Burns 
perceiving  that  her  presence  was  an  interruption,  loitered  bcliind  with  her 
little  ones  among  the  broom.  Her  attention  was  presently  attracted  by  the 
strange  and  wild  gesticulatioi^s  of  the  bard,  who,  now  at  some  distance, 
was  agonized  with  an  ungovernable  access  of  joy.  He  was  reciting  very 
loud,  and  with  the  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks,  those  animated  verses 
which  he  had  just  conceived  : — 

"  Now  Tam  !  O  Tarn  !  had  they  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strappi:i'  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  of  creeshie  flannen, 
l?een  snaw-wliite  seventeen. bunder  *iinen, — 
'J'liir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush  o'  good  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  liurdics. 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  ijurdies  !"  -j- 

To  the  last  Burns  was  of  opinion  that  Tam  a'  Slianfer  was  the  best  of 
all  his  productions  ;  and  although  it  does  not  always  happen  that  poet  and 
public  come  to  the  same  conclusion  on  such  points,  I  believe  the  decision  in 
question  has  been  all  but  unanimously  approved  of.  The  admirable  execu- 
tion of  the  ])iece,  so  fin-  as  it  goes.,  leaves  nothing  to  wish  for;  the  OY\\y  cri- 
ticism has  been,  that  the  catastrophe  appears  unworthy  of  the  preparation. 
Burns  lays  the  scene  of  this  remarkable  performance  almost  on  the  spot 
where  he  v.-as  born  ;  and  all  the  terrific  circumstances  by  which  he  has 
marked  the  progress  of  Tam's  midnight  journey,  are  drawn  from  local  tra- 
dition. 

"  By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford 

W'hare  in  llie  snaw  the  chapnuin  smoor'd, 
And  past  the  biiks  and  nieikle  sUuie, 
W'barc  dnicken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane  ; 
And  through  the  whins,  and  by  t1ie  ciirn, 
A\'hare  hunter's  fand  the  murder'd  bairn  ; 
And  near  the  tlior;',  aboon  the  well, 
W'hare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersell.'' 

^one  of  these  tragic  memoranda  were  derived  from  imagination.  Nor  was 
Iain  o"  Slianter  himself  an  imaginary  character.  ISlianter  is  a  farm  close 
to  Kirkoswald's,  that  smuggling  village,  in  which  Burns,  when  nineteen 
years  old,  studied  mensuration,  and  "  first  became  actjuainted  with  scenes 
of  swaggering  riot."     'J"he   then   occupier  of  bhanter,   by  name    Douglas 

•  "  The  manufacturer's  term  for  a  fine  linen,  woven  on  arced  of  1 7*10  divisions." — Ciomrli, 

-)-  The  above  is  (|u-,)tcd  from  a  .^IS.  journal  of  Oomck.      .Mr.  M'Diarmid  confirms  the 

statement,  and  a(h!s,    that  llie  iioet,   liavmg  coiumitted  the  verses  to  wiiting  on  the  top  of  Ilia 

Kj(l.h/kr  (i\er  tlie  water,  came  into  tlic  house,  and  read  them  inmiodiatc'y  m  high  triumph  at 

he  tircside. 


LIFE  OF  HOnERT  BURNS. 


Ixxxix 


^iriihaino,  \v;is.  ])y  all  accounts,  cquully  what  the  Tarn  of  the  poet  appears, 
— a  jolly,  careless,  rustic,  who  took  much  more  hiterest  in  the  contrat)and 
trafiic  of  the  coast,  than  the  rotation  of  crops.  Burns  knew  the  man  well ; 
antl  to  his  dj'ing  day,  lie,  nothing  loath,  passed  among  his  rural  compeers 
by  the  name  of  Tarn  o'  Shanter. 

A  few  words  will  bring  us  to  the  close  of  Burns's  career  at  Klliesland. 
Mr.  Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  liappening  to  pass  througli  Nithsdalc  in  1790, 
met  15urns  riding  rapidly  near  (Jloseburn.  The  i)oet  was  obliged  to  pursue 
iiis  professional  journey,  but  sent  on  Mr.  Ramsay  and  his  fellow-traveller 
to  Klliesland,  where  lie  joined  tlicm  as  soon  as  liis  duty  ])ermitted  him, 
saying,  as  he  entered,  "  I  come,  to  use  the  words  of  Shakspeare,  stewed 
in  //asfr."  Mr.  Ramsay  was  "  much  ]ileased  with  his  i/.ror  Sah/'mt  qttalh, 
^nd  his  modest  mansion,  so  unlike  tlie  habitation  of  ordinary  rustics." 
The  evening  was  spent  delightfully.  A  gentleman  of  dry  temj)erament, 
who  looked  in  accidentally,  soon  partook  the  contagion,  and  sat  listen- 
ing to  Burns  with  the  tears  running  over  his  cheeks.  "  Poor  Burns!"  say? 
Mr.  Ramsay,   "  from  that  time  I  met  him  no  more." 

The  summer  after,  some  English  travellers,  calling  at  Elliesland,  Mere 
told  that  the  poet  was  walking  by  the  river.  They  proceeded  in  search  of 
him,  and  presently,  "  on  a  rock  that  projected  into  the  stream,  they  saw 
a  man  employed  in  angling,  of  a  singular  appearance.  He  had  a  cap  mode 
of  a  fox's  skin  on  his  head  ;  a  loose  greai-coat,  fastened  round  him  by  a 
belt,  from  which  depended  an  enormous  Highland  broadsword.  It  was 
Burns.  He  received  them  with  great  cordiality,  and  asked  them  to  share 
nis  humble  dinner."  These  tra»'ellers  also  classed  the  evening  they  s},eut 
at  I'^lliesland  with  the  brightest  '"f  their  lives. 

Towards  the  close  of  1791.  tlie  jioet,  finally  despairing  of  his  farm,  ae- 
lermined  to  give  up  his  lease,  which  the  kindness  of  his  landlord  rendered 
easy  of  arrangcmeni: ;  and  procuring  an  appointment  to  the  Dumfries  divi- 
sion, v/hich  raised  his  salary  from  the  revenue  to  170  per  annum,  removed 
his  family  to  the  county  town,  in  which  he  terminated  his  days.  His  con- 
duct as  an  excise  officer  had  hitherto  met  with  uniform  approbation  ;  and 
lio  nouri.sIied  warm  hopes  of  being  promoted,  when  he  had  thus  avowedly 
devoted  himself  altogether  to  the  service.  He  left  Elliesland,  liowever, 
with  a  heavy  heai't.  The  affection  of  his  neighbours  was  rekindled  in  all  its 
early  fervour  by  the  thoughts  of  parting  with  him  ;  and  the  roup  of  liis 
farming-stock  and  other  effects,  was,  in  spite  of  Avhisky,  a  very  melancholy 
scene.  The  competition  for  his  chatties  was  eager,  each  being  anxious  to 
secure  a  memorandum  of  Burns's  residence  among  them.  It  is  jileasing  tc 
knov,-.  that  among  other  "  titles  manifold"  to  their  respect  and  gratitude, 
Burns  had  superintended  the  formation  of  a  subscription  library  in  the  parish. 
His  letters  to  the  booksellers  on  this  subject  do  him  much  lionour :  his 
choice  of  author?,  (which  business  was  naturally  left  to  his  discretion)  being 
in  the  highest  degree  judicious.  Such  institutions  are  now  conmion,  almost 
universal,  indeed,  in  all  the  rural  districts  of  southern  Scotland  :  but  it 
flioiild  never  be  forgotten  that  B>urns  was  among  the  first,  if  not  the  very 
first,  to  set  the  example.  "  He  was  so  good,"  says  Mr  Riddel,  "  as  to 
take  the  whole  management  of  this  concern  ;  he  was  treasurer,  librarian, 
and  censor,  to  our  little  society,  who  will  long  have  a  grateful  sense  of  his 
public  spirit,  and  exertions  for  their  improvement. and  information."  Once, 
and  only  once,  did  Burns  quit  his  residence  at  Elliesland  to  revisit  Edin- 
burt'h.     His  object  was  to  close  accounts  with  Creech  ;  tiiat  business  ac 


«ic  LIFE  Or  KOBEliT  BURNS. 

complishcci,  he  returntvi  immediatelj,  and  he  never  again  saw  the  capital 
He  thus  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  : — "  T  >  a  man  who  has  a  home,  however 
humble  and  remote,  if  that  liome  is,  hke  mine,  the  scene  of  domestic  com- 
fort,  the  bustle  of  Edinburgh  will  soon  be  a  business  of  sickening  disgust — 

"  Vain  pomp  and  glor    of  the  world,  I  hate  you  !" 

"  When  I  must  skulk  into  a  corner,  lest  the  rattling  equipage  of  some  gap 
sng  blockhead  should  mangle  me  in  the  mire,  I  am  tempted  to  exclaim, 
•,vliat  merits  had  he  had,  or  what  demerits  have  I  had,  in  some  state  of! 
pre- existence,  that  he  is  ushered  into  this  state  of  being  with  the  sceptre 
of  rule,  and  the  key  of  riches  in  his  puny  fist,  and  I  kicked  into  the  world, 
the  sport  of  folly  or  the  victim  of  pride  ....  often  as  I  have  glided  with 
humble  stealth  through  the  pomp  of  Prince's  Street,  it  has  suggested  itself 
to  me  as  an  improvement  on  the  present  human  figure,  that  a  man,  in  pro- 
portion to  his  own  conceit  of  his  consequence  in  the  world,  could  have 
[lushed  out  the  longitude  of  his  common  size,  as  a  snail  pushes  out  hia 
iioms,  or  as  we  draw  out  a  perspective  ' 


CHAPTER   nU. 

Covfrvr<! Is  more  he.set  In  fmrn  than  connfry — 77/5  rnrhj  I'or/raphrrs,  (Dr.   C'irrie  not  ex* 

ccptixi),  have  coloured  ton  diirhly  under  thiit  lieod — It  is  not  correct  to  spenh  of  tlie  poyt  at 
hnvhii]  sunk  into  a  toper,  or  a  solitary  drinker,  or  of /us  rerels  as  other  tlion  orctisioniil,  or  of 
tfieir  huiint]  irilerfeitd  with  the  punctiiid  disch(iri;e  of  his  vfjiciul  duties — He  is  shoirn  to 
have  been  the  affectionate  and  beloved  husband,  aUhouyh  passing  follies  imputed;  and  the 
constant  and  most  assid'ions  instructor  of  his  children — Impulses  <f  the  French  Iiev"liition 
—  Symptoms  offratrri:isinp —  J'hc  attnitinn  of  his  ijficicil  superiors  is  called  to  them — Prac- 
tically no  blow  is  inflicted,  only  the  bud  name — Interestinij  details  tf  this  period — dives  hit 
whale  soul  to  snny  mahiuy — Preference  in  that  for  his  native  dialect,  with  the  other  attexd- 
mnt  facta,  as  to  the   portion  (f  his  immortal  lajj/s. 


"  The  King's  most  humble  ssnrant,  i 
Can  scarcely  s]),ire  h.  niinule? 
Jvi'i.  I  am  yours  at  diimer-thn-i. 
Or  else  the  devil's  in  iu"  * 

The  fotir  principal  biograp!iers  of  our  poet,  Heron,  Currie,  Walker,  ani 
Irving,  concur  in  tiio  general  statement,  that  his  moral  course  from  the 
'jine  when  he  settled  in  Dumfries,  was  downwards.  Heron  knew  more  ot 
.lie  matter  personally  than  any  of  the  others,  and  his  words  are  these  : — 
'•  In  Dumfries  his  dissipation  became  still  more  deeply  habitual.  He  was 
licre  exposed  more  than  in  the  country,  to  be  solicited  to  share  the  riot 
of  the  dissolute  and  the  idle.  Foolish  young  men,  such  as  writers'  ap- 
prentices, young  surgeons,  merchants"  clerks,  and  his  brother  excise- 
men, flocked  eagerly  about  him,  and  irom  time  to  time  pressed  him  to 
drink  with  them,  that  they  might  enjoy  his  wicked  wit.  The  Caledonian 
Club,  too,  and  the  Dumfries  and  Galloway  Hunt,  had  occasional  meet- 
ings in  Dumfries  after  Burns  came  to  reside  there,  and  the  poet  was  of 
course  invited  to  share  their  hospitality,  and  hesitated  not  to  accept  tlie 
invitation.  The  morals  of  the  town  were,  in  consequence  of  its  becom- 
ing so  much  the  scene  of  public  anmsemcnt,  not  a  little  corrujUcd,  and 
though  a  husband  and  a  father.  Burns  did  not  escape  suffering  by  the  gene- 
al  contamination,  in  a  manner  which  I  forbear  to  describe.  In  the  inter- 
nals between  his  different  fits  of  intemperance,  he  suffered  the  keenest  an- 
guish of  remorse  and  horribly  afflictive  foresight.  His  .lean  behaved  with 
a  degree  of  maternal  and  conjugal  tenderness  and  prudence,  which  made 
liim  feel  more  bitterly  the  evils  of  his  misconduct,  though  they  could  not 
reclaim  him." — This  picture,  dark  as  it  is,  wants  seme  distressing  shades 
that  mingle  in  the  parallel  one  by  Dr.  Currie  ;  it  wants  nothing,  however, 
of  which  truth  demands  the  insertion.  That  Burns,  dissipated,  ere  he  went 
to  Dumfries,  became  still  more  dissipated  in  a  tov^n,  tluin  lie  b.ad  be^n  in 
the  country,   is  certain.     It  may  also  be  true,    that  his  wife  liad  her  owu 

'  "■  The  al;Ove  answer  to  an  Liivitation  was  written  extenipore  on  a  leaf  torn  from  his  i'.j' 
eise-book Crumek's  MSS 


jccii  LIFE  OF  ROBF.UT  niJKXS. 

panic  Jir  causes,  sometimes,  for  dissatisfliction.  But  tliat  Burns  ever  sunk 
into  a  toper — that  he  ever  was  addicted  to  solitary  drinking — that  his  bot- 
tle ever  interfered  with  his  discharj^e  of  his  duties  as  an  exciseman — or 
that,  in  spite  of  some  transitory  follies,  he  ever  ceased  to  be  a  most  affec- 
tionate husband — all  these  charges  have  been  insinuated — and  they  are  all 
false.  His  intemperance  was,  as  Heron  says,  xwjits;  his  aberrations  of  all 
kinds  were  occasional,  not  systematic  ;  they  were  all  to  himself  the  sources 
of  exquisite  misery  in  the  retrospect;  they  were  the  aberrations  of  a  man 
whose  moral  sense  was  never  deadened; — of  one  who  encountered  more 
tem])tations  from  without  and  from  within,  than  the  immense  majority  ot 
mankind,  far  from  having  to  contend  against,  are  even  able  'o  imagine  ; — 
of  one,  linally,  who  prayed  for  pardon,  where  alone  effectual  pardon  could 
be  found  ; — and  who  died  ere  he  had  reached  that  term  of  life  up  to  which 
the  passions  of  many,  who,  their  mortal  career  being  regarded  as  a  whole, 
are  honoured  as  among  the  most  virtuous  of  mankind,  have  proved  too 
strong  for  the  control  of  reason.  We  have  already  seen  that  the  poet  Mas 
careful  of  decorum  in  all  things  during  the  brief  space  of  his  prosperity  at 
EUiesland,  and  that  he  became  less  so  on  many  points,  as  the  prospects  of 
his  farming  speculation  darkened  around  him.  It  seems  to  be  equally  certain, 
that  he  entertained  high  hopes  of  promotion  in  the  excise  at  the  period  of 
his  removal  to  Dumfries  ;  and  that  the  comparative  recklessness  of  his 
later  conduct  there,  was  consequent  on  a  certain  overclouding  of  these  pro- 
fessional expectations.  The  case  is  broadly  stated  so  by  Walker  and  I'aul : 
and  there  are  hints  to  the  same  effect  in  the  narrative  of  Curric  Th« 
stiitenient  h.as  no  doubt  been  exaggerated,  but  i^  has  its  foundalion  in  truth  ; 
and  by  the  kindness  of  iMr.  Tram,  supervisor  at  Castle  Douglas  in  Gailo- 
way,  1  shall  presently  be  enabled  to  give  some  details  which  may  throw 
light  on  this  business. 

Burns  was  much  patronised  when  in  Edinburgh  by  the  Honourable  Henry 
Krskinc,  Dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates,  and  other  leading  Whigs  of 
the  place — nmcli  more  so,  to  their  honour  be  it  said,  than  by  any  o'i  the 
influential  adherents  of  the  then  administration.  His  landlord  at  Lllies- 
land,  .Mr.  Miller  of  Dalswinton,  his  neighbour.  Mr.  Riddel  of  I'riars  Carse, 
and  most  of  the  other  gentlemen  who  showed  him  special  attention,  belong- 
ed to  tiie  same  political  party  ;  and,  on  his  removal  to  Dumfries,  it  so  hap- 
pened, that  some  of  his  immediate  superiors  in  the  revenue  service  of  the 
d'Strict,  and  other  persons  of  standing  authority,  into  whose  society  he  Mas 
thrown,  entertained  sentiments  of  the  same  uescnption.  Burns,  Mhenever 
in  his  letters  he  talks  seriously  of  political  matters,  uniformly  describes  his 
early  jacabitisni  as  mere  "  matter  of  fancy."  It  may,  houever,  be  easily 
believed,  that  a  fancy  like  his,  long  indulged  in  dreams  of  that  sort,  was 
well  prepared  to  pass  into  certain  other  dreams,  M'hich  likewise  involved 
feelings  of  dissatisfaction  with  "  the  existing  order  of  things."  Many  of 
the  old  elements  of  political  disaffection  in  .Scotland,  put  on  a  new  shape  at 
the  outbreaiJngof  the  Irench  Revolution;  and  Jacobites  became  half  jaco- 
bins, ere  tliey  were  at  all  aware  in  Mhat  the  doctrines  of  jacobinism  Mcie 
to  end.  Tlie  Whigs  naturally  regarded  the  first  daMU  of  freedom  in  lV;ince 
witli  feelings  of  sympathy,  delight,  exultation.  The  general,  the  all  but 
universal  tone  of  feeling  was  favourable  to  the  first  assailants  of  the  Bour- 
bon despotism  ;  and  thi>re  Mere  fev.'  mIio  more  ardently  participated  in  the 
general  sentiment  of  the  day  than  Burns.  The  revulsion  of  feehr.g  that 
.ook  place  in  this  country  at  large,  when  wanton  atrocities  began  to  <VMr 


LIFE  OF  ROBEUT  BURN'S.  xcii 

the  course  of  the  rrcnth  JJcvolution,  and  Burke  lifted  his  powerful  voices 
was  grea*.  Scenes  more  painfi.d  at  the  time,  and  more  so  even  now  in  the 
retrospect,  than  had  for  generations  afflicted  Scotland,  were  the  conse- 
quences oi"  the  rancour  into  which  party  feelings  on  both  sides  n.»w  rose  and 
fermented.  Old  and  dear  tics  of  friendship  were  torn  in  sunder  ;  society 
was  for  a  time  sh.aken  to  its  centre.  In  the  most  extravagant  dreams  oi 
tiie  Jacobites  there  had  always  been  much  to  command  respect,  high  chi. 
valrous  devotion,  reverence  for  old  affections,  ancestral  loyalty,  and  the 
generosity  of  romance.  In  the  new  species  of  hostility,  every  thing  seemed 
mean  as  well  as  perilous  ;  it  was  scorned  even  more  than  luited.  The  very 
name  stained  whatever  it  came  near ;  and  men  that  had  knov.n  and  loved 
each  other  from  boyhood,  stood  aloof,  if  this  influence  interfered,  as  if  it 
had  been  some  loathsome  pestilence. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  stately  Toryism  at  this  time  in  the  town  ol 
Dumfries,  which  was  the  favourite  winter  retreat  of  many  of  the  best  gen- 
tlemen's families  of  the  south  of  Scotland,  reelings  that  worked  more 
violently  in  Kdinburgh  than  in  London,  acquired  additional  energy  still,  in 
this  provincial  capital.  All  men's  eyes  were  upon  Burns.  He  was  the 
standing  marvel  of  the  place  ;  his  toasts,  his  jokes,  his  ej)igrams,  his  songs, 
were  the  daily  food  of  conversation  and  scandal  ;  and  he,  open  and  care- 
less, and  thinking  he  did  no  great  harm  in  saying  and  singing  what  many 
of  his  superiors  had  not  the  least  objection  to  hear  and  applaud,  soon  be- 
gan to  be  considered  among  the  local  admirers  and  disciples  of  King  ( jeorge 
the  Third  and  his  minister,  as  the  most  dangerous  of  all  the  apostles  of  se- 
dition,— a^d  to  be  shunned  accordingly. 

The  records  of  the  Excise-Office  are  silent  concerning  the  suspicions 
vvhich  the  Commissioners  of  the  time  certainly  took  up  in  regard  to  Burns 
Is  a  political  offender — according  to  the  phraseology  of  the  tempestuous 
period,  a  democrat  In  that  department,  as  then  conducted,  I  am  assured 
that  nothing  could  have  been  more  unlike  the  usual  course  of  things,  than 
that  one  syllable  should  have  been  set  down  in  writing  on  such  a  subject, 
unless  the  case  had  been  one  of  extremities.  That  an  inquiry  was  insti- 
tuted, we  know  from  Burns's  own  letters — but  what  tiie  exact  termination 
of  the  inquiry  was,  will  never,  in  all  probability,  be  ascertained.  Accord- 
ing to  the  tradition  of  the  neighbourhood,  Burns,  i7iter  alia,  gave  great  of- 
fence by  demurring  in  a  large  mixed  company  to  the  proposed  toast,  "  the 
health  of  William  Pitt ;"  and  lei't  the  room  in  indignation,  because  the  so- 
ciety rejected  what  he  w^ished  to  substitute,  namely,  "  the  health  of  a 
greater  and  a  better  man,  George  Washington."  1  suppose  tlie  warmest 
admirer  of  Mr.  Pitt's  talents  and  politics  would  hardly  venture  now-a-days 
to  dissent  substantially  from  Burns's  estimate  of  the  comparative  merits  of 
these  two  great  men.  1  he  name  of  Washington,  at  all  events,  when  con- 
temporary passions  shall  have  finally  sunk  into  the  peace  of  the  grave,  will 
unquestionably  have  its  place  in  the  first  rank  of  heroic  virtue, — a  station 
which  demands  the  exhibition  of  victory  pure  and  unstained  over  tempta- 
tions and  trials  extraordinary,  in  kind  as  well  as  strength.  But  at  the  time 
when  Burns,  being  a  servant  of  ?>Ir.  Pitt's  government,  was  guilty  of  this 
indiscretion,  it  is  obvious  that  a  great  deal  "  more  was  meant  than  readied 
the  ear."  In  the  poet's  own  correspondence,  we  have  traces  of  another  oc- 
currence of  the  same  sort.  Burns  tiros  writes  to  a  gentleman  at  whose 
table  he  had  dined  the  day  before  : — "  I  was,  I  know,  drunk  last  night,  but 
I  am  sober  thi,  morning.    From  the  expressions  Captain  • made  use 


KCiv  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS. 

of  to  me,  had  I  liad  nobody's  welfare  to  care  for  but  my  own,  we  should 
certainly  have  come,  according  to  the  manner  of  the  world,  to  the  neces- 
sity of  murdering  one  another  about  the  business.  The  words  were  such 
as  generally,  I  believe,  end  in  a  brace  of  pistols  ;  but  I  am  still  pleased  to 
think  that  I  did  not  ruin  the  peace  and  welfare  of  a  wife  and  children  in 
a  drunken  squabble.  Farther,  you  kno^  that  the  report  of  certain  political 
opinions  being  mine,  has  already  once  before  brought  me  to  the  brink  oi 
destruction.  I  dread  last  night's  business  may  be  interpreted  in  the  same 
way.  ^  You,  I  beg,  will  take  care  to  prevent  it.  I  tax  your  wish  for  Mrs. 
Burns's  welfare  with  the  task  of  v/aiting  on  every  gentleman  who  was  pre- 
sent  to  state  this  to  him  ;  and,  as  you  please,  show  this  letter.  What,  af- 
ter all,  was  tlie  obnoxious  toast  ?  May  our  success  in  the  preseTit  war  he  equal 
to  the  justice  of  our  cause — a  toast  that  the  most  outrageous  frenzy  of  loyalty 
cannot  object  to." — Burns,  no  question,  was  guilty  of  unpoliteness  as  well 
as  indiscretion,  in  offering  any  such  toasts  as  these  in  mixed  company  ;  but 
that  such  toasts  should  have  been  considered  as  attaching  any  grave  sus- 
picion to  his  character  as  a  loyal  subject,  is  a  circumstance  which  Ciin  only 
be  accounted  for  by  reference  to  the  exaggerated  state  of  political  feelings 
on  all  matters,  and  among  all  descriptions  of  men,  at  that  melancholy  p"e- 
riod  of  disaffection,  distrust,  and  disunion.  Who,  at  any  other  period  than 
that  lamentable  time,  would  ever  have  dreamed  of  erecting  the  drinkino-. 
or  declining  to  drink,  the  health  of  a  particular  minister,  or  the  approving, 
or  disapproving,  of  a  particular  measure  of  government,  into  the  test  of  a 
man's  loyalty  to  his  King  ? 

Burns,  eager  of  temper,  loud  of  tone,  and  with  declamation  and  sarcasm 
equally  at  command,  was,  we  may. easily  believe,  the  most  hated  of  human 
beings,  because  the  most  dreaded,  among  the  provincial  champions  of  the 
administration  of  v.diich  he  thought  fit  to  disapprove.  But  that  he  ever,  in 
his  most  ardent  moods,  upheld  the  principles  of  those  whose  applause  of 
the  French  Revolution  was  but  the  mask  of  revolutionary  designs  at  home, 
after  these  j)rinciples  had  been  really  developed  by  those  that  maintained 
them,  and  understood  by  him,  it  may  be  safely  denied.  There  is  not,  in 
all  his  correspondence,  one  syllable  to  give  countenance  to  such  a  charge. 
His  indiscretion,  however,  did  not  always  confine  itself  to  v.-ords ;  and 
though  an  incident  now  about  to  be  recorded,  belongs  to  the  year  1792, 
before  the  French  war  broke  out,  there  is  reason  to  believe  that  it  formed 
the  main  subject  of  the  inquiry  which  the  Excise  Commissioners  thought 
themselves  called  upon  to  institute  touching  the  politics  of  our  poet. 

At  that  period  a  great  deal  of  contraband  traffic,  chiefly  from  the  Isle  of 
INIan,  was  going  on  along  the  coasts  of  Galloway  and  Ayrshire,  and  the 
whole  of  the  revenue  officers  from  Gretna  to  Dumfries,  were  placed  under 
the  orders  of  a  superintendent  residing  in  Annan,  who  exerted  himself 
zealously  in  intercepting  the  descent  of  the  smuggling  vessels.  On  the 
27  th  of  February,  a  suspicious-looking  brig  was  discovered  in  the  Sol  way 
Frith,  and  Burns  was  one  of  the  party  whom  the  superintendent  conducted 
to  v/atch  her  motions.  !?he  got  into  shallow  water  the  day  afterwards,  and 
the  officers  were  enabled  to  discover  that  her  crew  were  numerous,  armed, 
and  not  likely  to  yield  without  a  struggle.  Lewavs,  a  brother  exciseman, 
an  intimate  friend  of  our  poet,  was  accordingly  sent  to  Dumfries  for  a 
guard  of  dragoons  ;  the  superintendent,  Mr.  Crawford,  proceeded  himself 
on  a  similar  errand  to  Ecclefcchan,  and  Burns  was  left  with  some  men  un- 
der his  orders,   to  watch  the  brig,  and  prevent  landing  or  escape.     Iron: 


f .- 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


\c^ 


the  private  journal  of  one  of  the  excisemen,  (now  in  mj^  hantk),  it  appears 
that  Burns  manifested  considerable  impatience  wliile  thus  occupied,  being 
(oft  for  many  hours  in  a  wet  salt-marsh,  with  a  force  which  he  knew  to  be 
madequate  for  the  purpose  it  was  meant  to  fulfil.  One  of  liis  comrades 
hearing  him  abuse  his  friend  Lewars  in  particular,  for  being  slow  about  Iiis 
journey,  the  m.an  answered,  that  he  also  wished  the  devil  had  him  for  his 
pains,  and  that  Burns,  in  the  meantime,  would  do  well  to  indite  a  song  upon 
the  sluggard  :  Burns  said  nothing  ;  but  after  taking  a  few  strides  by  himself 
among  the  reeds  and  shingle,  rejoined  his  party,  and  chanted  to  them  ihis 
wsU-known  ditty  : — 

"  The  de'il  cum'  ficUllinj;  thro'  the  town, 
And  danc'd  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman  ; 
And  ilk  auld  wife  cry'd,  '  AnU  i\Ialioun, 
'  We  wisli  you  luck  o'  the  prize,  man. 

CiiOKUS — '  ^Ve'll  mak'  ourmaut,  and  brew  our  drink, 
'  We'll  dance  and  sing  and  rejoice,  man  ; 
'  And  mony  thanks  to  the  muckle  black  ds'il 
'  That  danc'd  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman 

'  There's  threesome  reels,  and  foursome  reels, 
'  There's  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man  ; 
'  liut  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam'  to  our  Ian', 
'  Was  the  deil's  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman.'  " 

Lewars  arri^'ed  shortly  afterwards  with  his  dragoons  ;  and  Burns,  putting 
himself  at  their  head,  waded,  sword  in  hand,  to  the  brig,  and  was  the  first  to 
Doard  her.  The  crew  lost  heart,  and  submitted,  though  their  numbers  v.cre 
greater  than  those  of  the  assailing  force.  The  vessel  was  condemned,  and, 
with  all  her  arms  and  stores,  sold  by  auction  next  day  at  Dumfries :  upon 
which  occasion  Burns,  whose  behaviour  had  been  highly  commended, 
thought  fit  to  i)urchase  four  carronadcs,  by  way  of  troph}^  But  his  glee 
went  a  step  farther ; — he  sent  the  guns,  with  a  letter,  to  the  French  Con- 
vention, requesting  that  body  to  accept  of  th.em  as  a  mark  of  his  admiration 
and  respect.  The  present,  and  its  accompaniment,  were  intercepted  at  the 
custom-house  at  Dover  ;  and  here,  there  appears  to  be  little  room  to  do':bt, 
«-as  the  principal  circumstance  that  drew  on  Burns  the  notice  of  hi?  ^^alous 
superiors.  We  were  not,  it  is  true,  at  war  with  France ;  but  every  one 
knew  and  felt  that  v/e  were  to  be  so  ere  long ;  and  nobody  can  pretend 
that  Burns  was  not  guilty,  on  this  occasion,  of  a  most  sosurd  a^d  presump- 
tuous breach  of  decorum.  When  lie  learned  the  Impression  that  had  been 
created  by  his  conduct,  and  its  probable  consequences,  he  wrote  to  liis  pa- 
tron, Mr.  Graham  of  Fintray,  the  ie'bwing  letter,  dated  December  [lil^: 

'•  Sir, — 1  n.ave  been  surprised,  confounded,  and  distracted  by  Mr.  Mit- 
nhell,  the  collector,  telling  me  that  he  has  received  an  order  from  your 
board  to  inquire  into  my  political  conduct,  and  blaming  me  as  a  person 
disaffected  to  government.  iS'ir,  you  are  a  husband  and  a  father.  You 
Lnow  what  you  would  feel  to  see  the  much-loved  wife  of  your  bosom,  and 
your  helpless,  prattling  little  ones  turned  adrift  into  the  world,  degraded 
and  disgraced,  from  a  situation  in  which  they  had  been  respectable  and  re- 
pected,  and  left  almost  without  the  necessary  support  of  a  miserable  exist- 
ence. Alas !  Sir,  must  I  think  that  such  soon  will  be  my  lot?  and  from  the 
damned  dark  insinuations  of  hellish,  groundless  envy  too  ?  I  believe.  Sir,  I 
,   may  aver  it,  and  in  the  sigiit  of  Onnu'science,  that  I  would  not  tell  a  deli- 


iC-H 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


berate  faisebood,  no,  not  though  even  worse  horrors,  if  worse  can  be,  thas 
those  I  have  mentioned,  hung  over  my  head.  And  I  say  that  ilie  allega- 
tion, whatever  villain  has  made  it,  is  a  lie.  To  the  British  Constitution, 
on  revolution  principle;,  next,  after  my  God,  I  am  most  devoutly  attached 
You,  Sir,  have  been  much  and  generously  my  friend.  Heaven  knows  hzwi 
warmly  I  have  felt  the  obligation,  and  how  gratefully  I  have  thanked  you 
Fortune,  Sir,  has  made  you  j)o\\'crful,  and  me  impotent ;  has  given  you  pa- 
tronage, and  me  dependence.  I  would  not,  Ibr  my  single  self,  call  on  3'our 
humanity  :  were  such  my  insular,  unconnected  situation,  I  would  disperse 
the  tear  that  now  swells  in  my  eye  ;  1  couid  brave  mist'ortune  ;  I  could  face 
ruin  ;  at  the  worst,  '  death's  thousand  doors  stand  open.'  15ut,  good  God ! 
the  tender  concerns  li  .ct  I  have  mentioned,  the  claims  and  ties  tliat  I  see 
at  this  moment,  and  feel  around  me,  how  they  unnerve  courage  and  wither 
resolution  !  To  your  patronage,  as  a  man  of  some  genius,  you  have  allowed 
me  a  claim  ;  and  your  esteem,  as  an  honest  man,  I  know  is  my  due.  To 
these.  Sir,  permit  me  to  appeal.  By  these  may  I  adjure  you  to  save  me 
from  that  misery  which  threatens  to  overwhelm  me;  and  which,  \>ith  mv 
latest  breath,  I  will  say  I  have  not  deserved  !" 

On  the  "^d  of  January,  (a  week  or  two  afterwards),  we  find  him  writing  to 
Mrs.  Dunlop  in  these  terms  : — "  Mr.  C.  can  be  of  little  service  to  me  at 
present ;  at  leas-t,  1  should  be  shy  of  ajij-lying.  I  cannot  probably  be  set- 
tled as  a  supervisor  for  several  years.  1  must  wait  the  rotalinn  of  lists, 
&:c.  Besides,  some  envious  malicious  devil  has  raised  a  little  demur  on  my 
political  principles,  and  I  wish  to  let  th.at  matter  settle  before  I  offer  my- 
self too  nuich  m  the  eye  of  my  superiors.  1  liave  set  henceforth  a  sea!  en 
my  lips,  as  to  these  unlucky  politics;  but  to  you  I  must  breathe  my  senti- 
ments. In  this,  as  in  every  thing  else,  I  shall  show  the  undisguised  emo- 
tions of  my  soul.  War,  I  deprecate  :  misery  and  ruin  to  thousands  are  in 
the  blast  tliat  announces  the  destructive  demon.     But " 

"  The  remainder  of  this  letter,"  says  Cromek,  "  lias  been  torn  av.ay  by 
some  barbarous  hand." — Th.ere  can  be  little  doubt  that  it  was  torn  away  by 
one  of  the  kindest  hands  in  the  world,  that  of  Mrs.  Dunlop  herself,  and 
:!i-om  the  most  praise-worth  motive. 

The  exact  result  of  the  Excise  Board's  investigation  is  hidden,  as  has 
been  said  above,  in  obscurity;  nor  is  it  at  all  likely  that  the  cloud  will  be 
withdrawn  hereafter.  A  general  impression,  however,  aj)pears  to  have 
gone  forth,  that  th.e  affair  terminated  in  something  which  i'urns  himsch 
considered  as  tantamount  to  the  destruction  of  all  hope  of  future  promo- 
tion in  his  profession  ;  and  it  has  been  insinuated  by  almost  every  one  01 
Ills  biographers,  that  the  crushing  of  these  hopes  operated  unhappily,  even 
fatally,  on  the  tone  of  his  mind,  and,  in  consequence,  on  the  habits  of  his 
life.  In  a  word,  the  early  death  of  Burns  has  been  (by  implication  at  least) 
ascribed  mainly  to  the  circumstances  in  question.  Even  Sir  Walter  Scot: 
has  distinctly  intimated  his  acquiescence  in  this  prevalent  notion.  "  The 
political  predilections,"  says  l>e,  "  for  they  could  hardly  be  termed  princi- 
ples, of  Burns,  were  entirely  determined  by  his  feelings.  At  h;'s  first  ap- 
pearance, he  felt,  or  affected,  a  ])ropensity  to  Jacobitisin.  Indeed,  a  youth 
of  his  warm  imagination  in  Scotland  thirty  yca-'s  ago,  could  hard!}'  escape 
this  bias.  The  side  of  Charles  Edward  was  that,  not  surely  of  so.md  sense 
,ind  sober  reason,  but  of  romantic  gallantry  and  hi^b  achievement.  The 
madecjuacy  of  the  means  by  which  that  prince  aaempted  to  regs'n  the 
■""oun  furJ'cited  by  his  lathers,   the  stran;^e  and  almost  poetical  adventures 


r  IFE  OF  ROBEIl  r  BURXS.  xcvii 

wliicli  he  uiulerw'L'nt, — the  Scottisli  martial  cliaractcr,  honoured  in  his  vic- 
tories, and  dei^raded  and  crushed  in  his  defeat, — the  tales  oi'  the  veterans 
who  had  followed  his  adventurous  standard,  were  all  calculated  to  impress 
upon  the  mind  of  a  poet  a  warm  interest  in  the  cause  of  the  House  of 
Stuart.  Yet  the  impression  was  not  of  a  very  serious  cast;  for  l>urns  him- 
self acknov.-Iedges  in  one  of  his  letters,  (Reliques,  p.  240),  tliat  '  to  tell 
the  matter  of  fact,  except  when  my  passions  were  heated  by  some  acci- 
dental cause,  my  Jacobitism  was  merely  by  way  oi'  rire  Id  ba(/(ttelie.'  The 
same  enthusiastic  ardour  of  disposition  swayed  iJurns  in  his  choice  of  [loli- 
tical  tenets,  when  the  country  was  agitated  by  '•evolutionary  principles, 
'riiat  the  poet  should  have  chosen  tlie  side  on  whicli  high  talents  wure 
most  likely  to  procure  celebrity ;  that  he  to  whom  the  fastidious  distinc- 
tions of  society  were  always  odious,  should  have  listened  with  comjjla 
cence  to  the  voice  of  French  philosopliy,  which  denounced  them  as  usur- 
pations on  the  rights  of  man,  was  precisely  the  thing  to  be  expected.  Vet 
we  cannot  but  think,  that  if  his  superiors  in  the  Excise  de])artment  had 
tried  the  experiment  of  soothing  rather  than  irritating  his  feelings,  they 
might  have  spared  themselves  the  di<gr(tcn  of  rendering  desperate  the  pos- 
sessor of  such  uncommon  talents.  For  it  is  hut  too  ccrldin.,  that  from  the 
moment  his  hopes  of  promotion  were  utterly  blasted,  his  tendency  to  dis- 
sipation hurried  him  precipitately  into  those  excesses  which  shortened  liis 
hfe.  We  doubt  not,  that  in  that  awful  period  of  national  discord,  he  had 
done  and  said  enough  to  deter,  in  ordinary  cases,  the  servants  of  govern- 
ment from  countenancing  an  avowed  partizan  of  faction.  But  this  partizan 
was  Burns  !  Surely  the  experiment  of  lenity  might  have  been  tried,  and 
perhaps  successfully.  The  conduct  of  i\Ir.  Graham  of  Fintray,  our  poet's 
only  shield  against  actual  dismission  and  consequent  ruin,  reflects  tlie  high- 
est credit  on  that  gentleman." 

In  the  general  strain  of  sentiment  in  this  passage,  wlio  can  refuse  to 
concur?  but  I  am  bound  to  sa}',  that  after  a  careful  examination  of  all  th.e 
documents,  printed  and  MS.,  to  which  I  have  had  access.  I  have  great 
doubts  as  to  some  of  the. principal  facts  assumed  in  this  eloquent  state- 
ment. I  have  before  me,  lor  example,  a  letter  of  INIr.  Findlater,  formerly 
Collector  at  Glasgow,  who  was,  at  the  period  in  question,  Burns's  inmie- 
diate  superior  in  the  Dumfries  district,  in  which  that  very  respectable  per- 
son distinctly  says  : — "  I  may  venture  to  assert,  that  when  Burns  was  ac 
cused  of  a  leaning  to  democracy,  and  an  inquiry  into  his  conduct  took 
place,  he  was  subjected,  in  consequence  thereof,  to  no  more  than  perhaps 
a  verbal  or  private  caution  to  be  more  circumspect  in  future.  Neither  (!o 
J  believe  his  promotion  w^as  thereby  affected,  as  has  been  stated.  That, 
nad  he  lived,  would,  I  liave  every  reason  to  think,  have  gone  on  in  the 
usual  routine.  His  good  and  steady  friend  ?.Ir.  (Jraham  would  have  attended 
to  this.  What  cause,  therefore,  was  there  for  depression  of  spirits  on  thi 
account  ?  or  how  should  he  have  been  hurried  thereby  to  a  premature 
grave  ?  /  never  saw  his  spirit  fail  till  he  was  borne  do«  n  by  the  pressure 
of  disease  and  bodily  weakness  ;  and  even  then  it  uould  occasionally  revive, 
and  like  an  expiring  lamp,  emit  bright  fiashes  to  the  last." 

When  the  war  had  fairly  broken  out,  a  battalion  of  volunteers  was  form- 
ed m  Uumfries,  and  Burns  was  an  original  member  of  the  corps.     It  is 
very  true  that  his  accession  was  objected  to  by  some  of  his  neighbours 
but  these  were  over- ruled  by  the  gentlemen  who  took  the  lead  in  the  busi- 
cess,  and  the  poet  soon  became,  as  might  have  been  expected,  the  gr»at 


yrviii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

est  possible  favourite  with  his  brothers  in  arms.  His  conimanding  officer 
Colonel  I)e  Peyster,  attests  his  zealous  discharge  of  his  duties  as  a  mem 
her  of  the  corps  ;  and  their  attachment  to  him  was  on  the  increase  to  the 
last.  He  was  their  laureate,  and  in  that  capacity  did  more  good  service  tc 
the  government  of  the  country,  at  a  crisis  of  the  darkest  alarm  and  dan- 
ger, than  perhaps  any  one  person  of  his  rank  and  station,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Uibdin,  had  the  power  or  the  inclination  to  render.  "  Burns," 
says  Allan   Cunningham,   "  was  a  zealous  lover  of  his  country,  and  has 

stamped  his  patriotic  feelings  in  many  a  lasting  verse Wis  poor  aim 

honest  Sodger  laid  hold  at  once  on  the  public  feeling,  and  it  was  every- 
where sung  v,-ith  an  enthusiasm  which  only  began  to  abate  when  Campbell's 
Exile  of  Erin  and  Wounded  Hussar  were  published.  Dumfries,  which 
sent  so  many  of  her  sons  to  the  wars,  rung  with  it  from  port  to  port;  and 
the  poet,  wherever  he  went,  heard  it  echoing  from  house  and  hall.  I  wish 
this  exquisite  and  useful  song,  with  Scots  wha  hue  ivi'  Wallace  bled,— the 
Sony  of  Death,  and  Does  haughty  Gaul  Invasion  Threat,— a\\  lyrics  which 
enforce  a  love  of  country,  and  a  martial  enthusiasm  into  men's  breasts,  had 
obtained  some  reward  for  the  poet.  His  perishable  conversation  was  re- 
membered by  the  rich  to  his  prejudice— his  imperishable  lyrics  were  re- 
warded only  by  the  admiration  and  tears  of  his  fellow  peasants." 

Lastly,  whatever  the  rebuke  of  the  Excise  Board  amounted  to — {Mr. 
James  Gray,  at  that  time  schoolmaster  in  Dumfries,  and  seeing  much  oi 
Burns  both"  as  the  teacher  of  his  children,  and  as  a  personal  friend  and  as- 
sociate of  literary  taste  and  talent,  is  the  only  person  wlio  gives  any  thing 
like  an  exact  statement :  and  according  to  him.  Burns  was  admonished 
"  that  it  was  his  business  to  act,  not  to  think"')— in  whatever  language  the 
censure  was  clothed,  the  Excise  Board  did  nothing  from  which  Burns  had 
any  cause  to  suppose  that  Ins  hopes  of  ultimate  promotion  v.ere  extinguish- 
ed. Nay,  if  he  had  taken  up  such  a  notion,  rightly  or  erroneously,  Mr. 
I'indlater,  who  had  him  constantly  under  his  eye,  and  who  enjoyed  all  his 
confidence,  and  who  enjoyed  then,  as  he  still  enjoys,  the  utmost  confidence 
of  the  Board,  must  have  known  the  fact  to  be  so.  Such,  I  cannot  help 
thinking,  is  the  fair  view  of  the  case  :  at  all  events,  we  know  that  Burns, 
the  year  before  he  died,  was  permitted  to  oc^  as  a  Supervisor  ;  a  thing  not 
likely  to  have  occurred  had  there  been  any  resolution  against  promoting 
him  "in  his  proper  order  to  a  permanent  situation  of  that  superior  rank. 

On  V.ie  whole,  then,  I  am  of  opinion  that  the  Excise  Board  have  been 
dealt  with  harshly,  when  men  of  eminence  have  talked  of  their  conduct  to 
Burns  as  affixing"^ r//,sY/m«' to  them.  It  appears  that  Burns,  being  guilty 
unquestionably  of  great  indiscretion  and  indecorum  both  of  M'ord  and  deed, 
was  admonished  in  a  private  manner,  that  at  such  a  period  of  national  dis- 
traction, it  behoved  a  public  oliiccr,  gifted  with  talents  and  necessarily  with 
influence  like  his,  very  carefully  to  abstain  from  conduct  which,  now  that 
passions  have  had  time  to  cool,  no  sane  man  will  say  became  his  situation 
that  Burns's  subsetjuent  conduct  effaced  the  unfavourable  imi)ression  creat- 
ed in  the  minds  of  his  superiors  ;  and  that  he  had  begun  to  taste  the  fruits 
pf  their  recovered  approbation  and  confidence,  ere  his  career  was  closed  by 
illness  and  death.  '1  hese  Commissioners  of  Excise  were  themselves  sub- 
ordinate ofiicers  of  the  government,  and  strictly  responsible  for  those  un- 
der them.  That  they  did  try  the  experiment  of  lenity  to  a  certain  extent, 
appears  to  be  made  out ;  that  thn/  could  have  been  justified  in  trying  it  to  a 
farther  extent,  is  at  the  least  doubtful.  But  with  regard  to  the  govenmient 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  RURNS.  xcix 

af  the  country  itself,  I  must  say  I  think  it  is  much  more  difficult  to  defend 
tlieni.  Mr.  l^itt's  ministry  gave  Dibdin  a  pension  of  X'-OO  a-year  for  writ- 
ing liis  Sea  Songs  ;  and  one  cannot  help  remembering,  that  when  Burns  did 
begin  to  excite  the  ardour  and  patriotism  of  his  countrymen  by  such  songs 
as  Mr.  Cunningham  has  been  alluding  to,  there  were  persons  wlio  had 
every  opportunity  of  representing  to  the  Premier  the  claims  of  a  greater 
than  Dibdin.  Lenity,  indulgence,  to  whatever  length  carried  in  such 
quarters  as  these,  would  have  been  at  once  safe  and  graceful.  What  the 
minor  politicians  of  the  day  thought  of  Durns's  poetry  I  know  not  ;  but 
Mr.  Pitt  himself  appreciated  it  as  highly  as  any  man.  "  1  can  think  of 
no  verse,"  said  the  great  Minister,  when  I'urns  was  no  more — "  I  can  think 
of  no  verse  since  Shakspeare's,  that  has  so  much  the  appearance  of  com- 
ing sweetly  from  nature."  * 

Mad  Burns  put  forth  some  newspaper  squibs  upon  Lcpaux  or  Carnot,  or 
a  smart  pamphlet  "  On  the  State  of  the  Country,"  he  might  have  been 
more  attended  to  in  his  lifetime.  It  is  common  to  say,  "  what  is  every- 
body's business  is  nobody's  business  ;"  but  one  may  be  pardoned  for  think- 
ing that  in  such  cases  as  this,  that  v,-hich  the  general  voice  of  the  country 
does  admit  to  be  everj-body's  business,  comes  in  fact  to  be  the  business  oi 
those  whom  the  nation  intrusts  with  national  concerns. 

To  return  to  Sir  Walter  Scott's  reviewal — it  seems  that  he  has  some> 
what  overstated  the  political  indiscretions  of  which  Burns  was  actually- 
guilty.  Let  us  hear  the  counter-statement  of  Mr.  Gray,  f  who,  as  has  al- 
ready been  mentioned,  enjoyed  Burns's  intimacy  and  confidence  during  his 
residence  in  Dumfries. — No  one  who  ever  knew  anything  of  that  excellent 
man,  will  for  a  moment  suspect  him  of  giving  any  other  than  what  he  be- 
lieves to  be  true. 

"  Burns  (says  he)  was  enthusiastically  fond  of  liberty,  and  a  lover  of  the 
popular  part  of  our  constitution  ;  but  he  saw  and  admired  the  just  and  de- 
licate proportions  of  the  political  fabric,  and  nothing  could  be  farther  from 
his  aim  than  to  level  with  the  dust  the  venerable  pile  reared  by  the  labours 
and  the  wisdom  of  ages.  That  provision  of  the  constitution,  however,  by 
which  it  is  made  to  contain  a  self-correcting  principle,  obtained  no  incon- 
siderable share  of  his  admiration  :  he  was,  theretbre,  a  zealous  advocate  of 
constitutional  reform.  The  necessity  of  this  he  oiten  supported  in  conver- 
sation with  all  the  energy  of  an  irresistible  eloquence ;  but  there  is  no  evi- 
dence that  he  ever  went  farther.  Lie  was  a  member  of  no  political  club. 
At  the  time  when,  in  certain  societies,  the  mad  cry  of  revolution  was  rais- 
ed from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the  other,  his  voice  was  never  heard  in 
tlieir  debates,  nor  did  he  ever  support  their  opinions  in  writing,  or  corre- 
spond with  them  in  any  form  whatever.  Tliough  limited  to  an  income 
which  any  other  man  would  have  considered  poverty,  he  refused  lot)  a- 
year  ofl'ered  to  him  for  a  weekly  article,  by  the  proprietors  of  an  opposition 
paper  ;  and  two  reasons,  equally  honourable  to  him,  induced  him  to  reject 
this  proposal,     liis  independent  spirit  spurned  indignantly  the  idea  of  be- 

•  I  am  assured  that  Mr.  Pitt  used  these  words  nt  the  table  of  tlie  late  Lord  Liverjiool, 
soon  after  Burns's  dcLith.  Ilow  th;it  event  might  come  to  be  a  natural  topic  of  conversation 
at  that  table,  v.-ill  be  seen  in  the  sequel. 

+  Air.  (iray  removed  from  the  scliool  of  Dumfnes  to  the  High  Scliix)l  of  Edinburgh,  in 
which  eminent  seminary  he  for  many  years  laboured  with  distinguished  success.  lie  tlien  be- 
came  Professor  of  Latin  in  the  Institution  at  Belfast ;  he  afterwards  entered  into  iioly  orders, 
and  died  a  few  years  since  in  the  East  Indies,  as  ofhciating  chanlwin  to  tJie  (jjniixmy  in  the 
presidency  sf  31adras. 


c  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

coming  the  hireling  of  a  party ;  and  whatever  may  Lave  been  his  opinion 
of  the  men  and  measures  that  then  prevailed,  he  did  not  thmk  it  right  to 
fetter  the  operations  of  that  government  by  which  he  was  employed." 

The  satemcnt  about  the  newspaper,  refers  to  Mr.  Perry  of  the  Morning 
Chronicle,  who,  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Miller  of  Dalswinton,  made  the 
proposal  referred  to,  and  received  for  answer  a  letter  which  may  be  seen 
in  the  General  Correspondence  of  our  poet,  and  the  tenor  of  which  is  in 
accordance  with  what  Mr.  Gray  has  said.  Mr.  Perry  afterwards  pressed 
Burns  to  settle  in  London  as  a  regular  writer  for  his  paper,  and  the  poet 
declined  to  do  so,  alleging  that,  however  small,  his  Excise  appointment 
was  a  certainty,  which,  in  justice  to  his  family,  he  could  not  think  of  aban 
doning.  * 

Burns,  after  the  Excise  inquiry,  took  care,  no  doubt,  to  avoid  similar 
scrapes  ;  but  he  had  no  reluctance  to  meddle  largely  and  zealously  in  the 
squabbles  of  county  politics  and  contested  elections  ;  and  thus,  by  merely 
espousing,  on  all  occasions,  the  cause  of  the  Whig  candidates,  kept  up  very 
effectually  the  spleen  which  the  Tories  had  originally  conceived  on  tolera- 
bly legitimate  grounds.  One  of  the  most  celebrated  of  these  effusions  was 
written  on  a  desperately  contested  election  for  the  Dumfries  district  of 
boroughs,  between  Sir  James  Johnstone  of  VVesterhall,  and  Mr.  Miller  the 
younger  of  Dalswinton  ;  Burns,  of  course,  maintaining  the  cause  of  his  pa- 
tron's family.     There  is  much  humour  in  it : — 

THE  FIVE  CARLINES. 

1.  There  were  five  carlines  in  the  south,  they  fell  upon  a  scheme, 
To  send  a  lad  to  Lur.nun  town  to  bring  them  tidings  hanie, 
Nor  only  bring  them  tidings  hame,  but  do  their  errands  there. 
And  aiblins  gowd  and  honour  baith  might  be  that  laddie's  share. 

2.  There  was  Maa^y  by  the  banks  o'  Nith,  -f  a  dame  w'  pride  eneugb, 
And  ."Marjorj  o"  the  Alonylochs,  J  a  carline  auld  and  teugh  ; 

And  blii\kin  Bess  o'  Annandale,  §  that  dwelt  near  iSolway-side, 
And  wliisky  Jean  that  took  her  gill  in  (ialloway  sae  wide;  j| 
And  black  Joan  frae  Crichton  Peel,  %  o'  gipsy  kith  and  kin, — 
Five  wighter  carlines  war  na  foun'  the  south  countrie  within. 

3.  To  send  a  lad  to  Lunnun  town,  they  met  upon  a  day. 

And  nioiiy  a  knight  and  mony  a  laird  their  errand  fain  wad  gae, 
But  nae  ane  could  their  fancy  please ;  O  ne'er  a  anc  but  tway. 

4.  The  first  he  was  a  belted  knight,  •*  bred  o'  a  border  clan, 
And  he  wad  gae  to  Lunnun  town,  inighi  nae  man  him  withstan'. 
And  he  wad  do  theii  errands  weel.,  and  m-eikle  he  wad  say, 
And  ilka  ane  at  Lunnun  court  would  bid  to  him  gude  day. 

6.  The  next  came  in  a  sodger  youth,  ■f-f  and  spak  wi'  modest  grace, 
And  he  wad  gae  to  Lunnun  town,  if  sae  their  ])leasure  was ; 
He  wadna  hccht  them  courtly  gifts,  nor  meiklc  speech  pretend, 
Lut  he  wad  hecht  an  honest  heart,  wad  ne'er  desert  a  friend. 

6.  Now,  wham  to  choose  and  wham  refuse,  at  strife  thir  carlines  fell, 
For  some  had  gentle  folks  to  please,  and  some  wad  please  themsei.. 

7-  Then  out  spak  mim-mou'd  3Ieg  o'  Nith,  and  she  spak  up  wi'  pride, 
•  And  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youtli,  whatever  might  betide  ; 

For  the  auld  guidman  o'  Lunnun  JJ  court  slie  didna  care  a  pin  ; 
But  she  wad  send  the  sodger  youth  to  greet  his  eldest  son.  §§ 

"  This  is  stated  on  the  au'hority  of  Major  Jliller. 

•|-  Dumfries.  *  Latlnnaljen.  §  Annan.  |[  Kirkcudbright 

^Sanquhar.  "•  Sir  J.  Johnstone.  '-f-f  Major  MUler. 

tJ  George  HI.  *\!^  The  Prince  of  Wales. 


^_-  .il.JI  J.M 


r.IFE  OF  ROBERT  BURN'S.  ci 

R.  Then  up  sprang  Bess  o'  Annaijdale,  and  a  deadly  ;iitli  slie's  tacn. 
That  slie  wad  vnte  the  border  kni^^hl,  thouj^li  slie  >houkl  vote  her  lane; 
For  far-aff  fowls  liae  tcuhers  fair,  and  fools  o'  clianf,'c  arc  fain  ; 
But  1  liae  tried  the  border  knight,  and  I'll  try  him  yet  again. 

9.  Says  black  .Joan  frae  Cricluon  Peel,  a  carline  stoor  and  grim, 

Tiie  auld  guidman,  and  the  young  guidnian,  for  nie  may  sink  or  swim; 
For  fools  will  Treat  o'  right  or  wrang,  while  knaves  laugh  them  to  scorn; 
But  the  sodger's  friends  hae  blawn  the  best,  so  he  shall  bear  the  horn. 

10.  Then  whisky  Jean  spak  ower  her  drink.  Ye  weel  ken.  kimmers  a% 
The  auld  guidman  o'  Lunnun  court,  he's  back's  lieen  at  the  wa' ; 
And  niony  a  fiiend  that  kiss't  his  cup,  is  now  a  freniit  wight. 

But  it's  nt'er  bt  said  o'  whisky  Jean — I'll  send  the  border  knight. 

11.  Then  slow  raise  .Marjory  o'  the  Lochs,  and  wrinkled  was  her  brow, 
Her  ancient  weed  was  ru«set  gray,  her  auld  Scots  bluid  was  true; 

There's  some  great  folks  set  light  by  me I  set  as  light  by  them ; 

But  I  will  sen'  to  Lunnun  toun  wliam  I  like  best  at  name. 

12.  Sae  how  this  weighty  plea  may  end,  rae  mortal  wight  can  tell, 
(Jod  grant  the  King  and  ilka  man  may  look  weel  to  himsell. 

T!ic  above  is  far  the  best  humoured  of  these  productions.  The  e.ection 
to  which  it  refers  was  carried  in  Major  Miller's  favour,  but  after  a  severe 
contest,  and  at  a  very  heavy  expense. 

These  political  conflicts  were  not  to  be  mingled  in  with  impunity  by  the 
chosen  laureate,  wit,  and  orator  of  the  district.  He  himself,  in  an  unpub- 
lished piece,  speaks  of  the  terror  excited  by 

Burns's  venom,  when 


He  dips  in  gall  unmix'd  his  eager  pen, 

And  pours  his  vengeance  in  the  burning  line;" 

find  represents  his  victims,  on  one  of  these  electioneering  occasions,   as 
leading  a  choral  shout  that 

He  for  his  heresies  in  church  and  state, 


Jliglu  richly  merit  iMuir's  and  Pahiier's  fate." 

But  what  rendered  him  more  and  more  the  object  of  aversion  to  one  set  of 
people,  was  sure  to  connect  liim  more  strongly  with  the  passions,  and,  un- 
fortunately for  himself  and  for  us,  with  the  pleasures  of  the  other  ;  and  we 
have,  among  many  confessions  to  the  same  purpose,  the  following,  which  I 
quote  as  the  shortest,  in  one  of  the  poet's  letters  from  Dumfries  to  Mrs, 
Dunlop.  "  I  am  better,  but  not  quite  free  of  my  complaint  (he  refers  to 
the  palpitation  of  heart.)  You  must  not  think,  as  you  seem  to  insinuate, 
that  in  my  way  of  life  1  want  exercise.  Of  that  I  have  enough  ;  but  occa- 
sional hard  drinking  is  the  devil  to  me."  He  knew  well  what  he  was  doing 
whenever  he  mingled  in  such  debaucheries :  he  had,  long  ere  this,  describ- 
ed himself  as  parting  "  with  a  slice  of  his  constitution"  every  time  he  was 
guilty  of  such  excess. 

This  brings  us  back  to  a  subject  on  which  it  can  give  no  one  pleasure  to 
expatiate. 

"  Dr.  Currie,"  says  Gilbert  Burns,  "  knowing  the  events  of  the  latter 
years  of  my  brother's  life,  only  from  the  reports  which  had  been  propagat- 
ed, and  thinking  it  necessary,  lest  the  candour  of  his  work  should  be  called 
in  question,  to  state  the  substance  of  these  reports,  has  given  a  very  exag- 
gerated view  of  the  failings  of  my  brother's  lite  at  that  period,  which  is  cer- 
tainly to  be  regretted.'" — "  I  love  Dr.  Currie,"  says  the  IJev.  James  Gray., 
already  more  than  once  referred  to,  but  1  love  the  picmory  of  Burns  more 


en  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

and  no  consideration  shall  deter  me  from  a  bold  declaration  of  the  truth 
The  poet  of  The  Cottars  Saturday  Night,  who  felt  all  the  charms  of  the 
humble  piety  and  virtue  which  he  sung,  is  charged,  (in  Dr  Curries  Nar- 
rative), with  vices  which  would  reduce  him  to  a  level  with  the  most  degrad- 
ed of  his  species.  As  1  knew  him  duruig  that  period  of  his  life  emphati- 
cally called  his  evil  days,  I  am  enabled  to  speak  from  my  oum  observation. 
It  is  not  my  intention  to  extenuate  his  errors,  because  they  were  combined 
with  genius  ;  on  that  account,  they  were  only  the  more  dangerous,  be- 
cause the  more  seductive,  and  deserve  the  more  severe  reprehension  ;  but 
I  shall  likewise  claim  that  nothing  may  be  said  in  malice  even  against  him 
It  came  under  my  own  view  professionally,  that  he  superin- 
tended the  education  of  his  children  with  a  degree  of  care  that  I  have  ne- 
ver seen  surpassed  by  any  parent  in  any  rank  of  life  whatever.  In  the  bo- 
som of  his  family  he  spent  many  a  delightfid  hour  in  directing  the  studies 
of  his  eldest  son,  a  boy  of  uncommon  talents.  I  have  frequently  found  him 
explaining  to  this  youth,  then  not  more  than  nine  years  of  age,  the  Eng- 
lish poets,  from  Shakspeare  to  Gray,  or  storing  his  mind  with  examples  of 
heroic  virtue,  as  they  live  in  the  pages  of  our  most  celebrated  English  his- 
torians I  would  ask  any  person  of  common  candour,  if  employments  like 
these  are  consistent  with  habitual  drunheiiness  ? 

'•  It  is  not  denied  that  he  sometimes  mingled  with  society  unworthy  of  lu'm. 
He  was  of  a  social  and  convivial  nature.  Me  was  courted  by  all  classes  ot 
men  for  the  fascinating  powers  of  his  conversation,  but  over  his  social  scene 
uncontrolled  passion  never  presided.  Over  the  social  bowl,  his  wit  flashed 
for  hours  together,  penetrating  whatever  it  struck,  like  the  fire  from  hea- 
ven ;  but  even  in  t!ie  liour  of  thoughtless  gaity  and  merriment,  I  never 
knew  it  tainted  by  indecency.  It  v/as  playful  or  caustic  by  turns,  follow- 
ing an  allusion  through  all  its  windings  ;  astonishing  by  its  rapidity,  or 
amusing  by  its  wild  originality,  and  grotesque,  yet  natural  combinations, 
but  never,  within  my  observation,  disgusting  by  its  grossncss.  In  his 
morning  hours,  I  never  saw  him  like  one  suffering  from  the  effects  of  last 
night's  mtempcrance.  He  appeared  then  clear  and  unclouded.  He  was 
the  eloquent  advocate  of  humanity,  justice,  and  political  freedom.  From 
his  paintings,  virtue  appeared  more  lovely,  and  piety  assumed  a  more  ce- 
lestial mien.  \\  hile  his  keen  eye  was  pregnant  with  fancy  and  feeling, 
and  his  voice  attuned  to  the  very  passion  which  he  wished  to  communicate. 
If  would  hardly  have  been  possible  to  conceive  any  being  more  interesting 
and  delightful.  I  may  likewise  add,  that  to  the  very  end  of  his  life,  reading 
was  his  favourite  amusement.  I  have  never  known  any  man  so  intimately 
acquainted  with  the  elegant  English  authors.  He  seemed  to  have  the 
poets  by  heart  'Hie  prose  authors  he  could  quote  either  in  their  own 
A'ords,  or  clothe  their  ideas  in  language  more  beautiful  than  their  own. 
Nor  was  there  ever  any  decay  in  any  of  the  powers  of  his  mind.  To  the 
last  day  of  his  life,  his  judgment,  his  memoiy,  his  imagination,  were  fresh 
and  vigorous,  as  when  he  composed  The  Cottar  s  Saturday  Night.  The 
truth  is,  that  Burns  was  seldom  into.iicalcd.  The  drunkard  soon  becomc'S 
besotted,  and  is  shunned  even  Dy  the  convivial.  Had  lie  been  so,  he  could 
not  long  have  continued  the  idol  of  every  party.  It  will  be  freely  confes- 
sed, that  tiie  hour  of  enjoyment  was  often  prolonged  beyond  ti'ie  limit 
marked  by  prudence:  but  what  man  will  venture  to  affirm  that  in  siiua- 
tions  where  he  was  conscious  of  giving  so  much  pleasure,  he  could  at  al! 
imes  liave  listened  to  her  voice .'' 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  ciil 

"■    The  men  with  whom  he  generall)'  associated,  v/crt  not  cf  the  lowest 
ordor     He  numoered  among  his  intimate  friends,  many  of  the  most  respco 
table  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  and  the  vieinity.     Several  of  those  were  at 
tached  to  him  by  tics  that  the  hand  of  ealunniy,  busy  as  it  was.  could  ne 
ver  snap  asunder.     They  admired  the  |)oct  for  his  genius,  and  loved  the 
man  for  the  candour,   generosity,   and  kindness  of  his  nature.      His  earlj 
friends  clung  to  him  through  good  and  bad  report,    with  a  zeal  and  fidelity 
that  prove  their  disbelief  of  the  malicious  stories  circulated  to  his  disad- 
vantage.    Among  them  were  some  of  the  most  distinguished  characters  in 
this  country,  and  not  a  "iiiw  females,  eminent  for  delicacy,  taste,  and  genius. 
They  were  proud  of  his  friendship,  and  cherished  him  to  the  last  moment 
of  his  existence.     He  was  endeared  to  them  even  by  his  misibrtunes,  and 
they  still  retain  for  his  memory  that  affectionate  veneration  which  virtue 
alone  inspires." 

I'art  of  Mr.  Gray's  letter  is  omitted,  only  because  it  touches  on  sitbjects, 
as  to  which  Mr.  Tindlater's  statement  must  be  considered  as  of  not  merely 
sulFicient,  but  the  very  highest  authority. 

"  .My  connexion  with  Itobert  Burns,"  says  that  most  respectable  man, 
"  commenced  immediately  after  his  admission  into  the  Excise,  and  con- 
tinued to  the  hour  of  his  death.  *  In  all  that  time,  the  superintendence  of 
his  behaviour,  as  an  officer  of  the  revenue,  was  a  branch,  of  my  especial  pro 
vince,  and  it  may  be  supposed  that  I  would  not  be  an  inattentive  observer 
of  the  general  conduct  of  a  man  and  a  poet,  so  celebrated  by  his  country 
men.  In  the  former  capacity,  h.e  was  exemplary  in  his  attention  ;  and 
was  even  jealous  of  the  least  imputation  on  his  vigilance  :  as  a  proof  of 
•.vhich,  it  may  not  be  foreign  to  the  subject  to  quote  a  part  of  a  letter  from 
him  to  myself,  in  a  case  of  only  .•^ffw/wr/ inattention. — '  I  know,  ^ir,  and  re- 
gret deeply,  that  this  business  glances  with  a  malign  aspect  on  my  charac- 
ter as  an  officer  ;  but,  as  I  am  really  innocent  in  the  affair,  and  as  the  gentle- 
man is  known  to  be  an  illicit  dealer,  and  particularly  as  this  is  the  s'lngle  in- 
stance of  the  least  shadow  of  carelessnes  or  imprcjiriety  in  my  conduct  as 
an  officer,  I  shall  be  peculiarly  unfortunate  if  my  character  sliaU  fall  a  sa- 
crifice to  the  dark  manoeuvres  of  a  smuggler." — This  of  itself  affords  more 
than  a  presumption  of  his  attention  to  business,  as  it  cannot  be  supposed  he 
would  have  written  in  such  a  style  tn  me.,  but  from  the  impulse  of  a  consci- 
ous rectitude  in  this  department  of  his  duty,  indeed,  it  was  not  till  near 
the  latter  end  of  his  days  that  there  was  any  falling  off  in  this  respect ;  and 
this  was  amply  accounted  for  in  the  pressure  of  disease  and  accumulating 
infirmities.  1  will  further  avow,  that  i  never  saw  him,  «hich  was  very  li-e- 
quently  while  he  lived  at  Elliesland,  and  still  more  so,  almost  every  day, 
after  he  removed  to  Dumfries,  but  in  liours  of  business  he  wa  -juite  liini- 
self,  and  capable  of  discharging  the  dities  of  liis  office;  nor  ivas  he  ever 
known  to  drink  by  himself,  or  seen  to  indulge  in  the  use  of  liquor  in  a  fore- 
noon. ...  1  have  seen  Burns  in  all  his  various  phases,  in  hisconviviaJ 
moments,  in  his  sober  moods,  and  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  ;  indeed,  I 
believe  1  saw  more  of  him  than  any  other  individual  kad  occasion  to  see, 
after  he  became  an  Excise  officer,  and  1  never  beheld  any  thing  like  the 
gross  enormities  with  which  he  is  now  charged:  That  when  set  down  in 
an  e^ening  with  a  lew  friends  whom  he  liked,  he  was  apt  to  prolong  tlie 
social  hour  beyond  the  bounds  which  prudence  v.ould  dictate,  is  unques 

'   Mr.  Findlater  watched  by  Burr.s  the  i.ii;lit  before  he  died. 


civ  LIFE  OF  nOBERT  BURXS. 

tiorvable  ;  but  in  his  family,  I  will  venture  to  say,  he  was  never  seen  other 
wise  than  attentive  and  affectionate  to  a  high  degree." 

These  statements  are  entitled  to  every  consideration  :  they  come  from 
men  altogether  incapable,  for  any  purpose,  of  wilfully  stating  that  which 
they  know  to  be  untrue. 

To  whatever  Burns's  excesses  amounted,  the}'  were,  it  is  obvious,  and 
that  frequently,  the  subject  of  rebuke  and  remonstrance  even  from  his  own 
dearest  friends.  That  such  reprimands  should  have  been  received  at  times 
with  a  strange  mixture  of  remorse  and  indignation,  none  that  have  consi- 
dered the  nervous  susce])tibi]ity  and  haughtiness  of  Burns's  character  can 
hear  with  surprise.  But  this  was  only  when  the  good  advice  was  oral.  No 
one  knev/  better  than  he  how  to  answer  the  written  homilies  of  such  per- 
sons as  were  most  likely  to  take  the  ireedom  of  admonishing  him  un  points 
of  such  delicacy  ;  nor  is  there  any  thing  in  all  his  correspondence  more 
amusing  than  his  reply  to  a  certain  solemn  lecture  of  William  Nicolk  .  . 
"  O  thou,  wisest  among  the  wise,  meridian  blaze  of  prudence,  full  moon 
of  discretion,  and  chief  of  many  counsellors  !  how  infinitely  is  thy  puddle- 
headed,  rattle-headed,  wrong-headed,  round-headed  slave  indebted  to  thy 
supereminent  goodness,  that  from  the  luminous  path  of  thy  own  right-lined 
rectitude  thou  lookest  benignly  down  on  an  erring  wietch,  of  whom  the 
zigzag  wanderings  defy  all  the  powers  of  calculation,  from  the  simple  co- 
pulation of  units,  up  to  the  hidden  mysteries  of  fluxions  !  May  one  feeble 
rav  of  tl.at  light  of  wisdom  which  darts  from  thy  sensorium,  straiirht  as  the 
arrow  of  heaven,  and  bright  as  the  meteor  of  uispiration,  may  it  be  my 
portion,  so  that  I  may  be  less  unworthy  of  the  face  and  favour  of  that  fa» 
ther  of  proverbs  and  master  of  maxims,  that  antipod  of  folly,  and  magnet 
among  the  sages,  the  wise  and  witty  Willy  Nicoll  !  Amen  !  amen  !  Yea, 
so  be  it ! 

"  For  me  !  I  am  a  beast,  a  reptile,  and  know  nothing  !"'  &c.  &c.  &c. 

To  how  many  that  have   moralized  over   the  life   and  death  of  Burns, 
might  not  such  a  Tii  quoc/ue  be  addressed  ! 

ihe  strongest  argument  in  favour  of  those  mIio  denounce  the  statements 
of  Heron.  C'urrie,  and  their  fellow  biographers,  concerning  the  habits  of  the 
poet,  during  tiie  laUer  years  of  his  career,  as  culj^ably  and  egregiously  ex- 
ai;gerated,  still  remains  to  be  considered.  On  the  whole,  Lurns  gave  sa- 
tisfaction by  his  manner  of  executing  the  duties  of  his  station  in  the  reve- 
nue service  ;  he,  nioreover,  as  Mr.  Gra}'  tells  us,  (and  upon  this  ground 
Mr.  Cray  could  not  possibly  be  mistaken),  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  edu- 
cation of  his  children,  and  spent  more  hours  in  their  private  tuition  than 
fathers  who  have  more  leisure  than  his  cxcisenianship  left  liim.  are  oiten 
in  the  custom  of  so  bestowing. — "  Me  was  a  kind  and  attentive  father,  and 
took  great  delight  in  spending  his  evenings  in  the  cultivation  of  the  minds 
of  his  children.  Their  education  was  the  grand  object  of  his  life,  and  he 
did  not.  like  most  parents,  think  it  sufficient  to  send  them  to  public  schoois  ; 
he  was  their  private  instructor,  and  even  at  that  early  age,  bestowed  great 
pains  in  training  their  minds  to  liabits  of  thought  and  reflection,  and  in 
keiping  tlicm  pure  from  every  form  of  vice.  This  he  considered  as  a  sa- 
cred duty,  and  never,  to  the  period  of  his  last  illness,  relaxed  in  his  dili- 
gence. W  ith  his  eldest  son,  a  boy  of  not  more  than  nine  years  of  age,  he 
iiad  read  many  of  the  favourite  poets,  and  some  of  the  best  historians  in 
Dur  language  ;  and  what  is  more  remarkable,  gave  him  considerable  aid  in 
Uie  study  of  Latin.     This  bov  at  ended  the  (jrammar  School  of  Dumfries 


LIFE  OF  ROBEUT  BURNS.  <;v 

and  soon  attracted  my  notice  by  the  sl.-ength  of  Iiis  talent,  and  the  n,  ilour 
ot'his  ambition.  Before  he  had  been  a  year  at  school,  I  thous^ht  it  rigiit 
to  advance  him  a  form,  and  he  bc\L^an  to  read  Cicsar,  and  gave  mc  transla- 
tions of  t!iat  author  of  such  beauty  as  I  confess  surprised  me.  On  inquiry, 
I  found  that  his  father  made  him  turn  over  his  dictionary,  till  he  was  able 
to  translate  to  him  the  passage  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  gather  the  au- 
thor's meaning,  and  that  it  was  to  him  he  owed  thai  polished  and  forcible 
English  with  which  I  was  so  greatly  struck.  I  have  mentioned  this  inci- 
dent merely  to  show  what  minute  attention  lie  paid  to  tins  imp  .tant 
branch  of  parental  -luty."  *  Lastly,  although  to  all  men's  regret  he  wrote, 
after  his  removal  t  :>  Dumfriesshire,  only  one  poetical  piece  of  considerable 
length,  ( 'J'ai/t  o  S)uinter\  his  epistolary  correspondence,  and  his  songs  to 
Johnson's  Museum,  and  to  the  collection  of  Mr.  (ieorge  Thomson,  furnish 
undeniable  proof  that,  in  whatever  /VV.v  of  dissipation  he  unhappily  indulg- 
ed, he  never  could  possibly  have  sunk  into  any  thing  like  that  habitual 
grossness  of  manners  and  sottish  degradation  of  mind,  which  the  writers  in 
.question  have  not  hesitated  to  hold  up  to  the  conmiiseration  of  mankind. 

01"  his  letters  written  at  Klliesland  and  Dumfries,  nearly  three  octavo 
volumes  have  been  already  printed  by  Currie  and  Cromek ;  and  it  would 
be  easy  to  swell  the  collection  to  double  this  extent.  Enough,  however, 
has  been  published  to  enable  ever}'  reader  to  judge  for  himself  of  the  cha- 
racter of  IJurns's  style  of  epistolary  composition.  The  severest  criticism 
bestowed  on  it  has  been,  that  it  is  too  elaborate — that,  however  natural 
the  feelings,  the  expression  is  frequently  more  studied  and  artificial  than 
belong-;  to  that  species  of  composition.  Be  this  remark  altogether  just  in 
point  of  taste,  or  otherwise,  the  fact  on  which  it  is  founded,  furnishes 
strength  to  our  present  position.  The  poet  produced  in  these  years  a  great 
body  of  elaborate  prose-writing. 

We  have  already  had  occasion  to  notice  some  of  his  contributions  to 
Johnsons  Museum.  He  continued  to  the  last  month  of  his  life  to  take  a 
lively  interest  in  that  work  :  and  besides  writing  for  it  some  dozens  of  ex- 
cellent original  songs,  his  diligence  in  collecting  ancient  pieces  hitherro 
unpubHshed.  and  his  taste  and  skill  in  eking  out  fragments,  were  largely, 
anrl  most  happily  exerted,  all  along,  for  its  benefit.  Wix.  Cromek  saw 
among  .h)hnson's  papers,  no  fewer  than  184  of  the  pieces  which  enter  into 
the  coUet-tion,  in  Burns's  handwriting. 

His  connexion  with  the  more  important  work  of  Mr.  Thomson  commenc- 
ed in  September  1792;  and  .Mr.  (iray  justly  says,  that  whoever  considers 
Iiis  correspondence  with  the  editor,  and  the  collection  itself  must  be  satis- 
fied, that  from  that  time  till  the  connuenccment  of  his  last  illness,  not 
many  days  ever  passed  over  his  head  without  the  production  of  some  new 
stanzas  for  its  pages.  Besides  old  materials,  for  the  niost  part  embellished 
with  lines,  if  not  verses  of  his  own,  and  a  whole  body  of  hints,  suggestions, 
and  criticisms,  iiurns  gave  Mr.  Thomson  about  sixty  original  songs.  The 
songs  in  this  collection  are  by  many  eminent  critics  placed  decidedly  at 
the  head  of  all  our  poet's  performances:  it  is  by  none  disputed  that  very 
many  of  them  are  worthy  of  his  most  felicitous  inspiration.  He  bestowed 
nuieli  more  care  on  them  than  on  his  contributions  to  the  Museum  ;  and 
K\w.  taste  and  feeling  of  the  editor  secured  the  work  against  any  intrusions 
of  that  ovei-\iarm  element  which  was  too  apt  to  mingle  in  his  amatory  ef- 

•  Letter  from  the  Hev.  James  Gray  to  I\lr.  Gilbert  Burns.     See  liis  KsliuoJi,  vol.  I   A^ 
pendix.  No.  v. 


cvi  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

fusions.  Burns  knew  that  he  was  now  engaged  on  a  work  destined  for  tlic 
eye  and  ear  of  refinement ;  he  kiboured  throughout,  under  the  salutary  feel- 
ing, "  virginibus  puerisque  canto  ;"  and  the  consequences  have  been  hap- 
py indeed  for  his  own  fame — for  the  Hterary  taste,  and  the  national  music, 
of  Scotland  ;  and,  what  is  of  far  liigher  importance,  the  moi'al  and  national 
feelings  of  his  countrymen. 

in  almost  all  these  productions — certainly  in  all  that  deserve  to  be  placed 
in  the  first  rank  of  his  compositions — Burns  made  use  of  his  native  dialect. 
He  did  so,  too,  in  opposition  to  the  advice  of  almost  all  the  lettered  cor- 
respondents he  had — more  especially  of  Dr.  Moore,  who,  in  his  own  novels 
never  ventured  on  more  than  a  few  casual  specimens  of  Scottish  colloquy 
— following  therein  the  example  of  his  illustrious  predecessor  Smollett ; 
and  not  foreseeing  that  a  triumph  over  English  prejudice,  which  Smollett 
might  have  achieved,  had  he  pleased  to  make  the  effort,  was  destined  to  be 
the  prize  of  Burns's  perseverance  in  obeying  the  dictates  of  native  taste 
and  judgment.  Our  poet  received  such  suggestions,  for  the  most  part,  in 
silence — not  choosing  to  argue  with  others  on  a  matter  which  concerned 
only  his  own  feelings  ;  but  in  writing  to  .Mr.  Thomson,  he  had  no  occasion 
either  to  conceal  or  disguise  his  sentiments.  "  These  English  songs," 
says  he,  "  gravel  me  to  death.  1  have  not  that  command  of  the  language 
that  I  have  of  my  native  tongue  ;"*  and  again,  "  so  much  for  naniby- 
pambj'.  I  may,  after  all,  try  my  hand  at  it  in  Scots  verse.  There  1  am  al- 
ways most  at  home."  f — He,  besides,  would  have  considered  it  as  a  sort  of 
national  crime  to  do  any  thing  that  must  tend  to  divorce  the  music  of  his 
native  land  from  her  peculiar  idiom,  'i  he  "  genius  ioci"  v.as  never  v>"or- 
shipped  more  fervently  than  by  Burns.  "  I  am  such  an  enthusiast,"  says 
he,  "  that  in  the  course  of  my  several  peregrinations  through  Scotland,  I 
made  a  pilgrimage  to  the  individual  spot  from  which  every  song  took  its 
rise,  Lnclutber  and  the  Braes  of  Balloiclcii  excepted.  So  far  as  the  locality, 
either  from  the  title  of  the  air  or  the  tenor  of  the  song,  could  be  ascer- 
tained, I  have  paid  my  devotions  at  the  particular  shrine  of  every  Scottish 
Muse."  With  such  feelings,  he  was  not  likely  to  touch  Avith  an  irreverent 
hand  the  old  fabric  of  our  national  song,  or  to  meditate  a  lyrical  revolution 
for  the  pleasure  of  strangers.  "  '1  here  is,"  says  he,  \  "  a  naivete,  a  pas- 
toral simplicity  in  a  slight  intermixture  of  Scots  words  and  phraseology, 
which  is  more  in  unison  (at  least  to  my  taste,  and  1  will  add,  to  every  ge- 
nuine Caledonian  taste),  with  the  simple  pathos  or  rustic  sprightliness  of 
our  native  music,  than  any  English  verses  whatever.  One  hint  more  let 
me  give  you  : — Whatever  Mr.  Meyel  does,  let  him  not  alter  one  iota  of 
the  original  airs ;  1  mean  in  the  song  department ;  but  let  our  Scottish  na- 
tional music  preserve  its  native  features.  'Ihey  are,  1  own,  frequently 
wild  and  irreducible  to  the  more  modern  rules  ;  but  on  that  very  eccentri- 
city, perhaps,  depends  a  great  part  of  their  effect."  § 

()(' the  delight  with  which  Burns  laboured  for  Mr.  Thomson's  Collection, 
his  letters  contain  some  lively  descriptions.  "  You  cannot  imagine,"  say? 
he,  'ith  April  \l'^^,  "how  nmch  this  business  has  added  to  my  enjoy- 
ments.    \\  hat  with  my  early  attachment  to  ballads,  your  book  and  baliad- 

•  Correspondence  with  ."Mr.  'J'liomson,  p.  111.  -f-  Ibid.  p.  fiO.  J  Ibid.  p.  ','A\. 

^  It  iii.'iy  aiiiUNC  tlic  rc'iidur  to  lu;ir,  tliut  iji  spite  of  all  liiiri.s's  success  in  tlie  use  of  liis  native 
dialect,  even  un  eminently  s])iriucl  bookseller  to  whom  the  iii;.nuscri|'t  cf  W  averlty  was  m;1). 
mitted,  hesitated  for  some  ti;ne  abnut  publisJiiiiK  H,  o"  accouiit  of  tlie  Scots  dialoi;ue  Literwo- 
ven  in  ilie  novcL 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  cvii 

■T.r.kiiig  are  now  as  completely  my  hobbyhorse  as  ever  fcrtification  was 
Uncle  Toby's;  so  I'll  e'en  canter  it  away  till  I  come  to  the  limit  of  my 
race,  (God  tyrant  I  may  take  the  right  side  of  the  winning-post),  and  then, 
cheerfully  looking  back  on  the  honest  Iblks  with  whom  1  have  been  hap- 
py, I  shall  say  or  sing,  '  Sae  merry  as  we  a'  hae  been,'  and  raising  my  last 
looks  to  the  whole  human  race,  the  last  words  of  the  voice  of  Coila  shall 
be  '  (lood  niglit,  and  joy  be  wi'  you,  a'.'  "  * 

"  Until  I  am  comj)lete  master  of  a  tune  in  my  own  singing,  such  as  it  is, 
I  can  never,"  says  Burns,  "  compose  for  it.  My  way  is  this :  I  consider 
the  poetic  sentiit.ent  correspondent  to  my  idea  of  the  musical  expression, 
— then  clioose  my  theme, — compose  one  stanza.  When  that  is  composed, 
which  is  generally  the  most  difficult  part  of  the  business,  I  walk  out,  sit 
down  now  and  then, — look  out  for  objects  in  nature  round  me  that  are  in 
unison  or  harmony  with  the  cogitations  of  my  fancy,  and  workings  of  my 
bosom, — hunnning  every  now  and  then  the  air,  with  the  verses  1  have  fram- 
ed. When  I  feel  my  muse  beginning  to  jade,  I  retire  to  the  solitary  tire- 
side  of  my  study,  aiul  there  commit  my  effusions  to  paper;  swinging  at  in- 
tervals on  the  hind  legs  of  my  elbow-chair,  by  way  of  calling  forth  my  own 
critical  strictures,  as  my  pen  goes.  Seriously,  this,  at  home,  is  almost  in- 
variably my  way. — What  cursed  egotism  !"  f 

In  this  correspondence  with  Mr.  Thon;son,  and  in  Cromck's  later  pul)li- 
cation,  the  reader  will  find  a  world  of  interesting  details  about  the  particu- 
lar circumstances  under  which  these  immortal  songs  were  severally  writ- 
ten, fhey  are  all,  or  almost  all,  in  fact,  part  and  parcel  of  the  poet's  per- 
sonal history.  No  man  ever  made  his  muse  more  completely  the  compa- 
nion of  his  own  individual  life.  A  new  l^ood  of  light  has  just  been  poured 
on  the  same  subject,  in  Mr.  Allan  Cunningham's  "  Collection  of  Scottish 
Songs  ;"  unless,  therefore,  I  were  to  transcribe  volumes,  and  all  popular 
volumes  too.  it  is  impossible  to  go  into  the  details  of  this  part  of  the  poet's 
history.     The  reader  must  be  contented  with  a  few  general  memoranda  ; 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  sober  gin-horse  routine  of  existence  could  in- 
spire a  man  with  life,  and  love,  and  joy, — could  fire  him  v.ith  enthusiasm, 
or  melt  him  with  pathos  equal  to  the  genius  of  your  book?  No,  no.  When- 
ever I  want  to  be  more  than  ordinary  in  song — to  be  in  some  degree  equal 
to  your  divine  airs — do  you  imagine  I  fast  and  pray  for  the  celestial  ema- 
nation ?  Tout  au  contrail e.  I  have  a  glorious  recipe,  the  very  one  that  for 
his  own  use  was  invented  by  the  Divinity  of  healing  and  poetry,  when  erst 
he  pi])ed  to  the  flocks  of  Admetus, — I  put  myself  on  a  regimen  of  admir- 
ing a  fine  woman."  \ 

"  I  can  assure  you  I  was  never  more  in  earnest. — Conjugal  love  is  a  pas- 
sion which  I  deeply  feel,  and  highly  venerate  ;  but,  somehow,  it  does  not 
make  such  a  figure  in  poesy  as  that  other  species  of  the  passion, 

"  Wliere  love  is  liberty,  and  nature  law." 

Musically  speaking,  the  first  is  an  Instrument,  of  which  the  gamut  is  scanty 
and  confined,  but  the  tones  inexpressibly  sweet ;  while  the  last  has  powers 
etiual  to  all  the  intellectual  modulations  of  the  human  soul.  Still  1  am  a 
very  poet  in  my  enthusiasm  of  the  passion.  Th^  welfare  and  hap])iness  oj 
,he  beloved  ol)ject  is  the  first  and  inviolate  sentiment  that  pervader>  m) 

•  Correspondence  witli  I\lr.  'I'iiouison,  p.  57-  +  Ibid-  P-  USl- 


cvii:  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

soal ;  and — ^vhatever  pleasures  I  might  wish  for,  or  whatever  raptures  they 
might  give  me — yet,  if  they  interfere  with  that  first  principle,  it  is  having 
these  pleasures  at  a  dishonest  price  ;  and  justice  forbids,  and  generosity 
disdains  the  purchase."  * 

Of  all  Burns's  love  songs,  the  best,  in  his  own  opinion,  was  that  which 
begins, 

"  Yestreen  I  had  a  pint  o'  wine, 
A  place  where  bouy  saw  na'." 

Mr.  Cunningham  says,  "  if  the  poet  thought  so,  I  am  sorry  for  it ;"  while 
the  Reverend  Hamilton  Paul  fully  concurs  in  the  author's  own  estimate  oi 
the  performance. 

There  is  in  the  same  collection  a  love  song,  which  unites  the  suffrages, 
and  ever  will  do  so,  of  all  men.  It  has  furnished  Byron  with  a  motto, 
and  Sco**  has  said  that  that  motto  is  "  worth  a  thousand  romances." 

"  Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
"We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted." 

There  are  traditions  which  connect  Burns  with  the  heroines  of  these  be- 
witching songs. 

I  envy  no  one  the  task  of  inquiring  minutely  in  how  far  these  traditions 
rest  on  the  foundation  of  truth.  They  refer  at  worst  to  occasional  errors. 
"  Many  insinuations,"  says  Mr.  Gray,  "  have  been  made  against  the  poet'f 
character  as  a  husband,  but  without  the  slightest  proof;  and  I  might  pass 
from  the  charge  with  that  neglect  which  it  merits ;  but  I  am  happy  to  say 
that  I  have  in  exculpation  the  direct  evidence  of  Mrs.  Burns  herself,  who, 
among  many  amiable  and  respectable  qualities,  ranks  a  veneration  for  the 
memory  of  lier  departed  husband,  whom  she  never  names  but  in  terms  of 
the  profoundest  respect  and  the  deepest  regret,  to  lament  his  misfortunes, 
or  to  extol  his  kindnesses  to  herself,  not  as  the  momentary  overflowings  of 
the  heart  in  a  season  of  penitence  for  offences  generously  forgiven,  but  an 
habitual  tenderness,  which  ended  only  with  his  life.  I  place  this  evidence, 
which  I  am  proud  to  bring  forward  on  her  own  authority,  against  a  thou- 
sand anonymous  calumnies."  f 

Among  the  effusions,  not  amatory,  which  our  poet  contributed  to  Mr. 
Thomson's  Collection,  the  famous  song  of  Bannockburn  holds  the  first  place. 
V^'e  have  already  seen  in  how  lively  a  manner  Burns's  feelings  were  kindled 
when  he  visited  that  glorious  field.  According  to  tradition,  the  tune  play- 
ed when  Bruce  led  his  troops  to  the  charge,  was  "  Hey  tuttie  tattie  ;" 
and  it  was  humming  this  old  air  as  he  rode  by  himself  through  Glenken,  a 
wild  district  in  Galloway,  during  a  terrific  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  that  the 
puet  composed  his  immortal  lyric  in  its  first  and  noblest  form.  This  is  one 
more  instance  of  his  delight  in  the  sterner  aspects  of  nature. 

-  Come,  winter,  wiih  thine  angry  howl, 
And  raging  Lend  the  naked  tree — " 

"  There  is  liardly,"  says  he  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  there  is  scarcely  any 
earthly  ol^ject  gives  me  mere — I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it  pleasure 

•  Correspondence  with  ]Mr.  Thomson,  p.  101. 

+  Letter  in  Gilbert  liurns's  Edition,  vol.  I.  Appendix,  p.  437. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  ci« 

^but  something  which  exalts  me,  something  which  enraptures  me — than 
to  walk  in  the  sheltered  side  ■/  a  wood  in  a  cloudy  winter  day,  and  hear  the 
stormy  wind  howling  among  the  trees,  and  raving  over  the  plain.  It  is  my 
best  season  for  devotion  :  my  mind  is  wrapt  up  in  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  to 
Him,  who,  to  use  the  pompous  language  of  the  Hebrew  Bard,  '  M-alks  on 
the  wings  of  the  wind.'  " — To  the  lust,  his  best  poetry  was  ^:iKVaced  anaidal 
scenes  of  Roiema  desolation. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Co**lNTS. —  The  poets  morfal  period  approaches — Tits  jeculiar  temperament — Symptoms  of 
prenuiture  old  (uie — These  not  diminished  ht/  narrow  circumstances,  by  cliagrin  from  ncfflcct, 
and  by  the  death  of  a  Dauohter — The  poet  misses  public  patronage  :  and  even  the  fair  fruits 
of  Id's  on  I  genius — the  apjinpriation  of  ichich  is  debated  for  the  casuists  who  yielled  to  hint 
merely  the  shell — His  magnanimity  iclien  death  is  at  hand;  his  interviews,  conversations, 
and  addresses  as  a  dying  man — Dies,  2\st  July  1796 — Public  funeral,  at  which  many  at- 
tend, and  amongst  the  rest  the  future  Preniier  of  England,  who  had  steadily  refused  to  ac- 
hnowledge  the  poet,  living — His  family  munificently  provided  fur  by  the  public — Analysis  of 
character — His  integrity,  religious  state,  and  genius — Strictures  upon  him  and  his  writings 
iy  Scott,  Campbell,  liyrun,  and  others. 


"  I  dread  thee,  Fate,  relentless  and  severe, 
AVith  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's  fear.** 

We  are  drawing  near  tlie  close  of  this  great  poet's  mortal  career  ;  and  1 
would  fain  hope  the  details  of  the  last  chapter  may  have  prepared  the  hu- 
mane reader  to  contemplate  it  with  sentiments  of  sorrow,  pure  and  unde- 
based  with  any  considerable  intermixture  of  less  genial  feelings. 

For  some  years  before  Burns  was  lost  to  his  country,  it  is  sufficiently 
plain  that  he  had  been,  on  political  grounds,  an  object  of  suspicion  and  dis- 
trust to  a  large  portion  of  the  population  that  had  most  opportunity  of  ob- 
serving him.  The  mean  subalterns  of  party  had,  it  is  very  easy  to  suppose, 
delighted  in  decrying  him  on  pretexts,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent,  equally — 
to  their  superiors  ;  and  hence,  who  will  not  willingly  believe  it?  the  tem- 
porary and  local  prevalence  of  those  extravagantly  injurious  reports,  the 
essence  of  which  Dr.  Currie,  no  doubt,  thouglit  it  his  duty,  as  a  biographer, 
to  extract  and  circulate. 

A  gentleman  of  that  county,  whose  name  I  have  already  more  than  once 
had  occasion  to  refer  to,  has  often  told  me,  that  he  was  seldom  more  grie- 
ved, than  when  riding  into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer's  evening,  about  tliis 
time,  to  attend  a  county  ball,  he  saw  Burns  walking  alone,  on  the  shady 
side  of  the  principal  street  of  the  town,  while  the  opposite  side  was  gay 
with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies,  all  drawn  together  lor  the 
festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom  appeared  willing  to  recognize  him. 
The  horseman  dismounted  and  joined  Burns,  who,  on  his  proposing  to  him 
to  cross  the  street,  said,  "  Nay,  nay,  my  young  friend, — tliat's  all  over 
nov.';"  and  quoted,  after  a  pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizzel  Baiilie's 
pathetic  ballad, — 

"  His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow, 
liisauld  ane  look'il  Ijcttcr  thun  iiiony  ane's  new; 
But  now  h','  lets't  wear  on y  way  it  will  hinj;, 
And  ca^ts  hiniscll  dowie  ui)oii  ihe  corn-bini:. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  cxi 

'  O  were  we  yn\inp,  as  we  anre  hae  been, 
W'c  sud  liae  hven  Kallopiii;,' doun  on  yon  green, 
And  linking  it  ower  the  lilywliite  lea, — 
And  zvcrcita  my  heart  light  I  wad  die.'* 

Tt  was  little  in  Burns's  character  to  let  his  feelings  on  certain  subjects,  es- 
cape in  this  fashion.  He,  immediately  after  citing  these  verses,  assumed 
the  spriglitliness  of  his  most  pleasing  manner  ;  and  taking  his  young  friend 
homo  Avith  him,  entertained  him  very  agreeably  until  the  hour  of  the  ball 
arrived,  with  a  bowl  of  his  usual  potation,  and  Bonnie  Jean's  singing  of 
some  verses  which  he  had  recently  composed. 

The  untimely  death  of  one  who,  had  he  lived  to  any  thing  like  the  usual 
term  of  human  existence,  might  have  done  so  much  to  increase  his  fame 
as  a  poet,  and  to  purity  and  dignify  his  character  as  a  man,  was,  it  is  too 
probable,  hastened  by  his  own  intemperances  and  imprudences  :  but  it 
seems  to  be  extremely  improbable,  that,  even  if  his  manhood  bed  been  a 
course  of  saintlike  virtue  in  all  respects,  the  irritable  and  nervous  bodily 
constitution  which  he  inherited  from  his  father,  shaken  as  it  was  by  the 
toils  and  miseries  of  his  ill-starred  youth,  could  have  sustained,  to  any 
thing  like  the  psalmist's  "  allotted  span,"  the  exhausting  excitements  of  an 
intensely  poetical  temperament.  Since  the  first  pages  of  this  narrative  were 
sent  to  the  press,  I  have  heard  from  an  old  acquaintance  of  the  bard,  who 
ol'ten  shared  his  bed  with  him  at  Mossgiel,  that  even  at  that  early  period, 
when  intemperance  assuredly  had  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter,  those 
ominous  symptoms  of  radical  disorder  in  the  digestive  system,  the  "  palpi- 
tation and  suffocation"  of  which  (iilbert  speaks,  were  so  regularly  his  noc- 
turnal visitants,  that  it  was  his  custom  to  have  a  great  tub  of  cold  water 
by  his  bedside,  into  which  he  usually  plunged  more  than  once  in  the  course 
of  the  night,  thereby  procuring  instant,  though  but  shortlived  relief.  On 
a  frame  thus  originally  constructed,  and  thus  early  tried  with  most  se- 
vere afflictions,  external  and  internal,  what  must  not  have  been,  under  any 
subsequent  course  of  circumstances,  the  effect  of  that  exquisite  sensibi- 
lity of  mind,  but  for  which  the  world  would  never  have  heard  any  thing 
either  of  the  sins,  or  the  sorrows,  or  the  poetry  of  Burns  ! 

"  The  fates  and  characters  of  the  rhyming  tribe,"  *  (thus  writes  the 
poet  himself),  "  often  employ  my  thoughts  when  I  am  disposed  to  be  me- 
lancholy. There  is  not,  among  all  the  martyrologies  that  ever  were  pen- 
ned, so  rueful  a  narrative  as  the  lives  of  the  poets. — In  the  comparative 
view  of  wretches,  the  criterion  is  not  what  they  are  doomed  to  suffer,  but 
how  thev  are  formed  to  bear.  Take  a  bcinjr  of  our  kind,  aive  him  a  stronger 
imagination  and  a  more  delicate  sensibility,  v.hich  between  them  will  ever 
engender  a  more  ungovernable  set  of  passions,  than  are  the  usual  lot  of 
man  ;  implant  in  him  an  irresistible  impulse  to  some  idle  vagary,  such  as 
arranging  wild  flowers  in  fantastical  nosegays,  tracing  the  grasshopper  t(. 
his  haunt  by  his  chirping  song,  watching  the  frisks  of  the  little  minnows 
in  the  sunny  pool,  or  hunting  after  the  intrigues  of  butterflies — in  short 
send  him  adrift  after  some  pursuit  which  shall  eternally  mislead  him  from 
the  paths  of  lucre,  and  yet  curse  him  with  a  keener  relish  than  any  man 
iving  for  the  pleasures  that  lucre  can  purchase  ;  lastly,  fill  up  the  measure 
of  his  Moes  by  bestowing  on  him  a  spurning  sense  of  his  own  dignity,  and 
you  have  created  a  wight  nearly  as  miserable  as  a  poet." 

"  Letter  to  ^Miss  Chalmers  in  1793. 


CIXll 


LIFE  OF  IlOBERr  BURNS. 


In  these  few  short  sentences,  as  it  appears  to  me,  Buri.s  has  traced  his  owh 
character  far  better  than  any  one  else  has  done  it  since. — But  with  this  lot 
what  pleasures  were  not  mingled  ? — "  To  you.  Madam,"  he  proceeds,  "  I 
need  not  recount  the  fairy  pleasures  the  muse  besto.vs  to  counterbalance 
this  catalogue  of  evils.  Bewitching  poetry  is  like  bewitching  woman  ;  she 
has  in  all  ages  been  accused  of  misleading  mankind  from  the  counsels  oi 
wisdom  and  the  paths  of  prudence,  involving  them  in  difliculties,  baiting 
them  with  poverty,  branding  them  with  infamy,  and  plunging  them  in  the 
whirling  vortex  of  ruin  ;  yet,  where  is  the  man  but  must  own  that  all  our 
happiness  on  earth  is  not  worthy  the  name — that  even  the  holy  hermit's 
solitary  prospect  of  pardisiacal  bliss  is  but  the  glitter  of  a  northern  sun,  ris- 
ing over  a  frozen  region,  compared  with  the  many  pleasures,  the  nameless 
raptures,  that  we  owe  to  the  lovely  Queen  of  the  heart  of  man  !" 

It  is  common  to  say  of  those  who  over-indulge  tliemselves  in  material 
stimulants,  that  they  Uvcfist ;  what  wonder  that  the  career  of  the  poet's 
tliick-coming  fancies  should,  in  the  immense  majority  of  cases,  be  rapid 
too? 

That  Burns  lived  fast,  in  both  senses  of  the  phrase,  we  have  abundant 
evidence  from  himself;  and  that  the  more  earthly  motion  was  somewhat  ac- 
celerated as  it  approached  the  close,  we  may  believe,  without  finding  it  at  all 
necessary  to  mingle  anger  with  our  sorrow.  "  Even  in  his  earliest  poems," 
as  Mr.  \v'ordswort!i  says,  in  a  beautiful  passage  of  his  letter  to  Mr.  Gray, 
"  through  the  veil  of  assumed  habits  and  pretended  qualities,  enough  of 
the  real  man  appears  to  show,  that  he  was  conscious  of  sufficient  cause  to 
dread  his  own  passions,  and  to  bewail  his  errors  !  We  have  rejected  as  I'aisc 
sometimes  in  the  latter,  and  of  necessity  as  false  in  the  spirit,  many  of  the 
testimonies  that  others  have  borne  against  him  : — but,  by  hlf  own  hand — 
in  words  the  import  of  wliich  cannot  be  mistaken — it  has  been  recorded 
that  the  order  of  his  life  but  faintly  corresponded  with  the  clearness  of  his 
views.  It  is  probable  that  he  would  have  proved  a  still  greater  poet  if,  by 
strength  of  reason,  he  could  have  controlled  the  propensities  which  his  sen- 
sibility engendered  ;  but  he  would  have  been  a  poet  of  a  different  class  : 
and  certain  it  is,  had  that  desirable  restraint  been  early  established,  many 
peculiar  beauties  which  enrich  his  verses  could  never  have  existed,  and 
many  accessary  iniluences,  which  contribute  greatly  to  their  effect,  would 
have  been  wanting.     For  instance,  the  momentous  truth  of  the  passage — 

"  One  pouit  must  still  be  f^eatly  dark, 

The  nionng  why  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  iu 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentlier  sister  woman — 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang; 

To  step  aside  is  hun:an," 

touid  not  possibly  have  been  conveyed  with  such  pathetic  torce  by  any 
poet  that  ever  lived,  speaking  in  his  own  voice  ;  unless  it  m  ere  felt  that, 
like  Burns,  he  was  a  man  who  preached  from  the  text  of  his  own  errors  • 
and  whose  wisdom,  beautiful  as  a  flower  that  might  have  risen  from  seed 
sown  fro'n  above,  was  in  fact  a  scion  from  the  root  of  personal  suilering.' 

In  how  far  the  "  thoughtless  follies"  of  the  poet  did  actually  hasten  his 
end,  it  is  needless  to  conjecture,  'i  licy  liad  their  share,  uncjuestionably, 
along  with  otlier  influences  which  it  would  be  inhuman  to  tluiracterise  ab 


LIFE  OF  ROBEIIT  BWRXS.  c.xii 

mere  follies — such,  for  cxanii)!e.  as  tliat  Lrt^neral  depression  of  s])!r!ts  wliii-h 
liaiii  ted  him  from  his  youth,  and,  in  all  likelihood,  sat  more  heavily  or 
such,  a  being  as  JJurns  than  a  man  of  plain  common  sense  might  guess, —  or 
oven  a  casual  nxp;  t'ssion  of  discouraging  tendency  from  the  persons  on 
whose  gooa-will  ail  hopes  of  substantial  advancement  in  the  scale  of  world- 
ly promotion  depended, — or  that  pmital  exclusion  from  the  s]iecies  of  so- 
ciety our  poet  had  been  accustomed  to  adorn  and  delight,  which,  from 
liowever  inadequate  causes,  certainly  did  occur  during  s(  me  of  the  latter 
years  of  his  life. — All  such  sorrows  as  these  must  have  acted  with  twofold 
tyranny  upon  Burns  ;  harassing,  in  the  first  place,  one  of  the  most  sensitive 
minds  that  ever  filled  a  human  bosom,  and,  alas  !  by  consequence,  tenq)ting 
to  additional  excesses.  How  he  struggled  against  the  tide  of  his  misery,  let 
the  following  letter  speak. — It  was  written  February  25,  17'J-i,  and  addres- 
sed to  Mr.  Alexander  Cunningham,  an  eccentric  being,  but  generous  and 
faithful  in  his  friendship  to  Burns,  and,   when  Burns  was  no  more,    to  his 

fa:nily "  Canst  thou  minister,"  says  the  poet,   "   to  a  mind  diseased  ? 

Canst  thou  speak  peace  and  rest  to  a  soul  tost  on  a  sea  of  troubles,  without 
one  friendly  star  to  guide  her  course,  and  dreading  that  the  next  surge  may 
overwhelm  her?  Canst  thou  give  to  a  frame,  tremblingly  alive  as  tlie  tor- 
tures of  suspense,  the  stability  and  hardihood  of  the  rock  that  braves  the 
blast  '  If  thou  canst  not  do  the  least  of  these,  why  would'st  thou  disturb 
me  in  my  miseries,  with  thy  inquiries  after  me  ?  For  these  two  mo;:tiis  I 
have  not  been  able  to  lift  a  pen.  My  constitution  and  franse  were  ab  ori- 
giiie,  blasted  with  a  deep  incurable  taint  of  hypochondria,  which  poisons  my 
existence.  Of  late  a  number  of  domestic  vexations,  and  some  pecuniary 
share  in  the  ruin  of  these  »****  times — los'res  which,  though  trilling,  were 
yet  what  I  could  ill  bear,  have  so  irritated  me,  that  my  feelings  at  times 
could  only  be  envied  hy  a  rep'obate  spirit  listening  to  the  sentence  that 
dooms  it  to  perdition.  Are  you  deep  in  the  language  of  consolation  ?  I 
have  exhausted  in  reflection  every  topic  of  comlbrt.  A  heart  at  ease  wo\dd 
liave  been  charmed  with  my  sentiments  and  reasonings;  but  as  to  myself,  I 
was  like  Judas  Iscariot  preaching  the  gospel  ;  he  might  melt  and  mould 
the  hearts  of  those  around  him,  but  his  own  kept  its  native  incorrigibility. 
Still  there  are  two  great  pillars  that  bear  us  up,  amid  the  wreck  of  misfor- 
tune and  misery.  The  one  is  composed  of  the  different  modifications  of  a 
certain  noble,  stubborn  something  in  man.  known  by  the  names  of  courage, 
fortitude,  magnanimity.  The  otjikk  is  made  up  of  those  feelings  and  sen- 
timents, which,  however  the  sceptic  may  deny,  or  the  enthusiast  disfigure 
them,  are  yet,  1  am  convinced,  original  and  component  parts  of  the  human 
soul;  \\\o?,c  sv  uses  of  t  lie  mind,  \i' V  m?iy  he  allowed  the  expression,  which 
connect  us  with,  and  link  us  to  those  awful  obscure  realities — an  all  power- 
ful and  equally  beneficent  God — and  a  world  to  come,  beyond  death  and 
the  grave.  The  first  gives  the  nerve  of  combat,  while  a  ray  of  hope  beams 
on  the  field  ; — the  last  pours  the  balm  of  comfort  into  the  wounds  which 
time  can  never  cure. 

"  I  do  not  remember,  my  dear  Cunningham,  that  you  and  I  ever  talked 
on  the  subject  of  religion  at  all.  I  know  some  who  laugh  at  it,  as  tlie  trick 
o'^the  crafty  few,  to  lead  the  undiscerning  many;  or  at  most  as  an  uncer- 
tilin  obscurity,  which  mankind  can  never  know  any  thing  of,  and  with  v/hich 
tl  ey  are  fools  if  they  give  themselves  much  to  do.  Nor  would  I  quarrel 
with  a  man  for  his  irreligion,  any  more  than  1  would  for  his  want  of  a  nm- 
sical  ear.     1  would  regret  that  he  was  shut  out  from  what,  to  me  and  to 


cxiv  LIFE  01'  ROBERT  BURNS. 

others,  wQtc  such  superlative  sources  of  enjoyment.  It  is  in  this  poii  t  ot  view 
and  for  this  reason,  that  I  will  deeply  imbue  the  mind  of  every  child  oi 
mine  with  religion.  If  my  son  should  happen  to  be  a  man  of  feeling,  sen- 
timent, and  taste,  I  shall  thus  add  la'*gely  to  his  enjoyments.  Let  me  flatter 
myself  that  this  sweet  little  fellow  who  is  just  now  running  about  my  desk, 
will  be  a  man  of  a  melting,  ardent,  glowing  heart ;  and  an  imagination,  de- 
lighted v/ith  the  painter,  and  rapt  with  the  poet.  Let  me  figure  him, 
wandering  out  in  a  sweet  evening,  to  inhale  the  balm}^  gales,  and  enjoy  the 
growing  luxuriance  of  the  spring  ;  himself  the  while  in  the  blooming  youth 
of  life.  He  looks  abroad  on  all  nature,  and  through  nature  up  to  nature's 
God.  His  soul,  by  swift,  delighted  degrees,  is  rapt  above  this  sublunary 
s})here,  until  he  can  be  silent  no  longer,  and  bursts  out  into  the  glorious 
pnthusiasm  of  Thomson, 

'  These,  as  they  chanj^e,  Almighty  Father,  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God. — The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee  ;' 

and  so  on,  in  all  the  spirit  and  ardour  of  that  charming  hymn. — These  are 
no  ideal  pleasures  ;  they  are  real  delights  ;  and  I  ask  what  of  the  delights 
among  the  sons  of  men  are  superior,  not  to  say,  equal  to  them  ?  And  they 
have  this  precious,  vast  addition,  that  conscious  virtue  stamps  them  for  her 
own  ;  and  lays  hold  on  them  to  bring  herself  into  the  jiresence  of  a  witness- 
ing, judging,  and  approving  God." 

They  who  have  been  told  that  Burns  was  ever  a  degraded  being — who 
have  ])ermitt.ed  themselves  to  believe  that  his  only  consolations  were  those 
of  "  the  opiate  guilt  applies  to  grief,"  will  do  well  to  pause  over  this  noble 
letter  and  judge  for  themselves.  The  enemy  under  wliich  he  was  destined 
to  sink,  had  already  beaten  in  the  outworks  of  his  constitution  when  these 
lines  were  penned.  The  reader  has  already  had  occasion  to  observe,  that 
Burns  had  in  those  closing  years  of  his  life  to  struggle  almost  continually 
v/ith  pecuniary  difficulties,  than  which  nothing  could  have  been  more  like- 
ly to  pour  bitterness  intolerable  into  the  cup  of  his  existence.  His  lively 
imagination  exaggerated  to  itself  every  real  evil ;  and  this  among,  and  per- 
haps above,  all  the  rest ;  at  least,  in  many  of  his  letters  we  find  him  alluding 
to  the  probability  of  his  being  arrested  for  debts,  which  we  now  know  to 
have  been  of  very  trivial  amount  at  tiie  worst,  which  we  also  know  he  him- 
self lived  to  discharge  to  the  utmost  farthing,  and  in  regard  to  which  it  is 
impossible  to  doubt  that  his  personal  friends  in  Dumfries  would  have  at  all 
times  been  ready  to  prevent  the  law  taking  its  ultimate  course.  This  last 
consideration,  howev^jr,  was  one  which  would  have  given  slender  relief  to 
Burns.  How  he  shmk  with  horror  and  loathing  from  the  sense  of  pecu- 
niary obligation,  no  matter  to  whom,  we  have  had  abundant  indications  al- 
ready. 

The  following  extract,  from  one  of  his  letters  to  Mr.  Macmurdo,  dated 
December  179.'i,  will  speak  for  itself: — "  i-ir,  it  is  said  that  we  take  the 
greatest  liberties  with  our  greatest  friends,  and  i  pay  myself  a  very  high 
coinj>liment  in  the  manner  in  which  I  am  going  to  apply  the  remark.  1 
have  owed  you  money  longer  than  ever  I  owed  it  to  any  num.  —  Here  is 
Ker's  account,  and  here  are  six  guineas;  and  now,  I  don't  owe  a  shilling 
to  man,  or  woman  either.  But  for  these  danmed  dirty,  dog"s-t?ared  little 
pages,  (bank-notes),  I  had  done  myself  the  honour  to  have  waited  on 
von   long  ago.     Independent  of  the  obligations  yoiir  hospita'ity  has  laic 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  cxv 

me  under,  the  consciousness  of  your  superiority  in  the  rank  of  man  ap  1 
j2^cntlenian  of  itself  was  fully  as  uiucli  as  I  could  ever  make  head  against 
but  to  oue  you  money  too,  was  more  than  I  could  face. 

Tlie  question  naturally  arises  :  Burns  was  all  this  while  pouring  out  his 
beautiful  songs  for  the  Museum  of  Johnson  and  the  greater  work  of  Thom- 
son ;  how  did  he  happen  to  derive  no  pecuniary  advantages  from  this  con- 
tinual exertion  of  his  genius  in  a  form  of  composition  so  eminently  ealcu- 
hited  for  i)opu]arity  ?  Nor,  indeed,  is  it  an  easy  matter  to  answer  this  very 
obvious  question.  The  poet  himself  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  ("arfrae,  dated 
1789,  speaks  thus  : — "  The  profits  of  the  labours  of  a  man  of  genius  are,  I 
hope,  as  honourable  as  any  profits  whatever  ;  and  Mr.  Mylne"s  relations 
are  most  justly  entitled  to  that  honest  harvest  which  fate  has  denied  him- 
self to  reap."  And  yet,  so  far  from  looking  to  Mr.  .Johnson  for  any  pecu- 
niary remuneration  for  the  very  laborious  part  he  took  in  his  work,  it  ap- 
pears from  a  passage  in  Cromek'j  lleliques,  that  the  })oet  asked  a  single 
copy  of  the  Museum  to  give  to  a  fair  friend,  by  way  of  a  great  favour  to 
himself — and  that  that  copy  and  his  own  were  really  all  he  ever  received 
at  the  hands  of  the  publisher.  Of  the  secret  history  of  Johnson  and  his 
book  I  know  nothing ;  but  the  Correspondence  of  Curns  with  Mr.  Thomson 
contains  curious  cnouirh  details  concernintr  his  connexion  with  that  eentie- 
man's  more  important  undertaking.  At  the  outset,  »Sej)tembcr  i'i'J"J,  we 
find  Mr.  Thomson  saying,  "  W'e  will  esteem  your  poetical  assistance  a 
particular  flivcur,  besides  paying  any  reasonable  ])riee  30U  shall  please  to 
demand  for  it.  Profit  is  quite  a  secondary  consideration  with  us,  and  we 
are  resolved  to  save  neither  pains  oor  expense  on  the  publication."  To 
v.hich  Burns  replies  immediately,  "  As  to  any  remuneration,  you  may  think 
my  songs  either  above  or  below  price  ;  for  they  shall  absolutely  be  the  one 
or  the  other.  In  the  honest  enthusiasm  with  which  I  embark  in  your  un- 
dertaking, to  talk  of  money,  wages,  fee,  hire,  iS.c.  would  be  downright  pros- 
titution of  soul.  A  proof  of  each  of  the  songs  that  I  compose  or  amend  I 
shall  receive  as  a  favour.  In  the  rustic  phrase  of  the  season,  G'ude  spcca 
the  icark"  The  next  time  we  meet  with  any  hint  as  to  money  matters  in 
the  Correspondence  is  in  a  letter  of  Mr.  Thomson,  Ist  July  1  HJ3,  where 
he  says,  "  I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  exqui- 
site new  songs  you  are  sending  me  ;  but  thanks,  my  friend,  are  a  ]^oor  re- 
turn for  what  you  have  done :  as  I  shall  be  benefited  by  the  publication, 
you  must  suffer  me  to  enclose  a  small  mark  of  my  gratitude,  and  to  repeat 
it  afterwards  when  I  find  it  convenient.  Do  not  return  it,  for,  by  Heaven, 
if  3'ou  do,  our  correspondence  is  at  an  end."  To  wliich  letter  (it  inclosed 
i6)  Burns  thus  replies  : — "  I  assure  j'ou  my  dear  ^^ir,  that  you  truly  hurt 
me  with  your  pecuniary  parcel.  It  degrades  me  in  my  own  eyes.  How- 
ever, to  return  it  would  savour  of  affectation  ;  but  as  to  any  more  traffic  of 
that  debtor  and  creditor  kind,  I  swear  by  that  lionour  which  crowns  the 
upriglit  statue  of  liobert  Burns's  integritj- — on  tl'.e  least  motion  of  it,  I 
will  indignantl}'  spurn  the  by-past  transaction,  ar.d  from  th.at  moment  com- 
mence entire  stranger  to  you.  Burns's  character  for  generosity  of  senti- 
ment and  inde[)endence  of  mind  will,  I  trust,  loi'.g  outlive  any  of  his  wants 
wliich  the  cold  unfeeling  ore  can  sui)ply :  at  least,  1  will  take  care  that 
Buch  a  character  he  shall  deserve." — In  November  17y4',  we  find  Mr.  Thom- 
son writing  to  Burns,  "  Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  return  any  books." — In  .May 
179.3,  "  You  really  make  me  blush  when  you  tell  me  you  have  not  merited 
the  drawing  from  me  ;"  (this  was  a  drawing  of  Tht  Coiturs  ^alurdui/  S'ic/lit 


CXVI 


LIFE  OF  ROBRRT  BURN'S. 


b}''  Allan)  ;  "  I  do  not  tliink  I  can  ever  repay  you,  or  sufficiently  esteem 
and  respect  yor.,  for  the  liberal  and  kind  manner  ;n  which  you  have  enter 
ed  into  the  spirit  of  my  undertaking,  which  could  not  have  been  perfectei, 
without  you.      So  1  beg  you  would  not  make  a  fool  of  me  again  by  speak 
ing  of  obligation."     In   February  179(3,  we  have  Burns  acknowledging  a 

"  handsome  elegant  present  to  Mrs.  B ,"  which  was  a  worsted  shawl. 

Lastly,  on  the  l'2th  July  of  the  same  year,  (that  is,  little  more  than  a  week 
before  Burns  died),  he  writes  to  Mr.  Thomson  in  these  terms  : — "  After 
all  my  boasted  independence,  cursed  necessity  compels  me  to  implore  you 
for  five  pounds.  A  cruel of  a  haberdasher,  to  whom  I  owe  an  ac- 
count, taking  it  into  his  head  that  I  am  dying,  has  commenced  a  process, 
and  will  infallibly  put  me  into  jail.  Do,  for  God's  sake,  send  me  that 
sura,  and  that  by  return  of  post.  Forgive  me  this  earnestness  ;  but  the  hor- 
rors of  a  jail  have  put  me  half  distrnacted. — I  do  not  ask  this  gratuitously, 
for,  upon  returning  health,  I  hereby  promise  and  engage  to  furnish  you 
w^ith  five  pounds  worth  of  the  neatest  song  genius  you  have  seen."  To 
which  Mr.  Thomson  replies — "  F^ver  since  1  received  your  melancholy  let- 
ter by  Mrs.  Ilyslop,  1  have  been  ruminating  in  what  manner  I  could  en- 
deavour to  alleviate  your  sufferings.  Again  and  again  1  thought  of  a  pe- 
cuniary offer ;  but  the  recollection  of  one  of  your  letters  on  this  subject, 
and  the  fear  of  offending  your  independent  spirit,  checked  my  resolution. 
1  thank  you  heartily,  therefore,  for  the  frankness  of  your  letter  of  the  l:^th, 
and  with  great  pleasure  enclose  a  draft  for  the  very  sum  I  proposed  send- 
ing.    Would  I  were  Chancellor  of  the   Exchequer  but  one  day  for  your 

sake  ! Pray,  my  good  Sir,  is  it  not  possible  for  you  to  muster  a  volume 

of  poetry  ? Do  not  shun  this  method  of  obtaining  the  value  of 

your  labour ;  remember  Pope  published  the  lUud  by  subscri{)tion.  Think 
of  this,  my  dear  Burns,  and  do  not  think  me  intrusive  with  my  advice." 

Such  are  the  details  of  this  matter,  as  recorded  in  tlie  correspondence 
of  the  two  individuals  concerned.  Some  time  after  Burns's  death,  Mr. 
Thomson  was  attacked  on  account  of  his  behaviour  to  the  poet,  in  a  novel 
called  JS/ubilia.  In  Professor  Walker's  Memoirs  of  Burns,  which  appeared 
in  18  !G,  Mr.  Thomson  took  the  opportunity  of  defending  himself  thus  :  — 

"  I  have  been  attacked  with  much  bitterness,  and  accused  of  not  endea- 
vouring to  remunerate  Burns  for  the  songs  which  he  wrote  for  my  collec- 
tion ;  althougli  there  is  the  clearest  evidence  of  the  contrary,  both  in  the 
printed  correspondence  between  the  poet  and  me,  and  in  the  public  testi- 
mony of  Dr.  Currie.  My  assailant,  too,  without  knowing  any  thing  of  the 
maticr,  states,  that  I  had  enriched  myself  by  the  labours  of  Burns  ;  and, 
of  course,  that  my  want  of  generosity  was  inexcusable.  Now,  the  fact  is, 
that  notwithstanding  the  united  labours  of  all  the  men  of  genius  who  have 
enriched  my  collection,  I  am  not  even  yet  compensated  for  the  precious 
time  consumed  by  n)e  in  poring  over  musty  volumes,  and  in  corresponding 
with  every  amateur  and  poet  by  whose  means  I  expected  to  make  any  %a- 
luable  additions  to  our  national  music  and  song  ; — lor  the  exertion  and  mo- 
ney it  cost  me  to  obtain  accompaniments  from  the  greatest  masters  of  har- 
mony in  Vienna; — and  for  the  sums  paid  to  engravers,  printers,  and  others. 
On  this  subject,  the  testimony  of  Mr.  Preston  in  London,  a  man  of  un- 
questionable and  well-known  character,  who  has  printed  the  music  lor 
every  copy  of  my  work,  may  be  more  satisfactory  than  any  thing  I  can 
say  :  In  August  IHDi),  he  wrote  me  as  follows  :  '  I  am  concerned  at  the 
very  unvo  rantable  attack  which  has  been  made  upon  you  by  the  autho.' 


LIFE  OF  RODERT  BURN'S.  cxi'ii 

m(  X/fJii/ia  ;  nntliiiic:  could  be  nioro  unjust  tlian  to  say  you  liA(l  cnrlclied 
VoursL'If  by  Burns's  hibours  ;  Tor  tlie  whole;  coucltu,  thou^Ii  it  inc-Iudcs  tho 
iiiboiirs  of  Maydn,  has  scarcely  afforded  a  compensation  for  the  various  ex- 
penses, and  for  the  time  employed  on  the  work.  When  a  work  obtains 
any  celebrity,  publishers  are  generally  supposed  to  derive  a  profit  ten  times 
beyond  the  reality;  the  sale  is  greatly  magni(ied,  and  the  expenses  are  not 
in  the  least  taken  into  consideration.  It  is  truly  vexatious  to  be  so  grossly 
and  scandalously  abused  for  conduct,  the  very  reverse  of  which  has  been 
manifest  through  the  whole  transaction.' — Were  I  the  sordid  man  that  the 
anonymous  author  calls  nie,  I  had  a  most  inviting  opportunity  to  profit 
much  more  than  I  did  by  the  lyrics  of  our  great  bard.  He  had  written 
ab;)ve  fifty  songs  expressly  for  my  work  ;  they  were  in  my  possession  un- 
pubfushed  at  his  death  ;  I  had  the  riglit  and  tl)e  power  of  retaining  them 
till  1  should  be  ready  to  publish  them  :  but  when  I  was  informed  that  an 
edition  of  the  poet's  works  was  projected  for  the  benefit  of  his  family,  I  put 
them  in  immediate  possession  of  the  whole  of  his  songs,  as  well  as  letters, 
and  thus  enabled  Dr.  Currie  to  complete  the  four  volumes  which  were  sold 
for  the  family's  behoof  to  Messrs.  C'adell  and  Davies.  And  I  liave  the  sa- 
tisfaction of  knowing,  that  the  most  zealous  friends  of  the  family,  Mr.  Cun- 
ningliame,  Mr.  Syme,  and  Dr.  Currie,  and  the  poet's  own  brother,  consi- 
dered my  sacriiice  of  tlie  prior  right  of  publishing  the  songs,  as  no  ungrate- 
ful return  for  the  disinterested  and  liberal  conduct  of  the  poet.  Accord- 
ingly, Mr.  Gilbert  Burns,  in  a  letter  to  me,  which  alone  might  suffice  for 
an  answer  to  all  the  novelist's  abuse,  thus  expresses  himself : — '  if  ever 
I  come  to  Edinburgh,  I  will  certainly  call  on  a  person  whoso  handsome  con- 
duct to  my  brother's  family  has  secured  my  esteem,  and  confirmed  me  in 
the  opinion,  that  musical  taste  and  talents  have  a  close  connexion  with  the 
harmony  o\'  the  moral  feelings.'  Nothing  is  farther  from  my  thoughts 
tlian  to  claim  any  merit  for  what  I  did.  I  never  would  have  said  a  word 
on  the  subject,  but  for  the  har;-h  and  groundless  accusation  which  has  been 
lirought  forward,  either  by  ignorance  or  animosity,  and  which  1  have  long 
sulFered  to  remain  unnoticed,  from  my  great  dislike  to  any  public  ap- 
pearance." 

'1  his  statement  of  Mr.  Thomson  supersedes  tl:e  necessity  of  an}'  addi- 
tional remarks,  (writes  I'rofessor  Walker).  When  the  public  is  satisfied; 
when  the  relations  of  Burns  are  grateful  ;  and.  above  all,  when  the  delicate 
mind  of  Mr.  Thomson  is  at  peace  with  itself  in  contemplating  his  conduct, 
there  can  be  no  necessity  for  a  nameless  novelist  to  contradict  them. 

So  far,  i\Ir.  NN'alker  : — W  by  Burns,  who  v.as  of  opinion,  wh.en  he  wrole 
his  letter  to  Mr  Carfrae,  that  "  no  profits  are  more  honourable  than  those 
nf  the  labours  of  a  man  of  genius,"  and  whose  own  notions  of  independence 
had  sustained  no  shock  in  th.e  receipt  of  hundreds  of  pounds  from  Creech, 
sliould  have  spurned  the  suggestion  of  pecuniary  recomjiense  from  '1  hom- 
son,  it  is  no  easy  matter  to  ex])lain  :  nor  do  1  profess  to  understand  why  Mr. 
'I'homson  took  so  little  pains  to  argue  the  matter  in  Unnne.  with  the  poet, 
and  convince  him,  that  the  time  wl.ieh  he  himself  considered  as  fairly  en- 
titled to  be  paid  for  by  a  common  bookseller,  ought  of  right  to  be  valued 
and  acknowledged  on  similar  terms  by  the  editor  and  proprietor  of  a  book 
containing  both  songs  and  music.  '1  hey  order  tliese  tliings  differently 
aow :  a  living  lyric  poet  whom  none  will  place  in  a  higher  rank  than  Burns, 
has  long,  it  is  understood,  been  in  the  habit  of  receiving  about  as  much 
nu)!n.y  '-immaliy  for  an  aimnal  handful  of  songs,  as  was  ever  naid  to  our 
">afd  tur  the  whole  body  of  his  writint:s. 


CXVIII 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


Of  the  increasing  irritability  ofour  poet's  temperament,  amidst  those  trnii 
bles,  external  and  internal,  that  preceded  his  last  illness,  his  letters  furnish 
proofs,  to  dwell  on  which  could  only  inflict  unnecessary  pain.    Let  one  ex 
ample  suffice. — "  Sunday  closes  a  period  of  our  curst  revenue  business,, 
and  may  probably  keep  me  employed  with  my  pen  until  noon.     Fine  em 

ployment  for  a  poet's  pen  !     Here  I  sit,  altogether  Novemberish,  a  d 

melange  of  fretfulness  and  melancholy  ;  not  enough  of  the  one  to  rouse  me 
to  passion,  nor  of  the  other  to  repose  me  in  torpor ;  my  soul  flouncing  and 
fluttering  I'ound  her  tenement,  like  a  wild  finch,  caught  amid  the  horrors 
of  winter,  and  newly  thrust  into  a  cage.  Well,  I  am  persuaded  that  it 
was  of  me  the  Hebrew  sage  prophesied,  when  he  foretold — '  And  behold, 
on  whatsoever  this  man  doth  set  his  heart,  it  shall  not  prosper  !'  Pray  that 
wisdom  and  bliss  be  more  frequent  visitors  of  R.  B." 

Towards  the  close  cf  179j  Burns  was.  as  has  been  previously  mention- 
ed, employed  as  an  accing  Supervisor  of  Excise.  This  was  apparently  a 
step  to  a  permanent  situation  of  that  higher  and  more  lucrative  class  ;  and 
from  thence,  there  was  every  reason  to  believe,  the  kind  patronage  of  Mr. 
Graham  might  elevate  him  yet  farther.  I'hese  hopes,  however,  were  mingl- 
ed and  darkened  with  sorrow.  For  four  months  of  that  year  his  youngest 
child  lingered  through  an  illness  of  v.hich  every  v/cck  promised  to  be  the 
lar-t ;  and  she  was  hnally  cut  off  when  the  poet,  who  had  watched  her  with 
anxious  tenderness,  was  from  home  on  professional  business.  'J  his  was  a 
severe  blow,  and  his  own  nerves,  tliough  as  yet  he  had  not  taken  any  seri- 
ous alarm  about  his  ailments,  were  ill  fitted  to  withstand  it. 

"  'I'here  had  need,"  lie  writes  to  Mrs.  Dunlop,  15th  December,  "  there 
had  much  need  be  many  pleasures  annexed  to  the  states  of  husi',and  and 
father,  for  God  knows,  they  have  many  peculiar  cares.  I  cannot  describe 
to  you  the  anxious,  sleepless  hours  these  ties  frequently  give  me.  1  see  a 
train  of  helpless  little  folks  ;  me  and  my  exertions  all  their  stay  ;  and  on 
what  a  brittle  thread  does  the  life  of  man  hang  !  If  I  am  nipt  off  at  the 
conmiand  of  i'nte,  even  in  all  the  vigour  of  manhood  as  1  am,  such  things 
(ijppen  every  day — gracious  God  !  what  would  become  of  my  little  flock  ! 
'Tis  here  that  J  envy  j'our  j)eople  of  fortune — A  fiuher  on  his  death-bed, 
taking  an  everlasting  leave  of  his  children,  has  indeed  woe  enough  ;  but 
the  man  of  competent  fortune  leaves  his  sons  and  daughters  independency 
and  friends  ;  v/liile  1 — but  1  shall  run  distracted  if  1  think  any  longer  on 
the  subject." 

To  the  same  lady,  on  the  29th  of  the  month,  he,  after  mentioning  his 
supervisorshij).  and  saying  that  at  last  liis  political  sins  seemed  to  be  for- 
given him — iToes  on  in  this  ominous  tone — "■  \\  hat  a  transient  business  is 
lile  !  Very  lately  I  Mas  a  boy  ;  but  t'other  day  a  young  man  ;  and  1  already 
begin  to  feel  the  rigid  l.bre  and  stiifening  joints  of  old  age  coming  fast  over 
my  frame."  We  may  trace  the  melanciioly  sequel  in  the  few  follo^ving 
extracts. 

"  Slst  Jdimary  ITOii. — I  have  lately  drunk  deep  of  the  cup  of  afllie- 
tion.  '1  he  autunm  robbed  me  of  my  only  dauiihter  and  darling  c!;ild,  and 
Ihat  at  a  distance  too,  and  so  rapidly,  as  to  put  it  out  of  i)y  power  to  pay 
the  last  duties  to  her.  1  had  scarcely  begun  to  recover  from  that  shock 
when  I  became  myself  the  victim  of  a  most  severe  rheumatic  fever,  and 
long  the  die  spun  doubtl'ul ;  until,  ai'ter  many  weeks  of  a  sick  bed,  it  seems 
to  have  turned  up  life,  and  1  am  beginnnig  to  crawl  across  n)y  room,  av: 
oucc  indeed  have  been  belbre  my  own  d:>r  in  the  street. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS.  .  cxix 

•'  \Vhen  pleasure  fascinates  the  mental  sight. 
Affliction  purifies  the  visii;il  ray, 
Ro^iijion  li:iils  the  drear,  the  untried  night, 

Tliat  shuts,  Ibr  ever  shuts  !  life's  doubtful  day." 

But  a  few  (!a\r  after  this.  Burns  was  so  excceclingly  inipr'idciit  as  to  join 
B  festive  circle  at  a  tavern  dinner,  where  he  remained  till  about  three  in  tiie 
morning.  The  weatlier  was  se\ere,  and  he,  being  mueh  intoxieatetl,  took 
no  precaution  in  thus  exposing  his  debilitated  frame  to  its  influence.  It 
Iia;-;  been  said,  that  he  fell  asleep  upon  the  snow  on  his  way  home.  It 
is  certairi,  that  next  morning  he  was  sensible  of  an  icy  numbness  through 
all  his  joints — that  his  rheumatism  returned  with  tenfold  force  upon  him — 
and  that  from  that  unhappy  hour,  his  mind  brooded  ominously  on  the  fatal 
issue.  The  course  of  medicine  to  which  he  submitted  v.as  violent ;  con- 
fmement,  accustomed  as  he  had  been  to  much  bodily  exercise,  preyed 
miserably  on  all  his  powers  ;  he  drooped  visibly,  and  all  the  hopes  of  his 
friends,  that  health  would  return  with  sunmicr,  v/cre  destined  to  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Atli  June  1796.* — I  am  in  such  miserable  liealth  as  to  be  utterly  inca- 
pable of  showing  my  lo3alty  in  any  way.      Rackt  as  I  am  with  rheuma- 
tisms, I  meet  every  ^ace  with  a  greeting  like  tliat  of  Balak  and  Balaam, — 
Come  curse  me  .Jacob ;  and  come  defy  me  Israel.'  " 

"  77//  JkI;/ — I  fear  the  voice  of  the  Bard  will  soon  be  heard  among  you 
no  more. —  lor  tliese  eight  or  ten  months  I  have  been  ailing,  sonietimcs 
bed-fast  and  sometimes  not ;  but  these  last  three  months  I  have  been  tor- 
tured with  an  excruciating  rheumatism  which  has  reduced  me  to  nearly  the 
last  stage.  You  actually  would  not  know  me  if  you  saw  me — pale,  emaci- 
ated, and  so  feeble,  as  occasionally  to  need  help  from  my  cliair. — My  spirits 
fled  !  tied  !      But  I  can  no  more  on  the  subject." 

This  last  letter  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Cunningham  of  Edinburgh,  from 
the  small  village  of  Brow  on  the  Solway  Frith,  about  ten  miles  from  Dum- 
fries, to  which  the  poet  removed  about  the  end  of  June;  "  the  medical 
folks,"  as  he  says,  "  having  told  him  that  his  last  and  only  chance  was 
bath.ing,  country  quarters,  and  riding."  In  separating  himself  by  tlieir  ad- 
vice from  his  family  for  these  purposes,  he  carried  with  him  a  heavy  bur- 
den of  care.  "  The  duce  of  the  matter,"  lie  writes,  ''  is  this;  when  an  ex- 
ciseman is  off  duty,  his  salary  is  reduced.  What  way,  in  the  name  of  thrift, 
shall  I  maintain  myself  and  keep  a  liorse  in  country  quarters  on  4.3.')?' 
He  im])lorcd  his  friends  in  Kdinburgh,  to  make  interest  with  the  Board  to 
grant  him  his  full  salary  ;  if  they  do  not,  I  must  lay  my  account  with  an 
exit  truly  en  pvvlc — if  I  die  not  of  disease,  1  must  perish  with  hunger." 

Mrs.  lUddell  of  (ilenriddel,  a  beautiful  and  very  acccmp!i>hed  woman, 
to  wh.om  many  of  Burns's  most  interesting  letters,  in  the  latter  years  of  his 
life,  were  addressed,  happened  to  be  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Brow  ^hen 
Burns  reached  his  batk.ing  quarters,  and  exerted  herself  to  make  him  as 
comfortable  as  circumstances  permitted.  Having  sent  her  carriage  for  his 
conveyance,  the  poet  visited  her  on  the  .Tth  July;  and  she  has,  hi  a  letter 
published  by  Dr.  (.  urrie,  thus  described  his  appearance  and  conversation 
on  that  occasion  : — 

"  1  was  struc  k  with  his  appearance  on  entering  the  room.  The  stamp 
of  death  was  impressed  on  liis  features.  He  seemed  already  touching  tlie 
brink  of  eternity.     His  first  salutation  was,  '  Well,  IMadam,  have  you  any 

•  The  birth-dav  of  George  III. 


JXX 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  RUKNS. 


commands  for  tlie  other  world  ?'  I  re])Iied  tliat  it  seemed  a  doubtrul  case 
wliicli  of  us  should  he  there  soonest,  and  that  I  hoped  he  uould  yet  li\e  tc 
write  my  epitaph.  (I  was  then  in  a  poor  state  of  health.)  Me  looked  in  my 
face  witli  an  air  of  great  kindness,  and  expressed  his  concern  at  seeing  me 
look  so  ill,  with  his  accustomed  sensibility.  At  table  he  ate  little  or  no- 
t!)ing,  and  he  complained  of  having  entirely  lost  the  tone  of  his  stomach. 
We  had  a  long  and  serious  conversation  about  his  present  situation,  and 
the  approaching  termination  of  all  his  earthly  prospects.  lie  spoke  of  his 
'leatli  without  any  of  the  ostentation  of  philosophy,  but  witli  firmness  as 
well  as  feelir.g — as  an  event  likely  to  happen  very  soon,  and  which  gave 
him  concern  chiefly  from  leaving  his  four  children  so  young  and  unprotect- 
ed, and  his  wife  in  so  interesting  a  situation — in  the  hourly  expectation  of 
lying-in  of  a  fifth.  He  mentioned,  with  seeming  pride  and  satisfaction, 
the  promising  genius  of  his  eldest  son,  and  the  Hattering  marks  of  appro- 
bation he  had  received  from  his  teachers,  and  dwelt  particularly  on  hi? 
hopes  of  that  boy's  future  conduct  and  merit.  His  anxiety  tor  his  family 
seemed  to  hang  heavy  upon  liim,  and  the  more  perhaps  from  the  retlectioo 
that  he  had  not  done  them  all  the  justice  he  was  so  well  qualified  to  do. 
Passing  from  this  subject,  he  showed  great  concern  about  the  care  of  his  lite- 
rary fame,  and  particularly  the  publication  of  his  posthumous  works.  He 
said  he  was  v/cil  aware  that  his  death  would  occasion  some  noise,  and  that 
ever}'  scrap  of  iiis  writings  would  be  revived  against  him  to  the  injury  of  his 
future  reputation  :  that  letters  and  verses  v/ritten  with  unguarded  and  im- 
proper freedom,  and  which  he  earnestly  wislied  to  have  buried  in  oblivion, 
would  be  handed  about  by  idle  vanity  or  malevolence,  when  no  dread  of  his 
resentment  would  restrain  them,  or  prevent  the  censures  of  shrill-tongued 
malice,  or  th.e  insidious  sarcasms  of  envy,  from  pouring  forth  all  their  ve- 
nom to  blast  his  fame.  He  lamented  th.at  he  had  written  many  epigrams 
on  persons  against  whom  he  entertained  no  enmity,  and  whose  characters 
he  should  be  sorry  to  wound  ;  and  many  indifferent  poetical  pieces,  wiiich 
he  feared  would  now,  with  all  tlieir  imperfections  on  their  head,  be  thrust 
upon  the  world.  On  this  account  he  deeply  regretted  having  deferred  to 
put  his  papers  into  a  state  of  arrangement,  as  lie  was  now  quite  incapable  ot 
the  exertion. — The  conversation  was  kept  up  with  great  evenness  and  ani- 
mation on  his  side.  I  have  seldom  seen  his  mind  greater  or  more  collected. 
'Ihere  was  frecjuently  a  considerable  degree  of  vivacity  in  his  sallies,  and 
they  would  probably  have  had  a  greater  share,  had  not  the  concern  and 
dijeetion  I  could  not  disguise,  damped  the  spirit  of  ])leasantry  he  seemed 
not  unwilling  to  indulge. — We  parted  about  sun-set  on  the  evening  of  that 
day  (the  .'^th  of  July  l?9t)) ;  the  next  day  1  saw  him  again,  and  we  parted 
to  meet  no  more  !" 

1  do  not  know  the  exact  date  of  tlie  following  letter  to  Mrs  Burns: — 
''  Brow,  Thursday. — My  dearest  Love,   I  delayed  writing  until  I  could 
tell  you  what  effect  sea-bathing  was  likel}'  to  produce.      !t  would  be  injus- 
tice to  deny  that  it  h.as  easeil  my  |)alns,  and  I  think  lias  strengthened  me 
put  my  appetite  is  still  extremely  bad.     No  flesh  nor  fish  can  I  swallow  . 
porridge  and  milk  are   the  only  things  I  can  taste.     I  am  very  luip|)y  to 
hear,   by  .Miss  .less  Lewars,  that  you  are  all  well.  My  very  best  and  kind- 
eiet  c(/!iipliments  to  her  and  1o  all  the  children.     1  uill  see  you  on  ISundai 
Your  affectionate  husband,  li.  15." 

There  is  a  very  affecting  letter  to  (lilbert,    dated  the  7th,    in  which  the 
Doe^  .sajs,  •'  1  am  dangerously  ill,  and  not  likely  to  get  better. — (Jod  keep 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS.  cxxi 

m>  wife  anil  clnldrcn."  On  the  I'ith,  he  wrote  the  letter  to  Mr.  George 
Thomson,  above  (juotcd,  recjuesting  L'.>  ;  and,  on  tlie  same  day,  he  pei.ned 
also  the  following — the  hist  letter  that  ue  ever  wrote — to  his  friend  Mrs 
Dunlop. 

"  Madam,  I  liave  written  you  so  often,  without  receiving  any  answer, 
that  I  would  not  trouble  you  again,  but  ibr  the  circumstanees  in  which  ' 
nm.  An  illness  v.-hich  has  long  lunig  about  me,  in  all  probability  will  speed- 
ily send  me  beyond  that  hoiirnc  irhencc  nn  tnivdltr  rLtiuns.  Vour  li'iend- 
ship,  witii  which  for  many  years  you  honoured  nie,  was  a  iriendship 
dearest  to  my  soul.  Your  conversation,  and  especially  your  correspondence, 
were  at  once  highly  entertaining  and  instructive.  W  ith  what  pleasure  did 
I  use  to  break  up  the  seal  !  The  remembrance  yet  adds  one  pulse  more  to 
my  poor  pali)itating  heart.     Farewell  !  !  !" 

1  give  the  following  anecdote  in  the  words  of  Mr.  M'Diarmid  :* — 
"  Rousseau,  we  all  know,  when  dying,  wished  to  be  carried  into  the  open 
lir.  that  he  might  obtain  a  parting  look  of  the  glorious  orb  of  day.  A  night 
or  two  before  I5urns  left  Brow,  he  drank  tea  with  Mrs.  Craig,  widow  of  the 
minister  of  Ruthwell.  His  altered  appciyance  excited  much  silent  sympa- 
thy ;  and  the  evening  being  beautiful,  and  the  sun  shinmg  brigiitly  through 
the  casement,  Miss  Craig  (now  .Mrs.  Henry  Duncan),  was  afraid  the  light 
mi:i:!it  be  too  much  for  him,  and  rose  with  the  view  of  lettinir  down  the  win- 
'li  w  blinds  Burns  immediately  guessed  what  she  meant  ;  and,  regarding 
the  young  lady  with  a  look  of  great  benignity,  said,  '  '1  hank  you,  my  dear, 
for  your  kind  attention  ;  but,  oh,  let  him  shine  ;  lie  will  not  shine  long  for 
uie. 

(Jn  tlie  iSth,  despairing  of  any  benefit  from  the  sea,  our  poet  came  baca 
to  Dumirics.  Mr.  Allan  Cunningham,  who  saw  him  arrive  ''  visibly  cluuig- 
ed  in  his  looks,  being  with  dililculty  able  to  stand  upright,  and  reach  his 
own  door,"  has  given  a  striking  picture,  in  one  of  his  essays,  of  the  state  of 
po]'«ular  feeling  in  the  town  during  the  short  space  which  interveneil  between 
his  return  and  his  death. — '♦  Dunilries  was  like  a  besieged  place.  It  was 
known  he  was  dying,  and  the  anxiety,  not  of  the  rich  and  learned  only,  but 
of  the  mechanics  and  peasants,  exceeded  all  belief.  Wherever  two  or 
three  people  stood  together,  their  talk  was  of  Burns,  and  of  him  alone. 
They  spoke  of  his  history — of  his  person — of  his  work? — of  his  f.mily — of 
his  fan>e  — and  of  his  untimely  and  approaching  fate,  with  a  warmth  and  an 
eiuhusiasm  which  will  ever  endear  Dumfries  to  mv  remembrance.  All  that 
he-said  or  was  saying — the  opinions  of  the  physicians,  (and  .Maxwell  was  a 
kind  and  a  skilful  one),  were  eagerly  caught  u})  and  reported  from  street  to 
street,  and  Iiom  house  to  house." 

"  His  good  humour,"  Cunningham  adds,  "  was  unrufHed,  and  his  wit  ne- 
ver forsook  him.  He  looked  to  one  ol'  his  fellow  volunteers  with  a  smiie, 
as  he  stood  by  the  bed-side  with  his  eyes  wet,  and  said,  '  .John,  don't  let 
the  awkward  squad  fire  over  me.'  He  repressed  with  a  smile  the  hopes  of 
his  friends,  and  told  them  he  had  lived  long  enough.  As  his  lite  drew  near 
a  close,  the  eager  yet  decorous  solicitude  of  his  fellow  townsmen  increased. 
It  is  the  practice  of  the  young  men  of  Dumfries  to  meet  in  the  streets 
dining  the  hours  of  remission  from  labour,  and  by  these  means  1  had  an 
opportunity  of  witnessing  the  general  solicitude  of  all  ranks  and  of  all  ages, 
his  diuerences  with  them  on  some  important  points  were  forgotten  and  for- 

•  I  take  the  opportunity  of  or.ce  more  acknowkd^nj:  n-.y  great  olli^atior.s  vt  this  gentle. 
<Ean  who  ia    I  umlerbtauci,  coni.ecicd  by  his  nitirriaj^e  witli  liie  faiiiily  ol  die  j-oet 


cxxu 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


given  :  they  thought  only  of  his  genius — of  tlie  deh'glit  his  composition! 
had  diffused — and  they  talked  of  him  with  the  same  awe  as  of  some  depart* 
ing  spirit,  whose  voice  v/as  to  gladden  them  no  more."  * 

•'  A  tremour  nov/  pervaded  his  frame,"  says  Dr.  Currie,  on  the  auiliority 
of  the  j)hysician  who  attended  him  ;  "  !iis  tongue  was  parched-,  and  his  mind 
sunk  into  delirium,  when  not  roused  hy  conversation.  On  the  second  and 
third  day  the  fever  increased,  and  his  strength  diminished."  On  the  fourth, 
July  '^Ist  1796,  Robert  Burns  died. 

'•  I  went  to  see  him  laid  out  for  the  grave,"  says  Mr.  Allan  Cunning- 
ham ;  "  several  elder  people  were  with  me.  He  lay  in  a  plain  unadorned 
cofiin,  with  a  linen  sheet  drawn  over  his  face  ;  and  on  the  bed,  and  around 
the  body,  herbs  and  flowers  were  thickly  strev/n,  according  to  the  usage  oJ 
the  country.  He  was  wasted  somewhat  by  long  illness ;  but  death  liad  not 
increased  the  swarthy  hue  of  his  face,  v/hich  was  uncommonly  dark  and 
deeply  marked — his  broad  and  open  brow  was  pale  and  serene,  and  around 
it  his  sable  hair  lay  in  masses,  slightly  touched  with  grey.  The  room 
where  lie  lay  was  plain  and  neat,  and  the  simplicity  of  the  poet's  humble 
dwelling  pressed  the  presence  of  death  more  closely  en  the  heart  than  i{ 
his  bier  had  been  embellished  by  vanity,  and  covered  with  the  blazonry  of 
high  ancestry  and  rank.  We  stood  and  gazed  on  him  in  silence  for  the 
space  of  several  minutes — Vv-e  went,  and  others  succeeded  us — not  a  whis- 
per was  heard.     This  was  several  days  after  his  death." 

On  the  '-^oth  of  July,  the  remains  of  the  poet  were  removed  to  the  Trades 
Hall,  where  they  lay  in  state  until  the  next  morning.  The  volunteers  of 
Dumfriiis  were  determined  to  inter  their  illustrious  comrade  (as  indeed  he 
had  a)iticipated)  Avith  military  honours.  The  chief  persons  of  the  tosvn  and 
neighbourhood  resolved  to  make  part  of  the  procession  ;  and  not  a  i'cw  tra- 
velled from  great  distances  to  witness  the  solenmity.  'I'he  streets  v/ere 
lined  by  the  Fen  ^ble  Infantry  of  Angusshire,  and  the  Cavalry  of  the  Cinque 
Ports,  then  quartcdat  Dumfries,  whose  commander,  Lord  iiawksbury,  (af- 
terwards Earl  of  Liverpool),  although  he  had  always  declined  a  personal 
introduction  to  the  poet,  f  ofhciat-^d  as  one  of  the  chief  mourners.  "  The 
multitude  who  accompanied  Burns  to  the  grave,  went  step  by  step,"  says 
Cunningham,  "  witJi  the  chief  mourners.  They  might  amount  to  ten  or 
twelve  thousand.  Not  a  word  was  heard  ....  It  was  an  impressive  and 
mournful  sight  to  see  men  of  all  ranks  and  persuasions  and  opinions  niing- 
ling  as  brothers,  and  stepping  side  by  side  down  the  streets  of  L'umfi-ics, 
with  the  remains  of  him  who  had  sung  of  their  loves  and  joys  and  domes- 
tic endearments,  with  a  truth  and  a  tenderness  which  none  perlurps  have 
since  equalled.  I  could,  indeed,  have  wished  the  military  part  of  the  pro- 
cession away.  The  scarlet  and  gold — the  banners  disjjlayed — the  mea- 
sured step,  and  the  military  array — with  the  sounds  of  martial  instruments 
of  music,  had  no  share  in  increasing  the  solemnity  of  the  burial  scene;  and 
had  no  connexion  with  the  poet.  1  looked  on  it  then,  and  1  consider  it 
now,  as  an  idle  ostentation,  a  piece  of  suj)crfiuous  state  which  migiit  have 
been  sj>ared,  more  especially  as  his  neglected,  and  traduced,  and  insulted 
spirit  bad  experienced  no  kindness  in  the  body  from  those  lofty  people  who 

ore  now  jiroud  of  being  numbered  as  his  coevals  and  countrymen 

I  found  myself  at  the  brink  of  the  poet's  grave,  into  wliich  he  was  about  to 
dc'St:end  for  ever.     There  was  a  pause  among  the  mourners,  as  if  loath  tc 

■  In  the  Ixwdon  IMngarine,  l!!2-l.     .\rtide,  "  Robe     Uurns  ax^"  Lord  liyron." 
^  tSo  Air.  byiuelus  informed  .Mi-  JM'L>i;\-;ud 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURN'S.  cxxiji 

part  witli  his  remains  :  and  wlicn  he  was  at  last  lowered,  and  tlie  first  shn- 
veliul  of  earth  sounded  on  his  coffin  Hd,  I  looked  iij)  and  saw  tears  on  ntanv 
cheeks  where  tears  were  not  usuaL  'Ihe  volunteers  justified  the  fears  oi 
ihcir  comrade,  by  three  ragged  and  straggling  volleys.  The  earth  was 
hca]>cd  up,  the  green  sod  laid  over  him,  aiul  the  Miultitude  stood  gaz- 
ing on  the  grave  for  some  minutes'  space,  and  then  melted  silently  away. 
The  day  was  a  fine  one.  the  sun  was  almost  without  a  cloud,  and  not  a 
drop  of  rain  fell  iVom  dawn  to  twilight.  I  notice  this,  not  from  any  con- 
currence in  the  common  superstition,  that  '  happy  i-^,  the  corpse  wh.ich  the 
rain  rains  on,'  but  to  confute  the  pious  fraud  of  a  religious  Magazine, 
which  made  Heaven  express  its  wrath,  at  the  interment  of  a  profane  poet, 
in  thunder,  in  lightning,  and  in  rain." 

During  the  funeral  solemnity,  Mrs.  Burns  was  seized  with  the  pains  of 
labour,  and  gave  birth  to  a  posthumous  son,  who  quickly  followed  his  fa- 
ther to  the  grave.  Mr.  Cunningham  describes  the  appearance  of  the  ih- 
niily,  when  they  at  last  emerged  from  their  home  of  sorrow  : — "  A  weep- 
ing widow  and  four  helpless  sons  ;  they  came  into  the  streets  in  their  mourn- 
ings, and  public  sympathy  was  awakened  afresh.  1  shall  never  forget  the 
looks  of  his  boys,  and  the  compassion  which  they  excited.  Ihe  poet's  life 
had  nst  been  without  errors,  and  such  errors,  too,  as  a  wife  is  slow  in  for- 
giving ;  but  he  was  honoured  then,  and  is  honoured  now,  by  the  unaliena- 
ble affection  of  his  wife,  and  the  world  rej)ays  her  prudence  and  her  love 
by  its  regard  and  esteem." 

Immediately  after  the  poet's  death.,  a  subscription  was  opened  for  the 
benefit  of  his  family;  Mr.  Miller  of  Dalswinton,  Dr.  Maxwell,  Mr.  Syme, 
Mr.  Cunningham,  and  Mr.  M'.Murdo,  becoming  trustees  for  the  application 
of  the  money.  Many  names  from  other  parts  of  Scotland  appeared  in  the 
lists,  and  not  a  few  from  Kngland,  especially  London  and  Liverpool,  ^even 
hundred  pounds  were  in  this  way  collected ;  an  additional  sum  was  for- 
warded from  India  ;  and  the  profits  of  Dr.  Currie's  Life  and  Edition  of 
Burns  were  also  considerable.  The  result  has  been,  that  the  sons  of  the 
poet  received  an  excellent  education,  and  that  Mrs.  Burns  has  continued 
to  reside,  enjoying  a  decent  independence,  in  the  house  where  the  jioet 
died,  situated  in  what  is  now,  by  the  authority  of  the  Magistrates  of  Dum- 
fries, called  l>urns'  Street. 

"  Of  the  ;four  surviving)  sons  of  the  poet,"  says  their  uncle  Gilbert  in 
1^20,  "  Robert,  the  eldest,  is  placed  as  a  clerk  in  the  Stamp  Ofiice,  Lon- 
don, (Mr.  Burns  still  remains  in  that  estublisimient),  Francis  W  alluce.  ihe 
second,  died  in  l^U;^  ;  \\  illiam  Nicoll,  the  third,  went  to  Madras  m  IS  I!  ; 
and  , lames  (ilencairn,  the  youngest,  to  Lengal  in  181  v?,  both  as  cadets  Ln 
the  Honourable  Company's  service."  These  young  gentlemen  have  all,  it 
is  believed,  conducted  themselves  through  life  in  a  manner  highly  honour- 
able to  themselves,  and  to  the  name  uiiich  they  bear,  (hie  of  them 
(.Iames\  as  soon  as  his  circumstances  permitted,  settled  a  liberal  annuity 
on  his  estimable  mother,  which  she  still  survives  to  enjoy. 

'ihe  great  poet  himself,  whose  name  is  enough  to  ennoble  his  children's 
children,  was,  to  the  eternal  disgrace  of  his  country,  suH'ered  to  live  ar.d 
die  in  penury,  and,  as  far  as  such  a  creature  could  be  degraded  by  ajiy  ex- 
ternal circumstances,  in  degradation.  \\  lu)  can  open  the  page  of  Burns, 
and  remember  without  a  bhis'i.  tliat  tiie  autlu;r  of  !>ueh  verses,  the  hiimiu: 
being  whose  breasl  glowed  with  sucli  feelings,  was  doomed  to  earn  niert" 
bread  lor  his  child'  en  by  casting  up  the  stock  of  publicans'  cellars,  and  rid 


cxxiv  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

ing  over  moors  and  mosses  in  quest  of  smuggling  stills  ''  The  subscription 
for  his  poems  was,  for  the  time,  large  and  liberal,  and  perhaps  absolves  the 
gentry  of  Scotland  as  individuals  ;  but  that  some  strong  movement  cf  in- 
dignation ^id  not  spread  over  the  whole  kingdom,  when  it  was  known  that 
Robert  Barns,  after  being  caressed  and  flattered  by  the  noblest  and  most 
learned  of  his  countrymen,  was  about  to  be  established  as  a  common  ganger 
among  the  wilds  of  Nithslale — and  that,  after  he  was  so  established,  na 
interference  from  a  highei  quarter  arrested  that  unwortliy  career  : — these 
are  circumstances  which  must  continue  to  bear  heavily  on  the  memory  ot 
that  generation  of  Scotsmen,  and  especially  of  those  who  tlw^n  adminis- 
tered the  public  patronage  of  Scotland. 

In  defence,  or  at  least  in  palliation,  of  this  national  crime,  two  false  ar 
guments.  the  one  resting  on  facts  grossly  exaggerated,  the  other  h.aving  no 
foundation  whatever  either  on  knowledge  or  on  wisdom,  have  been  rashly 
set  \i\),  and  arrogantly  as  v/eil  as  ignorantly  maintained.  To  the  one, 
namely,  that  public  patronage  would  have  been  wrongfully  bestowed  on  the 
Poet,  because  the  Lxciseman  was  a  political  partizan,  it  is  hoped  the  de- 
tails embodied  in  this  narrative  have  supplied  a  sufficient  answer  :  had  the 
matter  been  as  bad  as  the  boldest  critics  have  ever  ventured  to  insinuate, 
Sir  Walter  Scott's  answer  would  still  have  remained — "  this  partizan  was 
BL-rtN-h.'"  The  other  argument  is  a  still  more  heartless,  as  well  as  absurd 
one  ;  to  wit,  that  from  the  moral  character  and  habits  of  the  man,  no  pa- 
tronage, hov.-ever  liberal,  could  have  influenced  and  controlled  his  conduct, 
eo  as  to  work  lasting  and  effective  improvement,  and  lengthen  his  life  by 
raising  it  more  nearly  to  the  elevation  of  his  genius  This  is  indeed  a  can- 
did and  a  generous  method  of  judging  !  Are  imprudence  and  intemperance, 
then,  found  to  increase  usually  in  pro]wrtion  as  the  worldly  circun, stances 
of  men  are  easy  ?  Is  not  the  very  opposite  of  this  doctiine  acknowledged 
by  almost  all  that  have  ever  tried  the  reverses  of  Fortune's  wheel  them- 
gelves — by  all  that  have  contemplated,  from  an  elevation  not  too  high  for 
sympathy,  the  u^ual  course  of  manners,  when  their  fellow  creatures  either 
encounter  or  live  in  constant  apprehension  of 

"•  The  thniisand  ills  tliat  ri^e  where  money  fails. 

Debts,  Uueats,  and  duns,  bills,  bailiffs,  writs,  ar.d  jails  ?" 

To  such  mean  miseries  the  latter  years  of  Burns's  life  were  exposed,  no 
less  than  his  early  youth,  and  after  what  natin-al  buoyancy  of  animal  spirits 
he  ever  possessed,  had  sunk  under  the  influence  of  time,  which,  surely 
hriiigir.g  experience,  fails  seldom  to  bring  care  also  and  sorrow,  to  spirits 
more  mercurial  than  his  ;  and  in  what  bitterness  of  heart  he  submittc'  to 
his  fate,  let  his  own  burning  words  once  more  tell  us.  "  Take,"  says  ne. 
writing  to  one  who  never  ceased  to  be  his  friend — "  take  these  two  guineas, 
and  piace  them  over  against  that  *»••**  account  of  yours,  which  has  gag- 
ged my  mouth  these  five  or  six  months  !  i  can  as  little  write  good  things 
as  aj)ologies  to  the  man  I  oive  money  to.  C),  the  supreme  curse  of  nsak- 
ing  three  guineas  do  the  business  of  five  !  Poverty!  tliou  halfs:ster  of 
death,  thou  cousingerman  of  hell  !  Oppressed  by  thee,  the  man  of  senti- 
ment, whose  heart  glows  with  independence,  and  melts  with  sensibility 
in'y  pines  under  the  neglect,  or  writhes  in  bitterness  of  soul,  under  the 
contumely  of  arrogant,  unfeeling  wealth.  Oppressed  by  thee,  the  son  of 
genius,  whose  ill-starred  ambition  plants  him  at  the  tables  of  the  iiishion- 
Hble  a'ld  polite,  must  see,  in  suli'ering  s.lence,  his  remark  neglected,  an«^ 


I.IFK  01-  ROBERT  BURNS.  cxxv 

nis  person  despised,  while  s1ki1U)\v  greatness,  in  liis  idiot  attempts  at  wit, 
sliall  meet  with  countenanee  and  applause.  Nor  is  it  only  the  ianiily  of 
worth  that  liave  reason  to  comjjlain  of  thee ;  the  children  of  folly  and  vice, 
though,  in  common  with  thee,  the  oUspring  of  evil,  smart  e<jiially  under 
thy  rod..  The  man  of  unfortunate  dis})osition  and  neglected  education,  is 
condemned  as  a  fool  for  his  dissipation,  despised  and  shunned  as  a  needy 
wretch,  when  his  follies,  as  usual,  bring  him  to  want  ;  and  when  his  neces- 
sities drive  him  to  dishonest  practices,  he  is  abhorred  as  a  miscreant,  and 
perishes  by  the  justice  of  his  country.  1/Ut  far  otherwise  is  the  lot  of  the 
man  of  family  and  fortune.  His  early  follies  and  extravagance,  are  spirit 
and  fire ;  his  consequent  wants,  are  tlie  embarrassments  of  an  honest 
fellow  ;  and  when,  to  remedy  the  matter,  he  has  gained  a  legal  commis- 
sion to  plunder  distant  provinces,  or  massacre  peaceful  nations,  he  returns, 
perhaps,  laden  with  the  spoils  of  rapine  and  murder  ;  lives  wicked  and 
respected,  and  dies  a  *»**«**  and  a  lord  ! — Nay,  worst  of  all,  alas  for 
helpless  woman  !  the  needy  prostitute,  who  has  shivered  at  the  corner  oJ 
the  street,  waiting  to  earn  the  wages  of  casual  prostitution,  is  left  neglect- 
ed and  insulted,  ridden  down  by  the  chariot  wheels  of  the  coroneted  iup, 
hurrying  on  to  th.e  guilty  assignation  ;  she,  who,  without  the  same  neces- 
sities to  plead,  riots  nightly  in  the  same  guilty  trade. — Well :  divines  may 
say  of  it  what  they  please,  but  execretion  is  to  the  mind,  what  phlebotomy 
is  to  the  body ;  the  vital  sluices  of  both  are  wonderfully  relieved  by  their 
respective  evacuations."  * 

In  such  evacuations  of  indignant  spleen  the  proud  heart  of  many  an  un- 
fortunate genius,  besides  this,  has  found  or  sou[^^,ht  relief:  and  to  other 
more  dangerous  indulgences,  the  affliction  of  such  sensitive  spirits  had  of- 
ten, ere  his  time,  condescended.  The  list  is  a  long  and  a  painful  one ;  and 
it  includes  some  i>nmes  that  can  claim  but  a  scanty  share  in  the  apology  ot 
P.urns.  Addison  himself,  the  elegant,  the  philosophical,  the  religious  Ad- 
dison, must  be  numbered  with  these  offenders  : — Jonson,  Cotton,  I'rior, 
Parnell,  Otway,  Savage,  all  sinned  in  the  same  sort,  and  the  transgressions 
of  them  all  have  been  leniently  dealt  with,  in  comparison  with  those  of  one 
whose  genius  was  probably  greater  than  any  of  theirs  ;  his  appetites  more 
fervid,  his  temptations  more  abundant,  his  repentance  more  severe.  'Ihc 
beautiful  genius  of  Collins  sunk  under  similar  contaminations ;  and  those 
who  have  from  dullness  of  head,  or  sourness  of  heart,  joined  in  the  too  ge- 
neral clamour  against  Burns,  may  learn  a  lesson  of  candour,  of  mercy,  and 
of  justice,  from  the  language  in  which  one  of  the  best  of  men,  and  loftiest 
of  moralists,  has  commented  on  frailties  that  hurried  a  kindred  spirit  to  a 
like  untimely  grave. 

"  In  a  long  continuance  of  poverty,  and  long  habits  of  dissipation,"  savs 
Johnson,  "  it  cannot  be  expected  that  any  character  should  be  exactly  uni- 
form. That  this  man,  wise  and  virtuous  as  he  was,  passed  always  unen- 
tangled  through  the  snares  of  life,  it  would  be  prejudice  and  temerity  tc 
affirm  :  but  it  may  be  said  that  he  at  least  preserved  the  source  of  action 
unpolluted,  that  his  principles  were  never  shaken,  that  his  distinctions  of 
right  and  wrong  were  never  confounded,  and  that  his  faults  had  nothing  oi 
malignity  or  design,  but  proceeded  from  some  unexpected  pressure  or  ca< 
sudl  temptation.  Such  was  the  fate  of  Collins,  with  whom  1  once  de 
lighted  to  converse,  and  whom  1  yet  remember  with  tenderness." 

"  Letter  to  Mr.  Peter  II iH,  bookseller,  Edinburgh.     General  Correspondence,  p.  328- 


cxxvi  LIFE  OFTvOBERT  BURXS. 

Burns  was  an  honest  man  :  after  all  his  struggles,  he  owed  no  man  a 
shilling  when  he  died.  Mis  heart  was  ahvaj'S  warm  and  his  hand  open. 
"  His  charities,"  says  Mr.  Gray,  "  were  great  heyond  his  means  ;"  and  1 
have  to  thank  Mr.  Allan  Cunningham  for  the  following  anecdote,  fur  which 
I  am  sure  every  reader  will  thank  him  too.  Mr.  Maxwell  of  Teraughty, 
an  old,  austere,  sarcastic  gentleman,  who  cared  nothing  about  poetry,  used 
to  say  when  the  Excise-books  of  tlie  district  were  produced  at  the  meet- 
inf^.s  ot  tlie  Justices, — "  Bring  me  Burns's  journal  :  it  always  does  me  good 
to  see  it,  for  it  shows  that  an  honest  officer  may  carry  a  kind  heart  about 
with  him." 

Of  his  religious  principles,  we  are  bound  to  judge  by  what  he  has  told 
himself  in  his  more  serious  moments.  He  sometimes  doubted  with  the 
sorrow,  what  in  the  main,  and  above  all,  in  the  end,  he  believed  with  the 
fervour  of  a  poet.  "  It  occasionally  haunts  me,"  says  he  in  one  of  his  let- 
ters,— "  the  dark  suspicion,  that  immortality  may  be  only  too  good  news  to 
be  true  ;"  and  here,  as  on  many  points  besides,  how  much  did  his  method  ot 
thinking,  (I  fear  I  must  add  of  acting),  resemble  that  of  a  noble  poet  more 
recently  lost  to  us.  "  I  am  no  bigot  to  infidelity,"  said  Lord  Byron,  "  and 
did  not  expect  that  because  I  doubted  the  immortality  of  man,  1  should  be 
charged  with  denying  the  existence  of  a  God.  It  was  the  comparative  in- 
significance of  ourselves  and  our  world,  v/hen  placed  in  comparison  with 
the  mighty  whole,  of  which  it  is  an  atom,  that  first  led  me  to  imagine  that 
our  pretensions  to  immortality  might  be  overrated."  I  dare  not  pretend 
to  quote  the  sequel  from  memory,  but  the  effect  was,  that  Byron,  like 
Burns,  complained  of  "  the  early  discipline  of  Scotch  Calvinism,"  and 
the  natural  gloom  of  a  melancholy  heart,  as  having  between  them  engen- 
dered "  a  hypochondriacal  disease"  which  occasionally  visited  and  dc[)res- 
sed  him  through  life.  In  the  opposite  scale,  we  are,  in  justice  to  Burns, 
to  place  many  j)ages  v/hich  breathe  the  ardour,  nay  the  exultation  of  faith, 
ami  the  humble  sincerity  of  Christian  hope  ;  and,  as  the  poet  himself  has 
warned  us,  it  well  befits  us 

"  At  the  balance  to  be  mute." 

Let  us  avoid,  in  the  name  of  Ileligion  herself,  the  fatal  error  of  those  who 
would  rashly  sv/cll  the  catalogue  of  the  enemies  of  religion.  "  A  sally  ot 
levity,"  says  once  more  Dr.  Johnson,  "  an  indecent  jest,  an  unreasonable 
objection,  are  sufHcicnt,  in  the  opinion  of  some  men,  to  efliice  a  name 
from  the  lists  of  Christianity,  to  exclude  a  soul  from  everlasting  life.  Such 
men  are  so  watchful  to  censure,  that  they  have  seldom  much  care  to  look 
for  ilivourable  interpretations  of  ambiguities,  or  to  know  how  soon  any 
step  of  inadvertency  has  been  expiated  by  sorrow  and  retractation,  hul  let 
fly  their  fulminations  without  mercy  or  prudence  against  slight  offences  or 
casual  temerities,  against  crimes  never  committed,  or  immediately  repent- 
ed. The  zealot  should  recollect,  that  he  is  labouring,  by  this  frequency 
of  excommunication,  against  his  own  cause,  and  voluntarily  adding  strength 
to  the  enemies  of  trulli.  It  must  always  be  the  condition  of  a  great  part 
of  mankind,  to  reject  and  embrace  tenets  upon  the  authority  of  those  wb.om 
they  think  wiser  than  themselves,  and  therefore  the  addition  of  every  name 
to  infidelity,  in  some  degree  invalidates  that  argument  ujion  which  the  re- 
ligi.m  oi" multitudes  is  necessarily  foundeil."  *     In  conclusion,  let  me  adop< 

•  LLfc  of  Sir  Thomas  Brownft. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURN'S.  cxxvii 

tlie  beautiful  sentiment  of  that  illustrious  morai  poet  of  our  own  time, 
whose  i^enerous  defence  of  Burns  will  be  remembered  while  the  lan- 
^uaije  lasts  ; — 

"  liCt  no  menn  hope  your  souls  enslave— 
Be  independent,  },'eneious,  brave  ; 
Your"  i'oKT  "  such  exum|.le  gave, 

And  such  revere. 
But  be  admoni^hcd  by  liis  pr-ive, 

And  tliink  and  fear."  • 

It  is  possible,  perhaps  for  some  it  may  be  easy,  to  imagine  a  character 
of  a  much  higher  cast  than  that  of  Burns,  developed,  too,  under  circum- 
stances in  many  respects  not  unlike  those  of  his  history — the  character  of  a 
man  of  lowly  birth,  and  powerful  genius,  elevated  by  that  philosophy  which 
is  alone  pure  and  divine,  iar  above  all  those  annoyances  of  terrestrial  spleen 
and  passion,  which  mixed  from  the  beginning  with  the  workings  of  his  in- 
spiration, and  in  the  end  were  able  to  eat  deep  into  the  great  heart  which 
they  had  long  tormented.  Such  a  being  would  have  received,  no  ques- 
tion, a  species  of  devout  reverence,  1  mean  when  the  grave  had  closed  on 
him,  to  which  the  warmest  admirers  of  our  poet  can  advance  no  preten- 
sions for  their  unfortunate  favourite  ;  but  could  such  a  being  have  delight- 
ed liis  species — could  he  even  have  instructed  them  like  Burns  ?  Ought 
we  not  to  be  thankful  for  every  new  variety  of  form  and  circumstance,  in 
and  under  which  the  ennobling  energies  of  true  and  lofty  genius  are  found 
addressing  themselves  to  the  common  brethren  of  the  race  ?  Would  we 
have  none  but  Miltons  and  Cowpers  in  poetry — but  Browncs  and  .Soulh- 
eys  in  prose  r"  Alas  !  if  it  were  so,  to  how  large  a  portion  of  the  species 
would  all  the  gifts  of  all  the  muses  remain  for  ever  a  fountain  shut  up  and 
a  book  sealed  !  Were  the  doctrine  of  intellectual  excommunication  to  be 
thus  expounded  and  enforced,  how  small  the  library  that  would  remain  to 
kindle  the  fancy,  to  draw  out  and  refine  the  feelings,  to  enlighten  the  head 
by  expanding  the  heart  of  man  !  From  Aristophanes  to  Ijyron,  how  broad 
the  sweep,  how  woeful  the  desolation  ! 

In  the  absence  of  that  vehement  sympathy  with  humanity  as  it  is,  its 
sorrows  and  its  joys  as  they  are,  we  might  have  had  a  great  man,  perhaps 
a  great  poet,  but  we  could  have  had  no  Burns.  It  is  very  noble  to  despise 
the  accidents  of  fortune  ;  but  what  moral  homily  concerning  these,  could 
have  equalled  that  which  Burns's  poetry,  considered  alongside  of  Burns's 
history,  and  the  history  of  his  fame,  presents  !  It  is  very  noble  to  be  above 
the  allurements  of  pleasure  ;  but  who  preaches  so  effectually  against  them, 
as  he  who  sets  forth  in  immortal  verse  his  own  intense  sympathy  with  those 
that  yield,  and  in  verse  and  in  prose,  in  action  and  in  passion,  in  life  and 
in  death,  the  dangers  and  the  miseries  of  yielding? 

It  requires  a  graver  audacity  of  hypocrisy  than  falls  to  the  share  of  most 
men,  to  declaim  against  Burns's  scnsibiHty  to  the  tangible  cares  and  toils 
of  his  earthly  condition  ;  there  are  more  who  venture  on  broad  denuncia- 
tions of  his  sympathy  with  the  joys  of  sense  and  passion.  To  these,  the 
great  moral  poet  already  quoted  sj)caks  in  the  following  noble  passage — 
and  must  he  speak  in  vain  ?  "  Permit  me,"  says  he,  "  to  remind  you,  that  it 
is  the  privilege  of  poetic  genius  to  catch,  under  certain  restrictions  of  which 
perhaps'  at   the    time  of  its  beinj}    exerted  it  is  but  dimly  conscious,    a 

•  A\'ordswnr til's  address  tc  the  sons  of  Burns,  on  visiting  his  prr.ve  in  ICO.'i. 


cxxvilf  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

spirit  of  pleasure  wherever  it  can  be  found, — in  the  walks  )f  nature,  ant? 
in  the  business  of  men. — The  poet,  trusting  to  primary  instil. cts,  luxuriates 
anionrr  the  felicities  of  love  and  wine,  and  is  enraptured  while  he  describes 
the  fairer  aspects  of  war ;  nor  does  he  shrink  from  the  company  of  the  pas 
sinn  of  love  thouj^h  immoderate — from  convivial  pleasure  thou?^h  intenipe- 
'ate — nor  from  the  presence  of  war  though  savage,  and  recognised  as  the 
liand-maid  of  desolation.  Frequently  and  admirably  has  Burns  given  way 
to  these  impulses  of  nature  ;  both  with  reference  to  himself,  and  in  describ- 
ing the  condition  of  others.  Who,  but  some  impenetrable  dunce  or  narrcw- 
niinded  puritant  in  works  of  art,  ever  read  without  delight  the  picture 
u'liich  he  has  drawn  of  the  convivial  exaltation  of  the  rustic  adventurer, 
Tarn  o'  Shanter  ?  The  poet  fears  not  to  tell  the  reader  in  the  outset,  that 
liis  hero  was  a  desperate  and  sottish  drunkard,  M'hose  excesses  were  fi'e- 
quent  as  his  opportunities.  This  reprobate  sits  down  to  his  cups,  while 
the  storm  is  roaring,  and  heaven  and  earth  are  in  confusion  ; — the  night  is 
driven  on  by  song  and  tumultuous  noise — laughter  and  jest  thicken  as  the 
beverage  improves  upon  the  palate — conjugal  fidelity  archly  bends  to  the 
service  of  general  benevolence — selfishness  is  not  absent,  but  wearing  the 
mask  of  social  cordiality — and,  while  these  various  elements  of  humanity 
are  blended  into  one  proud  and  happy  composition  of  elated  spirits,  the 
anger  of  the  tempest  without  doors  only  heightens  and  sets  off  the  enjoy 
ment  within. — I  pity  him  who  cannot  perceive  that,  in  all  this,  though 
there  was  no  moral  purpose,  there  is  a  moral  effect. 

"  Kings  may  be  Ilest,  but  Tarn  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  lite  victorious." 

*'  What  a  lesson  do  these  words  convey  of  charitable  indulgence  for  the 
vicious  habits  of  the  principal  actor  in  this  scene,  and  of  those  who  resem- 
ble him  ! — Men  who  to  the  rigidly  virtuous  are  objects  almost  of  loath- 
ing, and  whom  therefore  they  cannot  serve  !  The  poet,  penetrating  the 
unsightly  and  disgusting  surfaces  of  things,  has  unveiled  with  exquisite 
skill  the  finer  ties  of  imagination  and  feeling,  that  often  bind  these  beings 
to  practices  productive  of  much  unhaj^piness  to  themselves,  and  to  those 
whom  it  is  their  duty  to  cherish ; — and,  as  far  as  he  puts  the  reader  into 
possession  of  this  intelligent  sympathy,  he  qualifies  him  for  exercising  a 
salutary  influence  over  the  minds  of  those  who  are  thus  deplorably  de- 
ceived." * 

That  some  men  in  every  age  will  comfort  themselves  in  the  practice  of 
certain  vices,  by  reference  to  particular  passages  both  in  the  history  and 
in  tiie  poetry  of  Burns,  there  is  all  reason  to  fear  ;  but  surely  the  general 
influence  of  both  is  calculated,  and  has  been  found,  to  produce  flir  different 
effects.  The  universal  popularity  which  his  Avritings  have  all  along  enjoy- 
ed among  one  of  the  most  virtuous  of  nations,  is  of  itself,  as  it  would  seem, 
a  decisive  circumstance.  Search  Scotland  over,  from  the  Pentland  to  the 
Solway,  and  there  is  not  a  cottage  hut  so  poor  r,nd  wretched  as  to  be  with- 
out its  Bible  ;  and  hardly  one  that,  on  the  same  shelf,  and  next  to  it,  does 
not  possess  a  Burns.  Have  the  people  degenerated  since  their  adoption 
of  this  new  manual  ?  Has  their  attachment  to  the  Book  of  Boc  ks  declined  ? 
Are  their  hearts  less  firmly  bound,  than  were  their  fathers',  to  the  old  faith 
and  the  old  virtues  ?   I  believe,  he  that  knows  the  most  oi'  the  country  wii" 

•  \\'ordsworth's  Letter  to  Gray,  p.  24. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS.  cxxix 

be  the  readiest  to  answer  all  these  questions,  as  every  lover  of  genius  ana 
virtue  woulil  desire  to  hear  them  answered. 

On  one  point  there  can  be  no  controversy  ;  tlie  poetry  of  Burns  has  had 
most  powerful  influence  in  reviving;  and  strengtliening  the  national  feelings, 
of  his  couivtrymen.  Amidst  penury  and  labour,  his  youth  fed  on  the  old 
minstrelsy  and  traditional  glories  of  his  nation,  and  his  genius  divined, 
that  what  he  felt  so  deeply  must  belong  to  a  spirit  that  nn'ght  lie  smothered 
around  him,  but  could  not  be  extinguished.  The  political  circumstances 
of  Scotland  were,  and  iiad  been,  sucli  as  to  starve  the  tlame  of  patriotism  ; 
the  popular  literature  had  striven,  and  not  in  vain,  to  make  itself  English ; 
and,  above  all,  a  new  and  a  cold  system  of  speculative  philosophy  had  be 
gun  to  spread  widely  among  us.  A  peasant  appeared,  and  set  himself  to 
check  the  creeping  pestilence  of  this  indifference.  Whatever  genius  has 
since  then  been  devoted  to  the  illustration  of  the  national  manners,  and 
sustaining  thereby  of  the  national  feelings  of  the  people,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  Burns  will  ever  be  remembered  as  the  ibunder,  and,  alas  !  in 
his  own  person  as  the  martjr,  of  this  reformation. 

That  what  is  now-a-days  called,  by  solitary  eminence,  the  wealth  of  the 
nation,  had  been  on  the  increase  ever  since  our  incorporation  with  a  greater 
and  wealthier  state — nay,  that  the  laws  had  been  improving,  and,  above  all, 
the  administration  of  the  laws,  it  would  be  mere  bigotry  to  dispute.  It 
may  also  be  conceded  easily,  that  the  national  mind  had  been  rapidly  clear- 
ing itself  of  many  injurious  prejudices — that  the  people,  as  a  people,  had 
been  gradually  and  surely  advancing  in  knowledge  and  wisdom,  as  well  as 
in  wealth  and  security.  But  all  this  good  had  not  been  accomplished  with- 
out rude  work.  If  the  improvement  were  valuable,  it  had  been  purchased 
dearly.  "  The  spring  fire,"  Allan  LViiningham  says  beautifully  somewhere, 
"  which  destroys  the  furze,  makes  an  end  also  of  the  nests  of  a  thousand 
songbirds;  and  he  who  goes  a-trouting  with  lime  leaves  little  of  life  in  the 
stream."  We  were  getting  fast  ashamed  of  many  precious  and  beautilul 
things,  only  for  that  they  were  old  and  our  own. 

It  has  already  been  remarked,  how  even  Smollett,  who  began  with  a 
national  tragedy,  and  one  of  the  noblest  of  national  lyrics,  never  dared  to 
make  use  of  the  dialect  of  his  own  country ;  and  how  Moore,  another  most 
enthusiastic  Scotsman,  followed  in  this  respect,  as  in  others,  the  example 
of  Smollett,  and  over  and  over  again  counselled  Burns  to  do  the  like.  But 
a  still  more  striking  sign  of  the  times  is  to  be  found  in  the  style  adopted 
by  both  of  these  novelists,  especially  the  great  master  of  the  art,  in  their 
representations  of  the  manners  and  characters  of  their  own  countrymen. 
In  Humphry  Clinker,  the  last  and  best  of  Smollett's  tales,  there  are  some 
traits  of  abetter  kind — but,  taking  his  works  as  a  whole,  the  impression  it 
conveys  is  certainlj'  a  painful,  a  disgusting  one.  The  Scotsmen  of  these 
authors,  are  the  Jockeys  and  Archies  of  farce — 

Time  out  of  mind  ihe  Southrons'  mirthmakers — 

the  best  of  them  grotesque  combinations  of  simplicity  and  hypocrisy,  pride 
and  meanness.  When  such  men,  high-spirited  Scottish  gentlemen,  posses- 
sed of  learning  and  talents,  and,  one  of  them  at  least,  of  splendid  genius, 
felt,  or  fancied,  the  necessity  of  making  such  submissions  to  the  prejudices  of 
the  dominant  nation,  and  did  so  without  exciting  a  murmur  among  their  own 
countrymen,  we  may  form  some  notion  of  the  boldness  of  Burns's  experi- 
ment; and  on  contrasting  the  state  of  things  then  with  what  is  before  us 


cxxx  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

now,  it  will  cost  no  efFort  to  appreciate  the  nature  and  consequences  of  tht 
victory  in  which  our  poet  led  the  way,  by  achievements  never  in  their  kind 
to  be  surf  assed.  "  Burns,"  says  Mr.  Campbell,  "  has  given  the  elixir  vitas 
to  his  dialect ;" — he  gave  it  to  more  than  his  dialect.  "  He  was,"  savs  a 
writer,  in  whose  language  a  brother  poet  will  be  recognised — '•  he  was  m 
many  respects  born  at  a  happy  time ;  happy  for  a  man  of  genius  like  him, 
but  fatal  and  hopeless  to  the  more  common  mind.  A  whole  world  of  life 
lay  before  Burns,  whose  inmost  recesses,  and  darkest  nooks,  and  sunniest 
eminences,  he  had  famil  arly  trodden  from  his  childhood.  All  that  world 
he  felt  could  be  made  his  own.  No  conqueror  had  overrun  its  fertile  pro- 
vinces, and  it  was  for  him  to  be  crowned  supreme  over  all  the 

'  Lyric  singers  of  that  high-soul'd  land.' 

The  crown  that  he  has  won  can  never  be  removed  from  his  head.     Much 

is  yet  left  for  other  poets,  even  among  that  life  where  his  spirit  delighted 
to  work ;  but  he  has  built  monuments  on  all  the  high  places,  and  they  who 
follow  can  only  hope  to  leave  behind  them  some  far  humbler  memorials."  * 

Dr.  Currie  says,  that  "  M  fiction  be  the  soul  of  poetry,  as  some  assert. 
Burns  can  have  small  pretensions  to  the  name  of  poet."  The  success  of 
Burns,  the  influence  of  his  verse,  would  alone  be  enough  to  overturn  all 
the  systems  of  a  thousand  definers  ;  but  the  Doctor  has  obviously  taken 
fiction  in  far  too  limited  a  sense.  There  are  indeed  but  i<i\y  of  Burns's 
pieces  in  which  he  is  found  creating  beings  and  circumstances,  both  alike 
alien  from  his  own  person  and  experience,  and  then  by  the  power  of  inva- 
gination, divining  and  expressing  what  forms  life  and  passion  would  assume 
with,  and  under  these. — But  there  are  some  ;  there  is  quite  enough  to  sa- 
tisfy every  reader  of  Halloween,  the  Jolly  Beggars,  and  Turn  o'  S/tan/er, 
(to  say  nothing  of  various  particular  songs,  such  as  Bruce's  Address,  Mac- 
jjliersois  Lament,  tic),  that  Burns,  if  he  pleased,  might  have  been  as  large- 
ly and  as  successfully  an  inventor  in  this  way,  as  he  is  in  another  walk, 
perhaps  not  so  inferior  to  this  as  many  people  may  have  accustomed  them- 
selves to  believe  ;  in  the  art,  namely,  of  recombining  and  new-combining, 
varying,  embellishing,  and  fixing  and  transmitting  the  elements  of  a  most 
picturesque  experience,  and  most  vivid  feelings. 

Lord  Byron,  in  his  letter  on  Pope,  treats  with  high  and  just  contempt 
the  laborious  trifling  which  has  been  expended  on  distinguishing  by  air- 
drawn  lines  and  technical  slang-words,  the  elements  and  materials  of  poe- 
tical exertion  ;  and,  among  other  things,  expresses  his  scorn  of  the  attemj)ts 
that  have  been  made  to  class  Burns  among  minor  poets,  merely  because  he 
has  put  forth  few  large  pieces,  and  still  fewer  of  what  is  called  the  purely 
imaginative  charact'jr.  light  who  will  about  words  and  forms,  "  Burns's 
rank,"  says  he,  "  is  in  the  first  class  of  his  art ;"  and,  I  believe,  the  world 
at  large  are  now-a-days  well  prepared  to  prefer  a  line  from  such  a  pen  as 
Byron's  on  any  such  subject  as  this,  to  the  most  luculent  dissertation  that 
ever  jverplexed  the  brains  of  writer  and  of  reader.  Sentio,  ergo  sum,  says 
the  metaphysician  ;  the  critic  may  safely  parody  the  saying,  and  assert 
that  that  is  poetry  of  th.e  highest  order,  which  exerts  influence  of  the  most 
powerful  order  on  the  hearts  and  minds  of  mankind. 

Ijurns  has  been  appreciated  dul}',  and  he  has  had  the  fortune  to  be  prais* 
ed  eloquently,   by  almost  every  poet  who  has  come  after  hin.     To  accu- 

Blackwood's  ^Liga'.Lne,  February  1817. 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNb.  cxxm 

mulale  all  that  has  been  said  of  him,  even  by  men  like  himself,  of  the  first 
oriler,  would  fill  a  volume  —  and  a  noble  monument,  no  question,  that  vo- 
lume would  be — the  noblest,  except  what  he  has  left  us  in  his  own  im- 
mortal verses,  which — were  some  dross  removed,  and  the  rest  arranged  in 
a  chronological  order — would  I  believe  form,  to  the  intelligent,  a  more  per- 
fect and  vivid  history  of  his  life  than  will  ever  be  composed  out  of  all  the 
materials  in  the  world  besides. 

"  The  impression  of  his  genius,"  says  Campbell,  "  is  deep  and  univer- 
sal ;  and  viewing  him  merely  as  a  poet,  there  is  scarcely  another  regret 
connected  with  his  name,  than  that  his  productions,  with  all  their  merit, 
fall  short  of  the  talents  which  he  possessed.  That  he  never  attempted  any 
great  work  of  fiction,  may  be  partly  traced  to  the  cast  of  his  genius,  and 
partly  to  his  circumstances,  and  defective  education.  His  poetical  tempe- 
rament was  that  of  fitful  transports,  rather  than  steady  inspiration.  What- 
ever he  might  have  written,  was  likely  to  have  been  fraught  with  passion. 
There  is  always  enough  of  iiiferest  in  life  to  cherish  the  f:.'elings  of  genius  ; 
but  it  requires  knowledge  to  enlarge  and  enrich  the  imagination.  Of  that 
knowledge  which  unrolls  the  diversities  of  human  manners,  adventures 
and  characters,  to  a  poet's  study,  he  could  have  no  great  share  ;  although 
he  stamped  the  little  treasure  which  he  possessed  in  the  mintage  of  sove- 
reign genius."  * 

"  Notwithstanding,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "  the  spirit  of  many  of  his 
lyrics,  and  the  exquisite  sweetness  and  simplicity  of  others,  we  cannot  but 
deeply  regret  that  so  much  of  his  time  and  talents  was  frittered  away  in 
compiling  and  composing  for  musical  collections.  There  is  s  jfficient  evi- 
dence, that  even  the  genius  of  Burns  could  not  support  him  in  the  monoton- 
ous tarsk  of  writing  love  verses,  on  heaving  bosoms  and  sparkling  eyes,  and 
twisting  them  into  such  rhythmical  forms  as  might  suit  the  capricious  evo- 
lutions of  Scotch  reels  and  strathspeys.  Besides,  this  constant  waste  of 
his  power  and  fancy  in  small  and  insignificant  compositions,  must  neces- 
sarily have  had  no  little  effect  in  deterring  him  from  undertaking  any  grave 
or  important  task.  Let  no  one  suppose  that  we  under\alue  the  songs  of 
Burns.  When  his  soul  was  intent  on  suiting  a  favourite  air  to  words  hu- 
morous or  tender,  as  the  subject  demanded,  no  poet  of  our  tongue  ever 
displayed  higher  skill  in  marrying  melody  to  immortal  verse.  But  the 
writing  of  a  series  of  songs  for  large  musical  collections,  degenerated  into 
a  slavish  labour  which  no  talents  could  support,  led  to  negligence,  and, 
above  all,  diverted  the  poet  from  his  grand  plan  of  dramatic  composition. 
To  produce  a  work  of  this  kind,  neither,  perhaps,  a  regular  tragedy  nor 
comedy,  but  something  partaking  of  the  nature  of  both,  seems  to  have  been 
long  the  cherished  wish  of  Burns.  He  had  even  fixed  on  the  subject, 
which  was  an  adventure  in  low  life,  said  to  have  happened  to  Robert  Bruce, 
while  wandering  in  danger  and  disguise,  after  being  defeated  by  the  English. 
The  Scottish  dialect  would  have  rendered  such  a  [)icce  totaljy  unfit  for  the 
stage  ;  but  those  who  recollect  the  masculine  and  lofty  tone  of  martial  spirit 
which  glows  in  the  poem  of  Bannockburn,  will  sigh  to  think  what  the  cha- 
racter of  tlie  gallant  Bruce  might  have  proved  under  the  hand  of  IJurns.  It 
would  undoubtedly  have  wanted  that  tinge  of  chivalrous  feeling  which  the 
manners  of  the  age,  no  less  than  the  disposition  of  the  monarch,  demanded  , 
but  this  deficiency  would  have  been  more  than  supplied  by  a  bard  who 
could  have  drawn  from  his  own  perceptions,   the  unbending  energy  of  a 

"  Soecimens.  vol.  vii.  211. 


cxxxii  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 

hero  sustaining  the  desertion  of  friends,  the  persecution  of  enemies,  and 
the  utmost  mahce  of  disastrous  fortune.  The  scene,  too,  being  partly  laid 
in  humble  life,  admitted  that  display  of  broad  humour  and  exquisite  patnos, 
with  v/hich  he  could,  interchangeably  and  at  pleasure,  adorn  his  cottage 
views.  Nor  was  the  assemblage  of  familiar  sentiments  incompatible  in 
Burns,  with  those  of  the  most  exalted  dignity.  In  the  inimitable  tale  oi 
Tarn  o  Shavfer,  he  has  left  us  sufficient  evidence  of  his  abilities  to  com- 
oine  the  ludicrous  with  the  awful,  and  even  the  horrible.  No  poet,  with 
•;he  exception  of  Shakspeare,  ever  possessed  the  power  of  exciting  the  most 
varied  and  discordant  emotions  with  such  rapid  transitions.  His  humour- 
ous description  of  death  in  the  poem  on  Dr.  Hornbook  borders  on  the  ter- 
rific, and  the  witches'  dance  in  the  kirk  of  Alloa  is  at  once  ludicrous  and 
horrible.  Deeply  must  we  then  regret  those  avocations  which  diverted  a 
fancy  so  varied  and  so  vigorous,  joined  \\  ith  language  and  expression  suited 
to  all  its  changes,  from  leaving  a  more  substantial  monument  to  his  own 
fame,  and  to  the  honour  of  his  country." 

The  cantata  of  the  ./o//y  Bcgrjars,  which  was  not  printed  at  all  until  some 
time  after  the  poet's  death,  and  has  not  been  included  in  the  editions  of  hi; 
works  until  within  these  few  years,  cannot  be  considered  as  it  deserves,  v,-ith- 
out  strongly  heightening  our  regret  that  Burns  never  lived  to  execute  his 
meditated  drama.  That  extraordinary  sketch,  coupled  with  his  later  ly- 
rics in  a  higher  vein,  is  enough  to  show  that  in  him  we  had  a  master  capa- 
ble of  placing  the  musical  drama  on  a  level  with  the  loftiest  of  our  classi- 
cal forms.  Ber/gars  Bush,  and  Bi'f/rjors  Opera,  sink  into  tameness  in  the 
comparison  ;  and  indee-d,  without  profanity  to  the  name  of  Shakspeare,  it 
may  be  said,  that  out  of  such  materials,  even  his  genius  could  hardly  have 
constructed  a  piece  in  which  imagination  could  have  more  splendidly  pre- 
dominated over  the  outward  shows  of  things — in  which  the  sympathy- 
awakening  power  of  poetry  could  have  been  displayed  more  triumj)hantly 
under  circumstances  of  the  greatest  difficulty. —  I'hat  remarkable  perform- 
ance, by  the  way,  was  an  early  production'  of  the  Mauchline  period.  I 
knov,'  nothing  but  the  Turn  o'  Slianter  that  is  calculated  to  convey  so  high 
an  impression  of  what  Burns  might  have  done. 

As  to  Burns's  want  of  education  and  knowledge,  INTr.  Campbell  may  not 
have  considered,  but  he  must  admit,  that  whatever  Burns's  opportunities 
had  been  at  the  time  when  he  produced  his  first  poems,  such  a  man  as  he 
was  not  likely  to  be  a  hard  reader,  (which  he  certainly  was),  and  a  constant 
observer  of  men  and  manners,  in  a  much  wider  circle  of  society  than  al- 
most any  other  great  poet  has  ever  moved  in,  from  three- and- twenty  to 
eight-and  thirty,  without  having  thoroughly  removed  any  pretext  for  au- 
guring unfavourably  on  that  score,  of  what  he  might  have  been  expected 
to  produce  in  tlie  more  elaborate  departments  of  his  art,  had  his  life  been 
spared  to  the  usual  limits  of  humanity.  In  another  way,  however,  I  can- 
not help  suspecting  that  Burns's  enlarged  knowledge,  both  of  men  and  books, 
produced  an  unfavourable  effect,  rather  than  otherwise,  on  the  exertions, 
such  as  they  were,  of  his  later  years.  Mis  generous  spirit  was  open  to  the 
miprcssion  of  every  kinil  of  excellence  ;  his  lively  imagination,  bending  its 
own  vigour  to  whatever  it  touched,  made  him  admire  even  ^vhat  other  peo- 
ple try  to  read  in  vain  ;  and  after  travelling,  as  he  did,  over  the  generaj 
surface  of  our  literature,  he  appears  to  have  been  somewhat  startled  at  the 
consideration  of  what  he  himself  had,  in  comparative  ignorance,  adventur- 
3d,  and  to  have  been  more  intimidated  than  encouraged  by  the  retrospect 


LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURXS.  cxxxiii 

[n  most  of  tlie  new  departments  in  which  ho  made  some  trial  of  his  strength; 
(such,  for  example,  as  the  moral  epistle  in  Pope's  vein,  the  heroic  satire, 
&C.1,  he  appears  to  have  soon  lost  lieart,  and  paused.  There  is  indeed  one 
magnificent  exception  in  Tain  o  Shanter — a  piece  which  no  one  can  under- 
stand without  beheving,  that  had  Burns  pursued  that  walk,  and  poured  out 
his  stores  of  traditionary  lore,  embellished  with  his  extraordinary  powers 
of  description  of  all  kinds,  we  might  have  had  from  his  hand  a  series  of  na- 
tiomi!  tales,  uniting  the  quaint  simplicity,  sly  hurnour,  and  irresistible  pathos 
of  another  Chaucer,  with  the  strong  and  graceful  versification,  and  mascu- 
line wit  and  sense  of  another  Dryden. 

This  was  a  sort  of  feeling  that  must  have  in  time  subsided. — But  let  U9 
not  waste  words  in  regretting  what  might  have  been,  where  so  much  is. — 
Hums,  short  and  painful  as  were  his  years,  has  left  behind  him  a  volume 
in  which  there  is  inspiration  for  every  fancy,  and  music  for  every  mood; 
which  lives,  and  will  live  in  strength  and  vigour — "  to  soothe,"  as  a  gene- 
rous lover  of  genius  has  said — "  the  sorrows  of  how  many  a  lover,  to  in- 
flame the  patriotism  of  how  many  a  soldier,  to  fan  the  fires  of  how  many  a 
genius,  to  disperse  the  gloom  of  solitude,  appease  the  agonies  of  pain,  en- 
courage virtue,  and  show  vice  its  ugliness;"* — a  volume,  in  which,  centuries 
hence,  as  now,  wherever  a  Scotsman  may  wander,  he  will  find  the  dearest 
ccnsolation  of  his  exile — Already  has 

"  Glory  without  end 


Scattered  the  clouds  away  ;  and  en  that  name  attend 
The  tears  and  praises  of  all  time."  -|- 


The  mortal  remains  of  the  poet  rest  in  Dumfries  churchyard.  For  nine- 
teen years  they  were  covered  by  the  plain  and  humble  tombstone  placed 
over  them  by  his  widow,  bearing  the  inscription  simply  of  his  name.  But 
a  splendid  mausoleum  Laving  been  erected  by  public  subscription  on  the 
most  elevated  site  which  the  churchyard  presented,  the  remains  were  so- 
lemnly transferred  thi'Jicr  on  the  bth  June  1815;  the  original  tombstone 
having  been  sunk  under  the  bottom  of  the  mausoleum.  This  shrine  of  the 
poet  is  annually  visited  by  many  pilgrims.  The  inscription  it  bears  is  given 
below.  Another  splendid  monumental  edifice  has  also  been  erected  to 
his  memory  on  a  commanding  situation  at  the  foot  of  the  Carrick  hills  in 
Ayrshire,  in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  old  cottage  where  the  poet  was 
born  ;  and  such  is  the  unceasing,  nay  daily  increasing  veneration  of  his 
admiring  countrymen,  that  a  third  one,  of  singular  beauty  of  design,  is 
now  in  progress,  upon  a  striking  projection  of  that  most  picturesque  emi- 
nence— the  Calton  Hill  of  Edinburgh — The  cut  annexea  to  ji.  cxxxvi, 
exhibits  a  view,  necessarily  but  an  imperfect  one,  of  the  nionu;iicnt  la«» 
mentioned. 


See  the  Censura  I.iteraria  of  .'^ir  Egerton  Rrydges,  vol.  ii.  p.  55 
iiOrd  Uvron's  Child  liarcld,  (.'anto  iv.  3(i. 


cxxxW  LIFE  OF  ROBERT  BURNS. 


INSCRIPTION  UPON  THE  POET'S  RIONUMENT  D! 
DUMFRIES  CHURCHYARD. 


IN   AETERNUM    HONOREM 

IIOBERTI  BURNS 

POETARUM  CALEDONIAE  SUI  AEVI  LONGE  PRINCIPIS 

CCJUS  CAR^^NA  EXIMIA  PATRIO  SERMONE  SCRIPTA 

ANIMI  MAGIS  ARDENTIS  VIQUC  INGENII 

QUAM  ARTE  VEL  CULTU  CONSPICUA 

FACETIIS  JUCUNDMATE  I.EPORE  AFFLUENTIA 

OMNIBUS  LTTTERAUUJI  CULTOIUBUS  SATIS  NOTA 

GIVES  SUI  NECNO.V  PI.ElilQUE  OMNES 

VUSARUM  AMANTISSIMI  MEMORIAMQUE  VIRI 

ARTE  POeTlCA  TAJI  PUAECI.ARI  FOVENTKS 

HOC  MAUSOLEUM 

SUPER  RELIQUIAS  POETAE  MOKTALE8 

EXTRUENDUM  CURAVERE 

PRIMUJI  HUJUS  AEPIFICU  LAPIDEM 

GULIELMUS  MILI-ER  ARMIGER 

BEIPUBLICAE  ARCHITECTONICAE  AFUD  6COT08 

IK  REGIONE  AUSTRALI  CURIO  MAXIMUS  PROVINXIALIS 

GEORGIO  TERTIO  REGNANTE 

GEORGIO  WALLIARUM  PRINCIPE 

SUMMAM  IMPERII  PRO  PATUE  TENEXTE 

JOSEPHO  GASS  ARMIGERO  DUMFRISIAE  PRAEFECTO 

THOMA  F.  HUNT  LONDINENSI  ARCHITECTO 

POSUIT 

VONIS  JUNIIS  ANNO  LUCIS  VMDCOCXV 

8A1UTIS  HUMANAE  MOCXXXV. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 


cxxxv 


The  many  poetical  effusions  the  Peot's  death  gave  rise  to,  presents  a 
«vi(le  field  for  selection. —  Tlie  elegiac  versos  by  \Ir.  Koscoe  of  Liverpool 
have  been  preferred,  as  the  most  fitting  sequel  to  his  eventful  lifo 


ON 


THE  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 


RzAR  high  thy  hleak  majestic  hills, 

Thy  shelter'd  valleys  ))roudly  spread, 
And,  Scotia,  jKiiir  thv  thousand  rills. 

And  wave  thy  heaths  with  blossoms  red  ; 
Diit,  ah  !  wliat  poet  now  shall  tread 

'J'hy  airy  heiijhts,  thy  woodland  icign, 
trainee  he,  the  sweetest  bard,  is  dead. 

That  ever  breath'd  the  soothing  strain  ! 

As  green  thy  towering  pines  may  grow. 

As  dear  thy  streams  may  speed  along, 
As  bri;,'ht  thy  summer  suns  may  glow. 

As  gaily  charm  thy  feathery  throng; 
But  now,  unheeded  is  the  song. 

And  dull  and  lifeless  all  around. 
For  his  wild  harp  lies  all  unstrung, 

And  cold  the  hand  that  waked  its  sound. 

What  though  thy  vigorous  offspring  rise, 

In  arts,  in  arms,  thy  sons  excel  ; 
Tho'  beauty  in  thy  daughters'  eyes. 

And  health  in  every  feature  dwell  ? 
Vet  wiio  sliall  now  tiieir  praises  tell, 

In  strains  impassion'd,  fond,  and  free, 
Since  he  no  more  the  so^g  sh  ill  swell 

To  lov-e,  and  liberty,  aid  thee  ? 

With  step-dame  eye  and  frown  severe 

His  hapless  youth  why  didst  thou  view  ? 
For  all  thy  jiys  to  him  were  dear, 

AnA  :tll  his  vows  to  thee  were  due; 
Nor  greater  bliss  his  bosom  knew, 

In  ojiening  youth's  delightful  jjrime. 
Than  when  thy  favouring  car  he  drew 

To  listen  to  his  chaunted  rhyme. 

Thy  lonely  wastes  and  frowning  skies 

I  o  him  were  all  with  rapture  fraugnt ; 
lie  heard  wiih  joy  the  tempest  rise 

Th:it  wd;ed  'ni  u  to  Miblimer  thought; 
And  oft  thy  winding  dells  he  sougiu,     [fume, 

W  here  wil'.l-H  iweis  pour'd  their  rathe  per- 
And  w:ih  sincere  dev:'tion  brought 

Vo  tlice  the  summei's  earliest  bloom. 


But  ii~i  !  no  fond  maternal  .imile 

His  un])rotecteil  youth  enjoy 'd, 
His  limbs  inur'd  to  early  toil. 

His  days  with  early  hardshijjs  triedj 
And  more  to  mark  the  gloomy  void, 

And  bid  him  feel  his  misery. 
Before  his  infant  eyes  would  glide 

Day-dreams  of  immort.ilitv. 

"<st,  not  by  cold  neglect  depress'd, 

With  sinewy  arm  he  turn'd  the  soil, 
i^nk  with  the  cvenini^  sun  to  rest. 

And  met  at  morn  his  earliest  smile. 
Vaked  by  his  rustic  }'ipe,  meanwhile 

The  powtrs  of  fancy  came  along. 
And  fuoth'd  his  lengtlicnti,  hours  of  toil, 

With  native  wit  and  sprightly  song. 

— Ah  !   days  of  bliss,  too  swiftly  fled, 

\Vhen  vigorous  health  from  laliinir  springs 
And  bland  contentment  smooths  the  bed, 

i\iid  sleep  liis  ready  opiate  brings; 
Anil  hovering  round  on  airy  wings 

Float  the  light  i'orms  of  young  desire, 
That  of  imutterable  things 

The  soft  and  shadowy  hope  inspire. 

Now  spells  of  mightier  power  prepare, 

l>iil  brighter  jjhantoms  round  hmi  dance  ; 
Let  Flattery  s]iread  her  viewless  snare. 

And  Fame  attract  his  \agrant  glance; 
Let  sprightly  Pleasure  too  advance, 

IJnvtil'd  her  eyes,  anclasp'd  lier  zone. 
Till,  lost  in  love's  delirious  trance. 

He  scorns  the  joys  his  youth  has  known. 

Let  Friendship  pour  her  brightest  bLize, 

Expanding  all  the  bloom  of  soul; 
And  iMirtli  concentre  all  her  rays. 

And  point  them  from  the  s])aikling  bowi 
And  let  the  careless  monienis  roLl 

In  social  pleasure  uiicoi. fined. 
And  corfiilence  that  s])uri:s  control 

Unlock  the  inmost  sprin^js  of  mind  : 


CXXXVl 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  BURNS. 


And  lead  his  steps  those  bowers  among, 

W'liere  elegance  with  splendour  vies, 
Or  Science  b'Js  her  favour'd  throng 

To  more  refined  sensations  rise  : 
Beyond  the  peasant's  humbler  joys. 

And  freed  from  each  laborious  strife, 
There  let  liini  learn  the  bliss  to  prize 

That  waits  the  sons  of  polish 'd  life. 

Then  whilst  his  throbbing  veins  beat  high 

W'nh  every  impulse  of  delight. 
Dash  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  joy. 

And  shroud  the  scene  in  shades  of  night ; 
And  let  i)e>pair,  witn  wizard  light, 

Disclose  tlie  yawning  gulf  below. 
And  pour  incessant  on  his  siglit 

Her  spcctred  ills  and  shapes  of  woe  : 

And  show  beneath  a  cheerless  shed. 

With  sorrowing  heart  and  streaming  eyes, 

In  silent  grief  where  droops  1  er  head, 
The  partner  of  his  early  joys  ; 


And  let  his  infants'  tender  ctim 
His  fond  parental  succour  claim. 

And  bid  him  hear  in  agonies 
A  husband's  and  a  father's  name. 

'Tis  done,  the  powerful  charm  succeeds; 

His  high  reluctant  spirit  bends  ; 
In  bitterness  of  soul  he  bleeds. 

Nor  longer  with  his  fate  contends. 
An  idiot  lau^jh  the  welkin  rends 

As  genius  thus  degraded  lies  ; 
Till  pitying  Heaven  the  veil  extends 

That  shrouds  the  I'oet's  ardent  eyes. 

— Rear  high  thy  bleak  majestic  hills, 

Tiiy  sheUer'd  valleys  pr  )udly  spread, 
And,  Scotia,  pour  tliy  tliousand  rills. 

And  wave  thy  heaths  v.ith  blossoms  red  ; 
But  never  more  shall  poet  tread 

Thy  airy  heights,  thy  woodland  reign. 
Since  he,  the  sweetest  bard,  is  dead. 

That  ever  breathed  the  sootliiu^  strsia 


CHARACTER 


OF 


BURNS  AND  IIIS  WRITINGS, 


BT 


MRS.  RIDDELL  OF  GLENRIDDELL* 


The  atcention  of  the  public  seems  to  be  much  occupied  at  present  with 
till  loss  it  has  recently  sustained  in  the  death  of  the  Caledonian  poet,  Ro- 
bert Burns  ;  a  loss  calculated  to  be  severely  felt  throughout  the  literary 
world,  as  well  as  lamented  in  the  narrower  sphere  of  private  friendship.  It 
was  not  therefore  probable  that  such  an  event  should  be  long  unattended 
with  the  accustomed  profusion  of  posthumous  anecdotes  and  memoirs  which 
are  usually  circulated  immediately  after  the  death  of  every  rare  and  cele- 
brated personage  :  I  had  however  conceived  no  intention  of  appropriating 
to  myself  the  privilege  of  criticising  Burns's  writings  and  character,  or  ot 
anticipating  on  the  province  of  a  biographer. 

Conscious  indeed  of  my  own  inability  to  do  justice  to  such  a  subject,  I 
should  have  continued  wholly  silent,  had  misrepresentation  and  calumny 
been  less  industrious  ;  but  a  regard  to  truth,  no  less  than  alFection  for  the 
memory  of  a  friend,  must  now  justify  my  offering  to  the  public  a  few  at 
least  of  those  observations  which  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  Burns,  and 
the  frequent  opportunities  I  have  had  of  observing  equally  his  happy  qua- 
lities and  his  failings  for  several  years  past,  have  enabled  me  to  commu- 
nicate. 

It  will  actually  be  an  injustice  done  to  Burns's  character,  not  only  by 
future  generations  and  foreign  countries,  but  even  by  his  native  Scotland, 
and  perliaps  a  number  cf  his  contemporaries,  that  he  is  gencrallj'  talked  of, 
and  considered,  with  reference  to  his  poetical  talents  oii/i/ :  for  the  fact  is, 
even  allowing  his  great  and  original  genius  its  due  tribute  of  admiration, 
that  poetry  (I  appeal  to  all  who  have  had  the  advantage  of  being  person 
ally  acquainted  with  him)  was  actually  not  his  /or/<?.  Many  others,  per- 
haps, may  have  ascended  to  prouder  heights  in  the  region  of  Parnassus, 
but  none   certainly  ever  outshone  Burns  in  the   charms — the  sorcery,  I 

"•  Mrs.  Hidden  knew  the  popt  well  ;  slic  had  every  opportunity  for  observation  of  what  he  snid  and  did,  af 
woll  as  of  what  wa,  said  of  luni  and  done  towards  him.  Her  l)eautifiilly  writttn  Klojre, — fniiidly  \et  candid, 
— wao  well  received  and  cener-iUy  circulate*!  at  the  time.  It  has  bc»ni  inserted  by  Dr.  ("nrrii;  in  his  severa' 
edi'ions,  as  intcrestirj;  from  its  elecanoe,  and  authoritative  froni  the  writer's  accurate  information;  we  hav» 
therefore  most  reudily  given  it  a  place  here. 


cxxxviii  CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  AXD  MIS  WRITINGS. 

would  almost  call  it,  of  fascinating  conversation,  the  spontaneous  elo- 
quence of  social  argument,  or  the  unstudied  poignancy  of  bri.liant  repar- 
tee ;  nor  was  any  man,  I  believe,  ever  gifted  with  a  larger  portion  of  the 
'  vivida  vis  animi.'  His  personal  endowments  were  perfectly  correspon- 
dent to  the  qualifications  of  his  mind :  his  form  was  manly  ;  his  action, 
energy  itself;  devoid  in  great  measure  perhaps  of  those  graces,  of  that 
polish,  acquired  only  in  the  refinement  of  societies  where  in  early  life  he 
could  have  no  opportunities  of  mixing  ;  but  where,  such  was  the  irresist- 
ible power  of  attraction  that  encircled  him,  though  his  appearance  and 
manners  were  always  peculiar,  he  never  failed  to  delight  and  to  excel. 
His  figure  seemed  to  bear  testimony  to  his  earlier  destination  and  employ- 
ments. It  seemed  rather  moulded  by  nature  for  the  rovgh  exercises  of 
Agriculture,  than  the  gentler  cultivation  of  the  Belles  Lettres.  His  fea- 
tures were  stamped  with  the  hardy  character  of  independence,  and  the 
firmness  of  conscious,  though  not  arrogant,  pre-eminence  ;  the  animated 
expressions  of  countenance  were  almost  peculiar  to  himself;  the  rapid 
lightnings  of  his  eye  were  always  the  harbingers  of  some  flash  of  genius, 
whether  they  darted  the  fiery  glances  of  insulted  and  indignant  superiori- 
ty, or  beamed  with  the  impassioned  sentiment  of  fervent  and  impetuous 
affections.  His  voice  alone  could  improve  upon  the  magic  of  his  eye  :  so- 
norous, replete  with  the  finest  modulations,  it  alternately  captivated  the 
ear  with  the  melody  of  poetic  numbers,  the  perspicuity  of  nervous  reason- 
ing, or  the  ardent  sallies  of  enthusiastic  patriotism.  The  keenness  of  sa- 
tire was,  I  am  almost  at  a  loss  whether  to  say,  his  forte  or  his  foible  ;  for 
though  nature  had  endowed  him  with  a  portion  of  the  most  pointed  excellence 
in  that  dangerous  talent,  he  suffered  it  too  often  to  be  the  vehicle  of  personal, 
and  sometimes  unfounded,  animosities.  It  was  not  always  that  sportiveness 
of  humour,  that  '•  unwary  pleasantry,"  which  Sterne  has  depicted  with  touches 
so  conciliatory  ;  but  the  darts  of  ridicule  were  frequently  directed  as  the  ca- 
price of  the  instant  suggested,  or  as  the  altercations  of  parties  and  of  persons 
happened  to  kindle  the  restlessness  of  his  spirit  into  interest  or  aversion. 
This,  however,  was  not  invariably  the  case ;  his  wit,  (which  is  no  unusual  mat- 
ter indeed),  had  always  the  start  of  his  judgment,  and  would  lead  him  into 
the  indulgence  of  raillery  uniformly  acute,  but  often  unaccompanied  with 
the  least  desire  to  wound.  The  suppression  of  an  aich  and  fullj)ointed  bon 
mot,  from  a  dread  of  offending  its  object,  the  sage  of  Zurich  very  properly 
classes  as  a  virtue  o«/y  to  he  i^ovght  for  in  the  Calendar  of  Saints  ;  if  so, 
Burns  must  not  be  too  severely  dealt  with  for  being  rather  de'icient  in  it. 
He  paid  tor  his  mischievous  wit  as  dearly  as  any  one  could  do.  "  "1  was  no 
extravagant  arithmetic,"  to  say  of  hirn,  as  was  said  of  Vorick,  th.it  "  for 
every  ten  jokes  he  got  a  hundred  enemies;"  but  much  allowance  will  be 
made  by  a  candid  mind  for  the  splenetic  warmth  of  a  spirit  whom  "  dis- 
tress had  spited  with  the  world,"  and  which,  unbounded  in  its  Inti'Hi'ctual 
sallies  and  pursuits,  continually  experienced  the  curbs  imposed  by  t'le  way- 
wardness of  his  fortune.  The  vivacity  of  his  wishes  and  temj)cr  wa*  indeed 
checked  by  almost  habitual  disappointments,  which  sat  heavy  on  a  heart 
that  acknowledged  the  ruling  passion  of  independence,  without  having  ever 
been  placed  beyond  the  grasp  of  penury.  His  sou!  was  never  langiud  or 
inactive,  and  his  genius  was  extinguished  only  with  the  last  spark  of  re- 
treating life.  His  passions  rendered  him,  according  as  they  disclosed  them- 
selves in  affection  or  antipathy,  an  object  of  enthusiastic  attachment,  or  oJ 
decided  enmity  :  for  lie  ^^ossessed  none  of  that  negative  insipidity  oi   rna 


L 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  AND  HIS  WRITINGS.        cxxxix 

ractcr,  whose  love  might  be  regarded  with  indifference,  or  whose  resent- 
ment could  be  considered  with  contempt.  In  this,  it  should  seem,  tlie 
temper  of  his  associates  took  the  tincture  from  his  own  ;  for  he  acknowledge 
ed  in  the  universe  but  two  classes  of  objects,  those  of  adoration  tlie  most 
fervent,  or  of  aversion  the  most  uncontrolable  ;  and  it  has  been  frequently 
a  reproach  to  hnn,  that,  unsusceptible  of  indifference,  often  hating,  where 
lie  ought  only  to  have  despised,  he  alternately  opened  his  heart  and  poured 
forth  the  treasures  of  his  understanding  to  such  as  were  incapable  of  ap- 
preciating the  homage  ;  and  elevated  to  the  privileges  of  an  adversary,  some 
who  were  unqualified  in  all  respects  for  the  honour  of  a  contest  so  distin- 
guished. 

It  is  said  that  the  celebrated  Dr.  Johnson  professed  to  "  love  a  good 
.nater" — a  temperament  that  would  have  singularly  adapted  him  to  cherish 
a  prepossession  in  favour  of  our  bard,  who  perhaps  fell  but  little  short  even 
of  the  surly  Doctor  in  this  qualification,  as  long  as  the  disposition  to  ill-will 
continued  ;  but  the  warmth  of  his  passions  was  fortunately  corrected  by 
their  versatility.  He  was  seldom,  indeed  never,  implacable  in  his  resent- 
ments, and  sometimes,  it  has  been  alleged,  not  inviolably  faithful  in  his 
engagements  of  friendshin.  Much  indeed  has  been  said  about  his  incon- 
stancy  and  caprice  ;  but  I  am  inclined  to  believe,  that  they  originated  less 
in  a  levity  of  sentiment,  than  fi-om  an  extreme  impetuosity  of  feeling, 
which  rendered  him  prompt  to  take  umbrage  ;  and  his  sensations  of  pique, 
where  he  fancied  he  had  discovered  the  traces  of  neglect,  scorn,  or  unkind- 
ness,  took  their  measure  of  asperity  from  the  overflowings  of  the  opposite 
sentiment  which  preceded  them,  and  which  seldom  failed  to  regain  its  as- 
cendancy in  his  bosom  on  the  return  of  calmer  reflection.  He  was  candid 
and  manly  in  the  avowal  of  his  errors,  and  his  avoival  was  a  reparation. 
His  native //e/7e  never  forsaking  him  for  a  moment,  the  value  of  a  frank 
acknowledgment  was  enhanced  tenfold  towards  a  generous  mind,  from  its 
never  being  attended  with  servility.  His  mind,  organized  only  for  the 
stronger  and  more  acute  operations  of  the  passions,  Avas  impracticable  to 
the  efforts  of  superciliousness  that  would  have  depressed  it  into  humility, 
and  equally  superior  to  the  encroachments  of  venal  suggestions  that  might 
have  led  him  into  the  mazes  of  hypocrisy. 

It  has  been  observed,  that  he  was  far  from  averse  to  the  incense  ot 
flattery,  and  could  receive  it  tempered  with  less  delicacy  than  might 
have  been  expected,  as  he  seldom  transgressed  extravagantly  in  that 
way  himself;  where  he  paid  a  compliment,  it  might  indeed  claim  the 
power  of  intoxication,  as  approbation  from  him  was  always  an  honest  tri- 
bute from  the  warmth  and  sincerity  of  his  heart.  It  has  been  sometimes 
represented,  by  those  who  it  should  seem  had  a  view  to  depreciate,  though 
they  could  not  hope  wholly  to  obscure  that  native  brilliancy,  which  the 
powers  of  this  extraordinary  man  had  invariably  bestowed  on  every  thing 
that  came  from  his  lips  or  pen,  that  the  history  of  the  Ayrshire  plougliboy 
was  an  ingenious  fiction,  fabricated  for  the  purposes  of  obtaining  tlie  inte- 
rests of  the  great,  and  enhancing  the  merits  of  what  in  reality  recjuired  no 
foil.  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  Tam  o'  Shanter,  and  the  Mountain 
Daisy,  besides  a  number  of  later  productions,  where  the  maturity  of  his 
genius  will  be  readily  traced,  and  which  will  be  given  t.>  the  public  as 
soon  as  his  friends  have  collected  and  arranged  them,  speak  sufficiently  for 
themselves ;  and  had  they  fallen  from  a  liand  more  dignified  in  tlie  rank 
of  socinty  than  that  of  a  peasant,  they  had  perhaps  bestowed  as  unusual  h 


cxI 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  AND  HIS  WRlllNGS. 


grace  there,  as  even  in  the  humbler  shade  of  rustic  inspiration  from  whence 
they  really  sprung. 

To  the  obscure  scene  of  Burns's  education,  and  to  the  laborious,  though 
honourable  station  of  rural  industry,  in  which  his  parentage  enrolled  him, 
almost  every  inhabitant  of  the  south  of  Scotland  can  give  testimony.  His 
only  surviving  brother,  Gilbert  Burns,  now  guides  the  ploughshare  of  his 
forefathers  in  Ayrshire,  at  a  farm  near  Mauchline  ;  *  and  our  poet's  eldest 
son  (a  lad  of  nine  years  of  age,  whose  early  dispositions  already  prove  him 
to  be  in  some  measure  the  inheritor  of  his  father's  talents  as  well  as  indi- 
gence) has  been  destined  by  his  family  to  the  humble  employments  of  the 
loom,  f 

That  Burns  had  received  no  classical  education,  and  was  acquainted 
with  the  Greek  and  Roman  authors  only  through  the  medium  of  transla- 
tions, is  a  fact  of  which  all  who  were  in  the  habits  of  conversing  with  him, 
might  readily  be  convinced.  I  have  indeed  :€.dom  observed  him  to  be  at 
a  loss  in  conversation,  unless  where  the  dead  languages  and  their  writers 
have  been  the  subjects  of  discussion.  When  1  have  pressed  him  to  tell  me 
v/hy  he  never  applied  himself  to  acquire  the  Latin,  in  particular,  a  lan- 
guage which  his  happy  memory  would  have  so  soon  enabled  him  to  be  mas- 
ter of  he  used  only  to  reply  with  a  smile,  that  he  had  already  learnt  all  the 
Latin  he  desired  to  know,  and  that  was  Omnia  vincit  amor  ;  a  sentence 
that,  from  his  writings  and  most  favourite  pursuits,  it  should  undoubtedly 
seem  that  he  was  most  thoroughly  versed  in  ;  but  I  really  believe  his  clas- 
sic erudition  extended  little,  if  any,  farthci. 

The  penchant  Burns  had  uniformly  acknowledged  for  the  festive  plea- 
sures of  the  table,  and  towards  the  fairer  and  softer  objects  of  nature's 
creation,  has  been  the  rallying  point  from  whence  the  attacks  of  his  cen- 
sors have  been  uniformly  directed  ;  and  to  these,  it  must  be  confessed,  he 
shewed  himself  no  stoic.  His  poetical  pieces  blend  with  alternate  happi- 
ness of  description,  the  frolic  spirit  of  the  flowing  bowl,  or  melt  the  heart 
to  the  tender  and  impassioned  sentiments  in  which  beauty  always  taught 
him  to  pour  forth  his  own.  But  who  would  wish  to  reprove  the  feelings  he 
has  consecrated  with  such  lively  touches  of  nature  ?  And  where  is  the 
rugged  moralist  who  will  persuade  us  so  far  to  "  chill  the  genial  current 
of  tile  soul,"  as  to  regret  that  Ovid  ever  celebrated  his  Corinna,  or  that 
Anacreon  sung  beneath  his  vine  ? 

1  will  not  however  undertake  to  be  the  apologist  of  the  irregularities 
even  of  a  man  of  genius,  though  I  believe  it  is  as  certain  that  genius  never 
wa*!  free  from  irregularities,  as  that  their  absolution  may  in  a  great  mea- 
sure be  justly  claimed,  since  it  is  perfectly  evident  that  the  woild  had  con- 
tinued very  sUitionary  in  its  intellectual  acquirements,  had  it  never  given 
birth  to  any  but  men  of  plain  sense.  Evenness  of  conduct,  and  a  due  re- 
gard to  the- decorums  of -the  world,  have  been  so  rarely  seen  to  move  hand 
in  hand  with  genius,  that  some  have  gone  as  far  as  to  say,  thou<.h  there  1 
cannot  wholly  acquiesce,  that  they  are  even  incompatible ;  besides,  the 
frailties  tliat  cast  their  shade  over  the  sjilendour  of  superior  merit,  are 
more  conspicuously  glaring  than  where  they  are  the  attendants  of  mere  medi- 

•  Tlie  fate  of  this  worthy  iiiaii  is  noticL-d  :it  p.  302,  wliere  will  be  found  a  deserved  tribute 
to  hi>  uuMiiory,  (Cor  lie,  too,  iilas  I  is  j^'onc),  from  tlic  pen  of  a  fiieiid. 

•j-  '1  he  plan  ol  brecilinfj  the  poet's  eltlest  .son  a  iiianufacturcr  was  piven  up.  He  has  been 
phictd  in  oiiC  cf  tlie  puljlic  oflicts  (tiie  .Stanii)-()ilii-c)  in  I^ondon,  where  lie  continues  to  fill 
respectably  a  respectable  nituatioii.  His  btrikiny  liktnebs  to  the  poet  bus  btyn  often  le. 
tuarkeiL 


CHARACTER  OF  BURNS  AND  HIS  WRITINGS.  cxl 

Dcrity.  It  Is  only  on  the  gem  we  are  disturbed  to  see  the  dust ;  tlic  pcb])lc 
tn;iy  be  soiled,  and  we  never  regard  it.  Tlie  eccentric  intuitions  of  genius 
too  often  yield  the  soul  to  the  wild  effervescence  of  desires,  always  un 
bounded,  and  sometimes  equally  dangerous  to  the  repose  of  others  as  fata 
to  its  own.  No  wonder  then  if  virtue  herself  be  sometimes  lost  in  the  blazo 
of  kindling  animation,  or  that  the  calm  monitions  of  reason  are  not  inva- 
riably found  sufficient  to  fetter  an  imaginatio;  which  scorns  the  narrow 
limits  and  restrictions  that  would  chain  it  to  the  level  of  ordinary  minds. 
The  child  of  nature,  the  child  of  sensibility,  unschooled  in  the  rigid  pre- 
cepts of  philosophy,  too  often  unable  to  control  the  passions  which  proved 
a  source  of  frecpient  errors  and  misfortunes  to  him,  Hur""*  made  his  own 
artless  apology  in  language  more  impressive  than  ail  tne  argumentatory 
vindications  in  the  world  could  do,  in  one  of  his  own  poems,  where  he  de- 
lineates the  gradual  expansion  of  his  mind  to  the  lessons  of  the  "  tutelary 
muse,"  who  conchides  an  address  to  her  pupil,  almost  unique  for  simplicity 
and  beautiful  poetry,  with  these  lines  : 

"  I  saw  thy  pulse's  madd'ning  play 
A\'i!(l  send  thee  pleasure's  devious  way  ; 
IMiiled  by  Fancy's  meteor  ray, 

By  passion  driven  ; 
But  yet  the  li^ht  that  led  astray. 
Was  liff/tl  J'roni  heaven  ."'* 

I  have  already  transgressed  beyond  the  bounds  I  haa  proposed  to  rr.y- 
gelf  on  first  committing  this  sketch  to  paper,  which  comprehends  what  at 
least  I  have  been  led  to  deem  the  leading  features  of  Burns's  mind  and  clia- 
racter  :  a  literary  critique  1  do  not  aim  at ;  mine  is  wholly  fulfilled,  if  in 
these  pages  I  have  been  able  to  delineate  any  of  those  strong  traits  that 
distinguished  him, — of  those  talents  which  raised  him  from  the  jjlough, 
where  he  passed  the  bleak  morning  of  his  life,  weaving  his  rude  wreaths 
of  poesy  with  the  wild  field-flowers  that  sprang  around  his  cottage,  to  that 
enviable  eminence  of  literary  fame,  where  Scotland  will  long  cherish  his 
memory  with  delight  and  gratitude  ;  and  proudly  remember,  that  beneath 
her  cold  sky  a  genius  was  ripened,  without  care  or  culture,  that  would  have 
done  honour  to  climes  more  favourable  to  those  luxuriances — that  warmth 
of  colouring  and  fancy  in  which  he  so  eminently  excelled. 

From  several  paragraphs  I  have  noticed  in  the  public. prints,  ever  since 
the  idea  of  sending  this  sketch  to  some  one  of  them  was  formed,  I  find  pri- 
vate animosities  have  not  yet  subsided,  and  that  envy  has  not  j'ct  exlunist- 
ed  all  her  shafts.  I  still  trust,  however,  that  lir'X'st  fame  will  be  perma- 
nently affixed  to  Burns's  character,  which  I  think  it  wil'  oe  found  he  ^k/s 
merited  by  the  candid  and  impartial  among  his  counrrymen.  And  where 
a  recollection  of  the  imprudences  that  sullied  his  brighter  qualifications  in- 
terpose, let  the  imperfection  of  all  human  excellence  be  remembered  at 
the  same  time,  leaving  those  inconsistencies,  which  alternately  exalted  hi.« 
nature  into  the  seraph,  and  sunk  it  again  into  the  man,  to  the  fribuna 
which  alone  can  investigate  the  labyrinths  of  the  human  heart — 

"  Where  they  alike  in  tremblinj^  hope  repofc, 
— The  bosom  of  his  father  and  his  God." 

Okay's  Elegt. 
Annandale,  August  7,  1796. 

"  Vide  the  \'ision — Duan  2d. 


TO   THE 


NOBLEMEN  AND  GENTLEMEN 


OF    THE 


CALEDONIAx^  HUNT. 


My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 

A  Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  tlie  name,  and  whose  liighest  ambition  is  U 
sing  in  his  Country's  service — wlicre  shall  he  so  properly  look  for  patron- 
age as  to  the  illustrious  names  of  his  Native  Land;  those  who  bear  the  ho- 
nours and  inherit  the  virtues  of  their  Ancestors  ?  The  Poetic  Genius  of 
my  Country  found  me,  as  the  prophetic  bard  Elijah  did  Elisha — at  the 
plough  ;  and  threw  her  inspiring  mantle  over  me.  She  bade  me  sing  the 
loves,  the  joys,  the  rural  scenes  and  rural  pleasures  of  my  native  soil,  in  my 
native  tongue  ;  I  turned  my  wild,  artless  notes,  as  she  inspired. — She  whis- 
pered nie  to  come  to  this  ancient  Metropolis  of  Caledonia,  and  ay  my 
Songs  under  your  honoured  protection :  I  now  obey  her  dictates. 

Though  mucli  indebted  to  your  goodness,  I  do  not  approach  you,  my 
Lords  and  Gentlemen,  in  the  usual  style  of  dedication,  to  thank  you  for 
past  favours  ;  that  path  is  so  hackneyed  by  prostituted  learning,  that  lio- 
nest  rusticity  is  ashamed  of  it.  Nor  do  I  present  this  Address  with  the 
venal  soul  of  a  servile  Author,  lookinij  for  a  continuation  of  those  favours  : 
I  was  bred  to  the  Plough,  and  am  independent.  I  come  to  claim  the  com 
nion  Scottish  name  with  you,  my  illustrious  Countrymen  ;  and  to  tell  .i.o 
world  that  I  glory  in  the  title.  1  come  to  congratulate  my  Country,  that 
the  blood  of  her  ancient  heroes  still  runs  uncontaminated ;  and  that  from 
your  courage,  knowledge,  and  public-spirit,  she  may  expect  protection, 
wealth,  and  liberty.  In  the  last  place,  I  come  to  prefer  my  warmest  wishes 
to  the  Great  Fountain  of  Honour,  the  Monarch  of  the  Universe,  for  your 
wcllare  and  happiness. 

Vv'hen  you  go  forth  to  awaken  the  Echoes,  in  the  ancient  and  flivourite 
amusement  of  your  forefathers,  may  Pleasure  ever  be  of  your  jxirty  ;  and 
may  Social  Joy  await  yo.ur  return  :    When  harassed  in  courts  or  campa 


clx  DEDICATION  TO  THE  CALEDONIAN  HUNT 

with  the  jostlings  of  bad  men  and  bad  measures,  may  the  honest  coiisci- 
ousness  of  injured  worth  attend  your  return  to  your  Native  Seats ;  and 
may  Domestic  Happiness,  with  a  smiling  welcome,  meet  you  at  your  gates  I 
May  corruption  shrink  at  your  kindling  indignant  glance  ;  and  may  tyranny 
in  the  Ruler,  and  licentiousness  in  the  People,  equally  find  an  inexorable 
foe! 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 

With  the  sincerest  gratitude, 
and  highest  respect, 

My  Lords  and  Gentlemen, 
Vour  most  devoted  humble  servant, 

ROBERT  BURNa 
Edinburgh,    ( 
April  4,  1787.  ^ 


POEMS, 


CHIEFLY   SCOTTISH. 


THE  TWA  DOGS: 

A  TALE. 

TwAS  ij  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle, 
That  Dears  the  name  o'  Auld  King  Coil, 
I'poa  a  bonnie  day  in  June, 
When  wearing  thro'  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
Forgather'd  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I'll  name  they  ca'd  him  Cccsar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  Honour's  pleasure  : 
His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Show'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  doers : 
But  whalpit  some  place  fur  ahroad, 
Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  hraw  brass  collar 
Show'd  him  th«  gentleman  and  scholar : 
But  tho'  he  was  o'  high  degree, 
The  fient  a  pride  na  pride  had  he  ; 
But  wad  hae  spent  .m  hour  cares>in', 
Ev'n  with  a  tinkler  gipsey's  mcssin'. 
At  kirk  or  maiket,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  tho'  e'er  sac  duddie, 
But  he  wad  stan't,  as  glad  to  see  him, 
.And  stroau't  on  stanes  an'  hillocks  wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 
A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  liillie, 
Wha  for  his  friend  an   comrade  had  him, 
And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him, 
After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,* 
Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  bow  lang. 

He  was  a  gash  an'  faithfu'  tyke, 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  haws'nt  face. 
Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  |)lace. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  to-.vzie  back 
We*  1  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black  ; 
His  gawcic  tail,  wi'  upward  curl, 
Hurg  o'er  his  hurdies  wi'  a  3wurl. 


•-tuchuUin'i  dog  in  Ossian's  Fingal. 


Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'  ither, 
An'  unco  pack  an'  thick  theirither  ; 
Wi'  social  noise  whyles  sriutTd  and  snowkit  j 
Whyles  n;ice  and  mowdieworts  they  howkitj 
Whyles  scour'd  awa  in  lang  excursion, 
An'  worry'd  ither  in  diversion  ; 
Until  wi'  daffin  weary  grown, 
Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down, 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression, 
About  the  lorda  o'  the  creation 

C^SAK. 

I've  often  wonder'd  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  aare* 
An'  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw, 
M'hat  way  poor  bodies  lived  ava. 

Our  Laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents. 
His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a'  his  stents : 
He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel' ; 
His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 
He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse ; 
He  draws  a  bonnie  silken  purse. 
As  lang's  my  tail,  whare,  thro'  the  steekii. 
The  yellow  letter'd  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  its  nought  but  toiliagi 
At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling  ; 
An'  tho'  the  gentry  fast  are  stechin*. 
Yet  ev'n  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sic  like  trashtrie, 
That's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie. 
Our  Whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonucr. 
Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner. 
Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  Honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian' : 
An'  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
I  own  its  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  Ca>sar,  whyles  they're  fash't  enetwh 
A  cotter  howkin  in  a  sheus-h, 
Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin  a  dyke. 
Baring  a  quarry,  and  sic  like, 
Himself,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 
A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans, 
An'  nought  but  his  hau'  darg;  to  keep 
Them  righ*  and  tight  in  tlack  an'  rape. 


2 


BURNS    WORKS. 


An'  when  they  meet  wi   sait  ciis-isters. 
Like  loss  o'  health,  or  want  of  masters, 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 
An'  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and  hunger; 
But,  how  it  conies,  I  never  ken'd  yet, 
They're  maistly  wonderfu'  contented  ; 
An'  buirrlly  chiels,  an'  clever  hizzics, 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 


Rut  then  to  see  how  ye're  negleckit, 
How  hufTd,  and  culTd,  and  disrespeckit ! 
L — d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditcliers,  and  sic  cattle ; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  fo'k, 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinking  brock. 

I've  notic'd  on  our  Laird's  court  day 
An'  mony  a  time  my  heart's  been  wae, 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o'  cash, 
How  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash ; 
He'll  stamp  an'  threaten,  curse  an'  swear, 
He'll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear ; 
While  they  maun  stan',  wi'  aspect  humble, 
An'  hear  it  a',  au'  fear  an'  tremble  ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches ; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches. 

LUATH. 

They're  nae  sae  wretched's  ane  wad  think  ; 
Tho'  constantly  on  poortith's  brink  : 
They're  sae  accustomed  wi'  the  sight. 
The  view  o't  gi'es  them  little  fright 

Then  chance  an'  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
They're  aye  in  less  or  miir  provided  ; 
An'  tho'  fiitigu'd  wi'  close  employment, 
A  blink  o'  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o*  their  lives, 
Their  grushie  weans  an'  faithfu'  wives  ; 
The  jnuttlin  things  are  just  their  pride 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fire-side. 

An'  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy  , 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares. 
To  mind  the  Kirk  and  State  affairs 
Tliey'll  talk  o'  ))atronage  and  priests, 
Wr  kindling  fury  in  their  bre-asts, 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation's  comiu'. 
And  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon'on. 

As  bleak-fac'd  Hallowmas  returns, 
They  get  the  jovial,  rantiu'  kirns, 
When  riiritl  life,  o'  every  station. 
Unite  in  common  reireution  : 
Love  blinks,  Wit  sla|n,  an'  social  Mirth 
Forgets  there's  Can'  iij)o'  the  oarth. 

That  merry  ^i  y  the  rear  l)egins. 
They  bar  the  Quor  on  frosty  winds; 
The  nappy  lecks  wi'  mantling  re' » 
An'  jheds  a  heart-inspiring  steaur>  *, 


The  luntin'  pipe,  aiA  snee>ihin'  mill, 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  guid  will: 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin'  cruuse. 
The  young  anes  rantin'  thro'  the  house,-^ 
]\Iy  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it's  owre  true  that  ye  'nae  said. 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play'd. 
There's  monie  a  creditable  stock 
O'  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo'k, 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch, 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thinks  to  knit  himself  the  faster 
In  favours  wi'  some  gentle  master, 
Wha  aiblins  thrang  a  parliamentin', 
For  Britain's  guid  his  saul  indentin'-- 

C^SAR. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it 
F'or  liritain's  guid  ! — guid  faith,  I  doubt  it 
Say,  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him. 
An'  sayin'  aye  or  no's  they  bid  him  : 
At  operas  an'  plays  parading, 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading ; 
Or  may  be,  in  a  frolic  daft. 
To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a  waft, 
To  mak  a  tour,  and  tak  a  whirl. 
To  learn  hon  ton  and  see  the  worl' 

There,  at  Vienna,  or  Versailles, 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails  ! 
Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  rout. 
To  thrum  guitars  and  fecht  wi'  nowt ; 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 
Wh — re-hunting  among  groves  o'  myrtles 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  water, 
To  mak  himsel'  look  fair  and  fatter, 
An'  clear  the  consequential  sorrows 
Love  gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 
For  liritain's  gnid  ! — for  her  destruction  . 
Wi'  dissipation,  feu«l,  an'  faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech  man  !  dear  sirs  !   is  that  the  gata 
They  waste  sae  niony  a  braw  estate  ! 
Are  we  sae  foughten  an'  hara.ss'd 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  List ! 

O  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts, 
An'  please  themselves  wi'  countra  sport*. 
It  wad  for  every  ane  be  better, 
The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  an'  the  Cotter  ; 
For  thae  frank,  rantin',  ramblln'  billies, 
Fient  haet  o'  them's  ill-hearted  fellows; 
Excejjt  for  breakin'  o'  their  timmer, 
Or  s])eakiii'  lightly  o'  their  linimer, 
Or  sliontin'  o'  a  hare  or  moor-cock, 
The  ne'er  a  bit  they're  ill  to  jumr  folk. 

But  will  ye  tel!  mc^  Maner  Cccsnr, 
Sure  gr';at  folk's  'ijVs  a /''"f  o  ])>wure! 
N.     ca'Jd  i.r  liunger  e'er  can  sie>     ..neto. 
The  very  tnought  o't  need  na  fear  tliein. 


POEMS. 


CJG3AR. 

L — il,  man,  were  yc  but  whjles  where  I  am, 
riie  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'im. 

It's  true,  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 
Thro'  winter's  cauUl  or  simmer's  heat ; 
They've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An'  fill  auld  age  wi'  gripes  an'  granes  : 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colk-ges  an'  schools. 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them, 
Thev  niak  enow  themselves  to  vex  them. 
An'  aye  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them. 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them  ; 
A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 
His  acres  till'd,  he's  right  eiieugh  ; 
A  country  girl  at  her  wheel, 
Her  dizzens  done,  she's  unco  weel ; 
But  Gentlemen,  an'  Ladies  warst, 
\Vi'  ev'ndown  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 
They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  an'  lazy  ; 
Tho'  deil  huet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy  ; 
Tl.eir  days  insipid,  dull,  an'  tasteless; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  an'  restless; 
An'  ev'n  their  sports,  their  balls,  an'  races, 
Their  gallopin'  through  public  places. 
There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an'  art, 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 
The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches. 
Then  sowther  a'  in  deep  debauehes  : 
Ae  night  they're  mad  wi'  drink  an  wh-ring, 
Neist  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 
The  ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 
As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters  ; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither, 
They're  a'  run  deils  an'  jads  thegither. 
VVhyles  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  and  platie. 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty  ; 
Or  lee  lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuka 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictur'd  beuks  ; 
Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard. 
An'  cheat  like  ony  unliang'd  blackguard. 

There's  some  exception,  man  an'  woman  ; 
But  this  is  Gentry's  life  in  common. 

By  this  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight : 
An'  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night  : 
The  bum-clock  humm'd  wi'  lazy  drone; 
The  kye  stood  rowtin'  i'  the  loan  : 
When  up  they  gat  an  shook  their  lugs, 
Reioic'd  they  were  na  men  but  dogs  ; 
And  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 
Resolv'd  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


SCOTCH  DRINK 


Gie  liim  strong  drink,  until  he  wink. 
That's  sinkinp;  m  des  air ; 

An'  liquor  guid  to  tire  his  bhiid, 
Thai's  urest  wi'  %rief  an'  care; 


There  let  hirn  bouse,  and  deep  carouse 

WI'  bumpers  tlowin;;  o'er, 
'J  ill  he  forjjets  Ins  Inves  or  dfftt!. 

An'  niiuds  his  (jrieCs  no  mure. 

S'jliimons  l'rur;iDs,  xxxi.  6,  "J. 


Lf:t  other  poets  raise  a  fracas, 

'Bout  vines,  aiui  wine;i,  and  drunken  liacchua. 

An'  crabbit  names  an'  stories  wrack  us, 

An'  grate  our  lug, 
I  sing  the  juice  Sects  bear  can  mak  us, 

In  glass  or  jug. 

O  Thou,  my  Muse  f  guid  auld  Scotch  Drink 
Whether  thro'  wim]ding  worms  thou  jink, 
Or,  richly  brown,  ream  o'i:r  the  brink, 

In  glorious  faem, 
Inspire  me,  till  I  lisp  and  wink. 

To  sing  thy  name. 

Let  husky  Wheat  the  haughs  adorn, 
And  Aits  set  up  their  awnie  horn, 
An'  Pease  and  Beans  at  e'en  or  moin. 
Perfume  the  plain, 
Leeze  me  on  thee,  Jo/ui  Barleycorn, 

Thou  king  o'  grain  ! 

On  thee  aft  Scotland  chows  her  cood, 
In  souple  scone<,  the  wail  o'  food  ! 
Or  tumbliu'  in  the  boiling  flood, 

Wi'  kail  an'  beef; 
But  when  thou  pours  thy  strong  heart's  blood. 

There  thou  shines  chief 

Fond  tills  the  wame,  an'  keeps  us  livin'; 
Tho'  life's  a  gift  no  woith  receivin'. 
When  heavy  diagg'd  wi'  pine  and  grievin* ; 

But  oii'd  by  thee, 
The  wheels  o'  life  gae  down-hill,  scrievin', 

Wi'  rattlin'  glee. 

Thou  clears  the  head  o'  doited  Lear ; 
Thou  cheers  the  heart  o'  drooping  Care; 
Thou  strings  the  nerves  o'  Labour  sair  j 

At's  weary  toil ; 
Thou  even  brightens  dark  Despair 

M'i'  gloomy  smile. 

Aft,  clad  in  massy  silver  weed, 
Wi'  Gentles  thou  erects  thy  head  ; 
Yet  humbly  kind  in  time  o'  need. 

The  poor  man's  wine, 
His  wee  drap  parritch,  or  his  bread. 

Thou  kitchens  fine. 

Thou  art  the  life  o'  public  haunts  ; 
But  thee,  what  were  our  fairs  and  rants? 
Ev'n  godly  meetings  o'  the  saunts, 

By  thee  inspir'd, 

When  gaping  they  besiege  the  tents, 

Are  doubly  fir'd. 

That  merry  night  we  get  the  corn  in, 
O  sweetly  then  thou  reams  the  horn  in ' 
Or  reekin'  on  a  New-year  morning 
la  cog  or  bickef 


V 

4                                            BURNS' 

WORKS. 

Axi'  just  a  vree  drap  »p'ritua]  bum  in, 

Thou  comes         they  rattle  T  t„eir  raiikt 

An'  gusty  sucker ! 

At  ither's  a — ■  .' 

When  Vulcan  gies  his  bellows  breath, 

Tliee,  Ferintosh  !  O  sadly  lost ! 

An'  ploughmen  gather  wi'  their  graith, 

Scotland,  lainent  frae  coast  to  coast ! 

0  rare  !   to  see  the  fizz  an'  freath 

Now  colic  grips,  and  bar  kin  hoa.st. 

r  the  lugget  caup  ! 

Way  kill  us  a*  ; 

Then  JBurnewin  *  comes  on  like  death 

For  loyal  Forbes'  chartered  boast 

At  ev'ry  chaup. 

Ts  ta'en  awa'  ! 

Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel ; 

Thae  curst  horse  leeches  o'  th'  Excise, 

The  brawnie,  bainie,  ploughman  chiel", 

Wha  mak  the  Wliisly  Stells  their  prize  ! 

Brings  hard  owrehip,  wi'  sturdy  wheel. 

Haud  up  thy  han',  Deil  !  ance,  twice,  thriue  ! 

The  strong  forehammer, 

There,  seize  the  blinkers ! 

Till  block  an'  studdie  ring  an  reel 

An'  bake  them  up  in  brunstane  pies 

Wi'  dinsome  clamour. 

For  poor  d — n'd  drinkers. 

When  Bkirlin  weanies  see  the  light, 

Fortune  !   if  thou'll  but  gie  me  still 

Thou  maks  the  gossips  clatter  bright. 

Hale  breeks,  a  scone,  an'   M'hisky  gill, 

How  fumlin'  cuifs  their  dearies  slight, 

An'  rowth  o'  rhyme  to  rave  at  will, 

Wae  worth  the  name  ! 

Tak  a'  the  rest, 

Nae  howdie  gets  a  social  night, 

An'  deaJ't  about  as  thy  blind  skill 

Or  plack  frae  them. 
When  neebours  anger  at  a  plea, 

Directs  thee  best. 

An'  just  as  wud  as  wud  can  be. 

How  easy  can  the  biirlei/  bree 

THE  author's 

Cement  the  quaiTcl ; 
It's  aye  the  cheapest  lawyer's  fee. 

EARNEST  CRY  AND  PRAYER* 

To  taste  the  barrel. 

TO  THE 

Alake  !   that  e'er  my  Muse  has  reason 
To  wyte  her  countrymen  wi'  treason  ; 

SCOTCH  REPRESENTATIVES 

But  mouy  daily  weet  their  weason 

Wi'  liquors  nice, 

IN  THE 

An'  hardly,  in  a  winter's  season. 

E'er  spier  her  price. 

Wae  worth  that  hraiidy,  burning  trash, 
Fell  source  o'  monie  a  patn  an'  brash  ! 

HOUSE  OF  COMMONS, 

How  art  thou  lost ! Parody  on  Sliltoi 

Twins  monie  a  poor,  diiylt,  drunken  hash, 
O'  half  his  days  ; 

An'  sends,  beside,  auld  Scotland's  cash 

Ye  Irish  Lords,  Ye  Knights  an'  Squires, 

To  her  warst  faes. 

Wha  represent  our  brughs  an'  shires, 

And  doucely  manage  our  aifairs 

Ye  Scots,  wha  wish  auld  Scotland  well ! 

III  parliament, 
To  you  a  simple  i  »*ts  prayers 

Ye  chief,  to  you  my  tale  I  tell, 

Poor  plackless  devils  like  niysel' ! 

Are  humbly  sent. 

It  sets  you  ill, 

Wi'  bitter,  dearthfu'  wine<  to  mell. 

Alas  !  my  roupet  Muse  is  hearse  ! 

Or  foreign  gilL 

Your  honours'  hearts  wi'  grief  'twad  pierce 

To  see  her  sittin'  on  her  a — 

]May  gravels  round  his  l)lather  wrench, 

Low  i*  the  dust. 

An'  gouts  torment  him  inch  by  inch, 

An'  screichin*  out  prosaic  veise. 

Wha  t^vists  his  gruntle  wi'  a  glunch 

An'  like  to  brust ! 

O'  sour  disdain, 

Out  owre  a  glass  o'  ii'hisky  punch 

Tell  them  wha  hae  the  chief  direction. 

M'i*  honest  men. 

Scotland  an*  nif's  in  great  affliction. 

E'er  sin    they  laid  that  curst  restriction 

O  Whishy!  soul  o*  plays  an'  pranks! 

On  Aqiiavita  > 

Accept  a  Baidie's  humble  thanks  ! 

An*  rouse  them  up  to  strong  conviction 

When  wanting  thee,  what  tuneless  cranks 

An*  move  their  pity. 

Are  my  poor  verses  ! 

•  This  wa«  written  l)cfi>re  the  act  anent  the  Sooo  h 
Distilleries,  of  session  1786;  for  which  Scotland  and 

1 
•  Burnruin — Burntlit-wind — the  blacksmith^ an 

Bppiopriate  title 

the  Author  return  their  most  crateful  thanks. 

1 

POEMS. 


Stat     foith,  an'  tell  yon  Premier  Youth, 
The  h.    est,  open,  nakt-ii  truth : 
Tell  111    '  o'  iiiiin;  and  Scotliiid's  drouth, 

Ilis  si'i  vants  humble  : 
The  mi.'  k!o  devil  blaw  je  south, 

If  ye  disscuible  ! 

Does   >ny  great  man  glunch  an'  gloom  ! 
Speak  I'lt,  ail'  never  t'.ish  yimr  thumb  : 
Let  pose-  an'  pensions  sink  or  soom 

Wr  thetn  wha  grant  'em  ; 
If  honest .y  they  canna  cqme, 

Faj-  better  want  'em. 

In  gat'  ring  votes  you  were  na  slack  ; 
Now  stai  -t  as  tightly  liy  your  tack  ; 
Ne'er  claw  your  lug,  an  fidge  your  l)ack, 

An'  hum  an'  haw  ; 
But  raise  .our  arm,  an'  tell  your  crack 

Before  them  a' 

Paint  S.otland  greeting  owre  her  thrissle  ; 
Her  mutchi-  n  stoup  as  toom's  a  whissle  ; 
An'  d-mn'it  Excisemen  in  a  bussle, 

Seizin'  a  sttll, 
Triumphant    'uahin't  like  a  mussel, 

Or  lainpit  shell. 

Then  on  th    tither  luind  present  her, 
A  blackguard    vimggler  right  behint  her, 
An*  cheek-for-Oi>-.iw,  a  chuffie  Vintner, 

Colleaguing  join. 
Picking  her  pou>:r  as  bare  as  winter 

Of  a'  kind  coin. 

Is  there,  that  be.n-    the  name  o'  Scot, 
But  feels  his  heart's      uid  ris'ng  hot, 
To  see  his  poor  auld    .'ither's  pot 

'I  'lis  dung  in  staves, 
An  plunder'd  o'  her  hi    imost  groat 

By  ^    'ows  knaves  ? 

Alas  !   Fm  but  a  namele«    wight, 
Trode  i'  the  mire  out  o'  sigi 
But  could  I  like  Montyomerie    6ght, 

Or  gal)  lik     tSostvM, 
There's  some  sark-necks  I  wad  r.raw  tight. 

An'  tie  some  i  ise  well. 

God  bless  your  Honours,  can  ye  see't. 
The  kind,  auld,  cantie  Carlin  greet, 
An'  no  get  warmly  to  your  feet, 

An  gar  tiiein  hear  ic, 
An'  tell  tbem  wi"  a  patriot  heat, 

Ye  winna  bear  it ! 

Some  o  you  nicely  ken  the  laws. 
To  round  *,he  periml  an'  pause. 
An'  wi'  rhetoric  clause  on  clause 

To  niak  harangues ; 
Then  echo  thro*  Saint  Srejihen's  w.i's 

Auld  Scotland's  wrangs. 

Dempster,  a  true  blue  Scot  I'^e  warran  ; 
rhee,  aith- detesting,  chaste  Kdherran  ;* 


Sir  .\dam  I'erguson. 


A  n'  that  glib-gabbct  High  ir.d  Baron, 

The  Laird  o'   iiraham  i* 

An'  ane,  a  chap  that's  damn'd  auldfarran, 
Ttnniias  his  name. 

Ershinc,  a  spunkie  Norland  billie  ; 
True  CaiiiphMs,  I'reilerirk  an'  Ilui/  ; 
An'  Liviiiijitoiie,  the  bauld  Sir  Willie ; 

An'  niony  ithers. 
Whom  auld  Demosthenes  or  Tully 

Might  own  for  britheri. 

Arouse,  my  boys  !  exert  your  mettle, 
To  get  auld  Scotl.md  back  her  liettle  ; 
Or  faith  !    I'll  wad  my  new  pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll  see't  or  lang, 
She'll  teach  you,  wi'  a  reekin'  whittle, 
Anither  sang. 

This  while  she's  been  in  canc'rous  mood. 
Her  lost  Mihtia  fir'd  her  bluid  ; 
(Deil  na  they  never  mair  do  guid, 

Play'd  her  that  pliskie!^ 
An'  now  she's  like  to  rm  red-wud 

About  her  Whisky. 

An'  L — d  if  ance  they  pit  her  till't. 
Her  tartan  petticoat  she'll  kilt, 
An'  durk  an'  pistol  at  her  lielt, 

She'll  tak  the  street*, 
An'  rin  her  whittle  to  the  hilt, 

r  the  first  she  meets  ! 

For  G — d  sake.  Sirs  !  then  speak  her  itia, 
An'  straik  her  cannie  wi'  the  hair. 
An*  to  the  muckle  hou'^e  repair, 

wr  instant  speed, 
An'  strive,  wi'  a'  your  wit  an'  lear. 

To  get  remead. 

Yon  ill-tongu'd  tinkler,  Charlie  Fox, 
May  taunt  you  wi'  his  jeers  an'  mocks  ; 
But  gie  him't  bet,  my  hearty  cocks  ! 

E'en  cows  the  caddie 
An*  send  him  to  his  dicing  box 

An'  sportin'  lady. 

Tell  yon  guid  bluid  o*  auld  Jiockonnock" s, 

I'll  be  his  debt  twa  mashlum  bannocks, 

An'  drink  his  health  in  auld  iVu7i.se  Tinnock9,f 

Nine  times  a  week, 
If  he  some  scheme,  like  tea  and  winnocka. 

Wad  kindly  seek. 

Could  he  some  cnmmutation  broach, 
I'll  pledge  mv  aith  in  guid  braid  Scotch, 
He  need  na  tear  their  foul  reproach 

Nor  erudition, 
Yon  mixtie-maxtie  queer  hotcl-potch, 

The  Coalition. 

Auld  Scotland  has  a  raucle  toi-gue ; 
She's  just  a  devil  wi'  a  rung  ; 


•  The  present  Duke  of  Montrose.— (1 800,) 

t  A  worthy  old  Hosicis  ot  the  Author's  in  Mauch. 

line,  wlicre  he  someii.iics  studies  Politic*  over  a  glait 

of  i\i\Aiia\ti  Scotch  Drink. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


An'  If  she  promise  auld  or  young 

To  t:ik  their  part, 

The*  by  the  neck  she  should  l)e  strung, 
She'll  no  desert. 

An*  now,  ye  chosen  Five-and- Forty, 
May  still  your  Mither's  heait  support  ye  : 
Then,  tho*  a  Minister  grow  dorty. 

An'  kick  your  place, 
Ye'll  snap  your  fingers,  poor  an'  hearty. 

Before  his  face. 

God  bless  your  Honours  a'  your  days, 
"VTi*  soups  o'  kail  and  brats  o'  claise, 
In  spite  o'  a'  the  thievish  kaes 

That  haunt  St  Jamits  ! 
Your  humble  poet  sings  an'  prays 

While  Itab  his  name  is. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Let  half-starv'd  slaves,  in  wanner  skies 
See  future  wines,  rich  clust'riiig  rise  ; 
Their  lot  auld  Scotland  ne'er  envies, 

But  blithe  and  frisky, 
She  eyes  her  freeborn  martial  buys. 

Tak  aif  their  Whisky. 

What  tho'  their  Phoebus  kinder  warms, 
hile  fragrance  blooms  and  beauty  charms  ! 
When  wretches  lange,  in  famish'd  swarms. 

The  scented  groves. 
Or  hounded  forth,  dishonour  arms 

In  hungry  droves. 

Their  gun's  a  burden  on  their  shouther  ; 
They  downa  bide  the  stmk  o'  ])outher; 
Their  bauldest  thought's  a  h;uik'ring  swither 

To  Stan    or  rin, 
Till  skelp — a  shot — they're  aff,  a'  throwther. 

To  save  their  skin. 

But  bring  a  Scotsman  frae  his  hill, 
Clap  in  his  cheek  a  Highland  gill. 
Say,  such  is  royal   Georgt's  will, 

An'  there's  the  foe, 
He  has  nae  thought  but  how  to  kill 

Twa  at  a  blow. 

Nae  cauld,  faint-hearted  doubtings  tease  him; 
Death  comes,  with  fi-arless  eye  he  sees  him  ; 
Wi'  bluidy  hand  a  welcome  gies  him  ; 

An'  when  he  fa's. 
His  latest  draught  o*  breatliin'  lea'es  him 

In  faint  huzz>is. 

Sages  their  snlenm  een  may  steek, 
An    raise  a  philosophic  reek. 
An'  phy.sically  causes  seek, 

In  clime  an'  season  ; 
But  tell  me   Whisky's  name  in  Greek, 

I'll  tell  tlie  reason. 

Scotland,  my  auld,  respecteii  Mither  ! 
rho'  whylcs  ye  uioistily  your  leather. 


Till  whare  ye  sit,  on  craps  o*  heather, 
Ye  tine  your  dam  ; 

{Freedom  and  Whisky  gang  theglther  !) 
Tiik  aif  your  dram  ! 


THE  HOLY  FAIR.* 


A  robe  of  seeming  truth  and  trust 

Hill  crafty  Observation  ; 
And  secret  hung  with  poison'd  crust. 

The  dirk  of  Defamation  : 
A  mask  that  hke  the  Rorget  show'd 

Uye-varying  on  the  pigeon  j 
And  for  a  inantle  hu'ge  and  broad. 

He  wravt  him  in  Reli^inn. 

Hypocrisy-a  ia^^aof'*. 


LTpoK  a  simmer  Sunday  morn, 

When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 
I  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn, 

An'  snuff  the  callar  air. 
The  rising  sun  owre   Gahtnn  muirs, 

Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin'  ; 
The  hares  were,  hirplin'  down  the  "ur». 

The  lav 'rocks  they  were  chantm' 

Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

II. 

As  llghtsomcly  I  glowr'd  abroad 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay. 
Three  hizzie-',  early  at  the  road, 

Cam  skelpin'  up  the  wa^  ; 
Twa  had  manteeles  o'  dolctn*  black, 

But  ane  wi'  lyart  lining  ; 
The  third  that  gaed  a  w-e  a-back. 

Was  in  the  fashion  snining, 

Fu*  gay  that  day. 

III. 
The  twa  appear'd  like  sisters  twin, 

In  feature,  form,  an'  claes  : 
Their  visage  wither'd,  lang,  an'  thin, 

An*  sour  as  ony  slaes  ; 
The  third  came  up,  hap-stap-an'-loup, 

As  light  as  ony  lammie. 
An'  wi*  a  curchie  low  did  stoop. 

As  soon  as  e'er  sue  saw  me, 

Fu'  kind  that  dajr 

IV. 

Wi  bannet  aff,  quoth  I,   '  Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me  ; 
I'm  sure  I've  seen  that  bonnie  face, 

But  yet  I  canna  name  ye.* 
Quo'  she,  an*  laughin'  us  she  spak, 

An*  tiji's  me  by  the  hands, 
"  Ye,  for  my  sake,  Iia'e  gi'en  the  feck 

Of  a*  the  ten  commands 

A  screed  some  day. 


•  IJoly  Fair  is  a  common  phrase  in  the  west  of  Scot 
land  fur  a  sacrameiitai  occasion. 


POEMS. 


•^  Bfv  name  i"!  Fnii — yniir  cronie  dear, 

Tho  iRMie-t  IVIc'ikI  vl-  li  I'l;  ; 
An'  this  is  Si'j>(r.--tifii)n  liLTe, 

An'  that's  lliipiicrhii. 
I'll)  paiin  t"  Ii"ly  F(nr, 

To  sjK-iid  a)i  hi)iir  in  diffiii'  ; 
Gin  yc'll  !;i)  there,  yon  nink'eil  pair, 

Wo  will  get  fanious  liu!;hin' 

At  them  this  day.* 

VI. 

Quoth  I,   '  With  a'  my  heart  I'll  do't; 

I'll  £;et  njy  Sunday's  saik  on, 
An'  meet  yon  on  the  holy  spot  ; 

Faith  we'se  hae  fine  reniarkin' !' 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  tniwdie  time. 

An    soon  I  made  nu-  reailv  ; 
For  roads  were  el  id,  f'r  le  side  to  side, 

Wi'  monie  a  weaiy  liody, 

In  droves  that  day. 

VII. 
Here  fai-.ners  ^ash,  in  ridin'  graitli 

Gaed  hoddin'  by  their  otters  : 
Their  swankles  youiiij,  in  hraw  braid-claitli 

Are  sj)rin^in'  o'er  the  gutters. 
The  lasses,  skelpin'  barefoot,  thrang, 

In  silks  an'  scarlets  glitter  ; 
Wi'  sweet-tiiil/i  c/ifise  in  monie  a  whang. 

An'  fares  bak'd  wi'  iintter, 

Fu'  crump  that  day. 

VIII. 

When  by  the  jilntr  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heapeil  up  wi*  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glowr  Black  Bonnet  throws. 

An*  we  maun  draw  our  tippencc. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  sliow. 

On  ev'ry  side  tliey're  gatherin', 
Some  carrying  deals,  some  chairs  an'  stools, 

An'  some  are  busy  bletherin'. 

Right  loud  that  day. 

IX. 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  show'rs, 

Aii'  screen  our  couutra  Gentry, 
There,  racer  Jt-ss,  an'  twa-three  whores, 

Are  blinkin'  at  tie  entry. 
Here  sits  a  raw  of  titthn'  j  ides, 

Wi'  heavin'  breast  and  bare  neck. 
An'  there  a  batch  of  wahster  lads, 

Blackguardin'  frae  K ck. 

For  _/'«/!  this  day. 


Here  some  are  thinkin'  on  their  sins. 

An'  some  iipo'  their  ciaes  ; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyld  his  shins, 

Anithcr  sighs  an'  liniys; 
On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi'  screw'd  up  grace-proud  faces; 
On  that  a  set  o*  cii  ip-  at  watch, 

Thratig  winkiu'  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  chat  da/ 


XI. 

O  happy  is  the  man  an'  blest  ! 

IS'ae  wonder  that  it  pride  hiin  ! 
Wh  I's  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  hmtf 

Comes  clinkln'  down  besi<le  him  ! 
Wi'  arm  repos'd  on  the  ch  lir-bark. 

He  sweetly  does  comjjose  him  ! 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck) 

An's  loof  upon  her  bosom 

Unkenn'd  that  day. 

XII. 

Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er 

Is  silent  expectation  ; 
For speels  the  holy  door 

Wi'  tidings  o'  daninatimi. 
Should  Iloriiic,  as  in  ancient  dava, 

'JMang  sons  o'  God  ])resi-nt  him. 
The  vera  sight  o'  's  face, 

To's  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

XIII. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  faith 

Wi'  rattlin*  an'  thunipiii'  ! 
Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath. 

He's  stam|)iii'  an'  he's  juinpiu'  ' 
His  lengthen'd  chin,  his  turu'd-up  snout, 

His  eldiitch  squeel  and  gestures, 
Oh,  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout. 

Like  cantharidian  plasters, 

On  sic  a  day  ! 

XIV. 

But  hark  !    the  tent  has  chang'd  its  voice } 
There's  peace  and  rest  nae  langer  : 

For  a'  the  real  jvdyes  rise. 
They  canna  sit  for  ani;er. 

opens  out  his  cauld  harangues 


On  practice  and  on  moials  ; 
An'  afF  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs, 
To  gie  the  jars  an'  barrels 

A  lift  that  day. 

XV. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine 

Of  moral  pow'rs  and  reason  ? 
His  English  stWe,  an'  gesture  fine, 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season. 
Like  Socrates  or  Antunir.e, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  Heatnen, 
The  moral  man  he  does  lietioe, 

But  ne'er  a  word  o*  faith  in 

That's  right  that  day 

XVI. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 
Against  sic  puison'd  nostrum  : 

For  ,  frae  the  watei-fit. 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum  : 

See,  up  he's  got  tlie  woid  o'  God, 
An'  meek  an'  mini  has  view'd  it. 


B 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


While  Ccmmon-sense  lias  ta'en  the  road, 
Aa'  aff,  au'  up  the  Cowgate,  • 

Fast,  fast,  that  day 

XVII. 

Wee Tielst  the  guard  relisves, 


An'  orfhoddxy  raihles, 
rho'  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes, 

And  thinks  it  atiM  wives'  fables; 
But,  faith  ;  the  birkie  wants  a  manse 

So  cannily  he  hums  them  ; 
Altho'  his  carnal  wit  and  sense 

Like  hafflins-ways  o'erconies  him 

At  times  that  daj. 

XVIIL 

Now  but  an'  ben,  the  change-bouse  fills, 

Wi'  yill-caup  commentators : 
Here's  crying  out  for  bakes  and  g:Ils, 

And  there  the  pint  stoup  clatters  ; 
While  thick  an'  thran?.  an'  loud  au'  lang^ 

Wi'  logic,  an'  wi'  Scri])ture, 
They  raise  a  din,  that  in  the  enii. 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

O'  wrath  that  day. 

XIX. 

ijceze  rae  on  Drink  !  it  gi'es  us  mair 

Than  either  Scliool  or  College  : 
It  kindles  wit,  it  wankcns  lair. 

It  pangs  us  fiiu  o'  knowledge. 
Be't  whisky  gill,  or  penny  wheep, 

Or  ony  ytronger  pution. 
It  never  fails,  on  drinking  deep. 

To  kittle  up  our  niitmn 

By  uight  or  day. 

XX. 

The  lads  an'  lasses,  blytln-ly  bent 

To  mind  liaith  sjul  an'  body. 
Sit  round  the  tilde  weel  content, 

An"  steer  about  the  todily. 
On  this  ane's  dres»,  an'  th  it  ane's  leuk, 

They're  makin'  ob^ervations  ; 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk, 

Aa'  forming  asisign  itions 

To  meet  some  d;iy. 

XXI. 

But  now  the  I 'I's  an  trumpet  touts, 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairiii'. 
An'  echoes  back  rt-turn  the  shouts: 

Black  is  na  spairin"  : 

His  piercing  winds,  like  Highland  swords, 

Divide  the  joints  a.."  'narrow  ; 
His  talk  o'  Hell,  where  devils  dwell, 

Osiff  very  sauls  does  harrow  f 

Wi'  frigiit  that  day. 

XXII. 
K  vast,  unbottom'd  boundless  pit, 
Fill'd  fou  o'  lowin'  brunstane, 


Wha's  ragin'  fiairie  an'  scnrchin'  heat. 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whiin-stane' 
The  half  aJeep  stiirt  up  wi'  fear, 

An'  think  they  hear  it  ro;u-in  , 
Wlien  presently  it  does  appear, 

'Twas  but  »ome  neighbour  snorin 
Asleep  that  day. 

XXIII. 

*Twad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell 

How  monie  stories  p  ist. 
An'  how  they  crowded  to  the  yill, 

When  they  were  a'  disniist  : 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  an*  caups 

Amang  the  fuinis  an'  benches  ; 
An'  cheese  an'  liread,  (r:if  women's  laps, 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches 

An'  dawds  that  daj, 

XXIV. 
In  comes  a  gaucie,  gash  giiidwife, 

An'  sits  down  by  the  fire. 
Syne  draws  her  kebbuek  an'  her  koif^ 

The  bssos  they  are  shyer. 
The  auld  Ruidmen,  about  the  grace, 

Frae  side  to  side  they  liother. 
Till  some  ane  by  his  bonnet  lays, 

An'  gi'es  them't  like  a  tether, 

Fu'  lang  that  d«y. 

XXV. 

Waesucks  !    for  him  that  gets  nae  ^aaa* 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naetlung  ! 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  firace 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claitliing  ! 
O  wives  be  mindfii'  anre  yoiiisel 

How  bonnie  lails  ye  wanted, 
An'  dinna  for  a  kebbiiik-becl. 

Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day  ! 


XXVI. 

Now  CUnhimhdl,  wi'  rattlin'  tow, 

Begins  to  jow  an'  croon  ; 
Some  swagger  hame,  the  best  they  Aotr^ 

Some  wait  the  alternoon. 
At  slaps  the  billies  bait  a  blink, 

Till  lasses  strip  their  slioon  : 
Wi'  faith  an'  hope,  an'  love  au*  drink, 

They've  a'  in  famous  tune. 

For  ci  ack  that  day, 

xxvn. 

How  monie  hearts  t\\\-  day  converts 

O'  sinners  and  o'  lasses  I 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gin  night,  are  gaoc 

.\s  saft  as  ony  fl.-sli  i,s. 
There's  some  are  fou  o'  love  divine  ; 

There's  some  are  fou  o"  brandy  ; 
An'  niony  jubs  that  day  begin. 

May  eud  in  houghmagandie 

Some  ither  6ij 


•  A  street  so  oaHeil,  which  fares  llic   int  in  ■ 
*  ShakesDi'itrc'i  Huinlt't. 


i-r                                                                                                                                                                             - 

POEMS.                                                        9 

DEATH  AND  DOCTOR  HORN- 

I  red  ye  weel,  tak  care  c'  skaith. 

BOOK  : 

See  there's  a  g^.Oy  !* 

A  THUE  STORY. 

'  Guidman,'  quo'  he,   '  put  up  your  whittle, 

Some  Imoks  arc  lii's  iVac  Lti'l  to  end, 

I'm  no  design'd  to  try  its  mettle  ; 

Anil  some  sri'frtt  lies  were  never  penn'd  : 

But  if  I  did,  I  wad  be  kittle 

Ev'a  ^liiiisteis,  they  Iku;  hcen  keim'd, 

To  l)e  mislear'd. 

In  lidly  raptuie. 

I  wadna  mind  it,  no,  that  spittle 

A  roiLsing  wliid,  at  tinu's,  to  vend, 

Out  owre  my  beard. 

Ajid  nall't  \vi*  Scripture. 

'  Weul,  weel  !'  says  I,   '  a  bargain  be't ; 

Hut  this  that  I  ain  i^aim  to  tell, 

Come,  gie's  your  hand,  an*  sae  we're  gree't  j 

Wliieii  lately  on  a  niijKt  befell, 

We'll  case  our  shanks  an'  tak  a  seat, 

U  just  as  true'd  tlie  De'iis  in  hell 

Come  gie's  your  news  ; 

Or  Duli'.in  ir!ty : 

This  while  •  ye  hae  been  mony  a  gate, 

Tliat  e'a'  he  nearer  ennus  mirsel* 

At  mony  a  house.* 

'S  a  nmckle  pity. 

'  Ay,  ay  !'  quo'  he,  an'  shoidj  his  head. 

Tlip  Clachan  ylll  had  made  me  canty, 

'  Its  een  a  lang,  lang  time  indeed 

I  vr&s  iiiie  foil,   Imt  just  had  plenty  ; 

Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread. 

1  stacher'd  whiii^,  hut  yet  took  tent  aye 

An'  choke  the  breath; 

To  free  the  ditches  ; 

Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread, 

An'  hillocks,  stanes,  an'  hushes,  kenn'd  aye 

All'  sae  maun  Death. 

Frae  ghaists  an'  witches. 

'  Sax  thousand  years  are  nearhand  fled 

The  rising  innon  Ijesran  to  jrlow'r 

Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  breil. 

The  distant  Ciimnnck  hills  out-owre  ; 

An'  mony  a  scheme  in  vain's  been  laid. 

To  count  her  horns,  \vi*  a'  my  power. 

To  stap  or  scir  me ; 

I  set  niysel' ; 

Till  ane  Hornbook  's  -f-  tuen  up  the  trade, 

But  whether  slie  had  thiee  or  four, 

An'  faith,  he'd  waur  ine 

I  cuuldua  tell. 

'  Ye  ken  Jock  Hnnibonh,  i'  the  Clachan, 

I  was  come  roimd  about  the  hill, 

Deil  mak  his  king's  hood  in  a  spleuchan  ! 

And  todlin  down  on    Willt's  mill, 

He's  grown  sae  weel  acqu.unt  wi'  Buchan  \ 
An'  ither  chaps, 

Setting  my  statf  wi'  a'  my  skill, 

To  keep  nie  sicker  ; 

The  weans  haud  out  their  fmgcrs  laughia* 

Tho'  leeward  whyles,  aEjainst  my  will, 

An'  pouk  my  hips. 

I  took  a  hicker. 

'  See,  here's  a  scythe,  and  tjiere's  a  dart, 

I  there  vi-i*  Snmctliinrj  diil  forfjathea, 

They  hae  pierc'd  mony  a  gallant  heart : 

That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither  : 

But  Doctor  Hornbook,  wi'  his  art 

An'  awfu'  scythe,  out-owie  ae  shouthcr. 

And  cursed  skill, 

Clear-dangling,  hang  ; 

Has  made  them  baith  no  worth  a  f — t. 

A  three-taed  leister  on  the  itJier, 

Damn'd  hact  they'll  kill 

Lay,  large  and  lang. 

'  'Twas  but  yestreen,  n  le  farther  gaen, 
I  thjew  a  noble  throw  at  ane  ; 

Its  stature  seem'd  Ian<»  Scotch  ells  twa. 

The  queerest  sha|)e  th  ct  e'er  I  saw, 

Wi'  less,  I'm  sure,  I've  hundreds  slain; 

For  fient  a  wame  it  h.ul  ava  ; 

Hut  deil-mu-care, 

And  tlien,  its  shanks, 

It  just  play'd  dirl  on  the  bane. 

They  were  as  thin,  as  .•.harj).  an'  sma' 

But  did  nae  niair. 

As  cheeks  o'  branks. 

'  Hornbook  was  by,  wi'  ready  art. 

'  nuld-een,'()uo'I ;  '  Fiienil !  luie  yelwen  mawin'. 

And  had  sae  fortified  the  part. 

VMien  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin'  ?'  • 

That  when  I  looked  to  m)  dart. 

It  seem'd  to  male'  a  kind  o'  stan', 

It  w.is  8,ie  blunt, 

P.ut  naethiug  spak  : 

Fient  haet  o't  wad  hae  pierc'd  the  heart 

At  lengtli,  savs  I,   '  Friend,  where  ye  gaun, 

Of  a  kail-runt. 

Will  ye  go  back  ?' 

•  I  drew  my  scythe  in  sic  a  fury, 

(t  gpak  right  howe, — '  My  name  is  Death, 
But  be  aa  flcvM." — C^ioih  I,    '  Guid  faith, 
Ye're  mayi)e  come  to  st.ijj  my  breith  ; 

•  An  epidemiral  fever  was  than  raginf;  in  that  countrr 

t  This  gintjem  in,  hr.  Hunib'mh,  h,  ]>r()fessinnally 

But  t.  Ill  me,  billie  : 

a  brother  of  the  Sovereign  Order  iif  tlie   Kcnila;  but 

by  intuition  and  inspt/aiion,  is  at  out*  an  Ajiothecary 
Suri;win,  ajicl  I'hviiciiui. 

•  This  rencoujitor  haiiiK-invl  ui  si'eil-time,  XlhS. 

X  Bueliaji's  Domest'*;  Medicine. 

II 

0 

1 

lO 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


I  neaihand  coiipit  wi'  my  hurry, 
But  yet  the  bauld  A]Kitiicriiry 

Withstddii  the  shock  ; 
J  might  as  weel  liae  tried  a  qiinrry 

O'  hard  whin  rock. 

Ev'n  thetF  I:e  canna  get  attended, 
Altho'  theii  face  he  ne'er  had  ken'd  it, 
Just in  a  kail-lilade,  and  send  it, 

As  sodn's  he  smells't, 
Baith  their  disease,  and  what  will  ineud  it, 

At  once  he  tells't. 

■  An'  then  a'  doctors'  saws  and  whittles, 
OF  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  an'  mettles, 
A'  kinds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  an'  bottles. 

He's  sure  to  hae  ; 
Tlieir  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 

As  A  B  C. 

•  Calces  o'  fossils,  earths,  and  trees  ; 
True  Sal-marinuni  o'  the  seas  ; 
The  Farina  of  beans  and  pease. 

He  has't  in  plenty  ; 
Aqua-fontis,  what  you  please. 

He  can  content  ye. 

'  Forhye  some  new,  uncommon  weapons, 

Urinus  Spiritus  ot  capons  ; 

Or  Mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings  ; 

Distil  I'd  per  se  ; 
Sal-alkali  o'  Midge-tail  clippins. 

An'  moi>y  mac.* 

*  Waes  me  for  Jnhniit/   GerTs  Huh  *  now ;' 
Quo'  I,    '  If  that  the  news  be  true  ! 

His  braw  calf-ward  where  gowans  grew, 
Sae  white  an*  bonnie, 

Nae  doubt  they'll  rive  it  wi'  the  plough  ; 

They'll  ruin  Johnny  T 

The  creature  grain'd  an  eldritch  laugh. 
An'  says,   '  Ye  need  na  ynke  the  pleugh, 
Kirk-yards  will  soon  be  till'd  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear  ; 
They'll  a'  be  trench'd  wi'  mony  a  sheugh 

In  twa-three  year. 

'  Whare  I  kill'd  ane  a  fair  strae  death, 
By  loss  o'  blood  or  want  o'  lireath. 
This  night  I'm  free  to  tak  my  aith. 

That  HiiTiibook's  skill 
Has  clad  a  score  i*  their  laht  claith, 

By  diap  an'  pill, 

'  An  honest  Wabster  to  his  trade, 

Wha'^e  wile's  twa  nieves  were  scarce  weel  bred. 

Gat  tip|)ence-worth  to  mend  her  head. 

When  it  was  sair  ; 
The  wife  slade  canuie  to  her  bed. 

But  ne'er  spak  mair. 

'  A  conrtra  Laird  had  ta'en  tlie  batta, 
Or  Home  cu  inurriiig  in  his  guts. 


His  only  son  for  Ilortihonk  set?. 

An'  pays  l-.iin  ■R'aB; 

Tlie  lad,  for  twa  guid  giniiner  pets, 

Was  laiid  himsel' 

'  A  bonnie  lass,  ye  ken  her  name, 

.Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hov'd  her  Wbme  ; 

She  trusts  hersel',  to  hide  the  shame, 

In  Hornbook's  care ; 
Horn  sent  her  aff  to  her  lang  hame, 

To  hide  it  there. 

'  That's  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornhook's  way  j 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day. 
Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  an'  slav, 

An's  weel  paid  for't ; 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lawfu'  prev, 

Wi'  his  damn'd  dirt. 

'  But  hark  !  I'll  tell  you  of  a  plot, 
Though  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o't ; 
I'll  nail  the  self- conceited  sot, 

As  dead's  a  herrin* ; 
Neist  time  we  meet,  I'll  wad  a  groat, 

He  gets  his  fairin'  !' 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell, 

The  auld  kirk-hammer  strak  the  bell. 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal, 

Which  rais'd  us  baith 
I  took  the  way  that  pleased  mvsel', 

And  sae  did  Death. 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR: 


A  POEJL 


Inscribed  to  J.  B- 


-,  Esq.  Ayr. 


•  The  £1  tve  (lit;ccr. 


The  simple  Bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plouglr., 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  hough  ; 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush. 
Hailing    the   setting   sun,    sweet,    ia    the   green 

thorn  bush  : 
The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breast  shrill, 
Or  deep-toned  plovers,  grey,  wild  whistling  o'er 

the  hill  ; 
Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  Peasant's  lowly  shed, 
To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred. 
By  early  Poverty  to  hardshi])  steel'd, 
And     train'd     to    arms    in    stern    IVIisfortune' 

field- 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes. 
The  servile,  niercenaiy  Swiss  of  rhymes  ? 
Or  labour  hard  the  )'ane^yrii'  dose. 
With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedicating  Prose? 
No!    though  his  artless  stiains  he  rudely  singa. 
And  throws  his  hand  imi-outhly  o'er  the  string! 
He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  *Jie  Bird, 
Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great,  nis  dear  reward. 
Still,  if  some  Patron's  geiurous  cure  he  trace, 
Skilled  in  the  secret,  to  bestow  with  grace  ; 

I  When  B befriends  his  humble   laine 

'And  hands  the  rustic  sti anger  up  to  tame. 


POEMS. 


11 


WItli  )irart  felt    throes    his    grateful     boson) 

sui'lls, 

The  gotllikn  t)  give  alone  excels. 


'T«-a»  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  winter 

hap, 
Anil  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap  : 
FcJatoe  binsjs  are  ^nlli;ged  up  IVac  skaith 
Of  coming  Winter's  biting,  frosty  breath; 
The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  simmer  toils, 
Unnuniber'd  buds  an'  fluwers*  delicious  spoils, 
Seal'd    up   with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen 

pili'i. 
Are  diiom'd  by  man,   that  tyrant  o'er  the  weak. 
The   death    o'    devils,    snioor'd    wl'    brimstone 

reek  : 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  ev'rjr  side, 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide  ; 
The  feather'd  fit  Id-mates,  bound  by  Nature's  tie, 
Siics,  mothers,  children,  in  oiie  carnage  lie  : 
(What  warm,  jioetic  heart,  but  inly  lileeds. 
And  execrates  man's  savaije,  ruthless  deeds)  ! 
Nae  mair  the  flow"r  in  field  or  me  idow  springs  : 
Nae  mair  the  grove  «  i'  airy  concert  rings. 
Except.  ])erliaps,  the  Uobin's  whistling  glee, 
I'roi.ii  o'  the  heigiit  o'  some  bit  halt'-laiig  tree  : 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  davs, 
Mild,  calm,   serene,   wide  spreads  the  noontide 

blaze, 
While   thick    the  gossaniour  waves   wanton  in 

the  rays. 
'Twis  i.i  that  season,  when  a  simple  bard, 
Unknown  and  poor,  simplicity  s  reward, 
Ae  night,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr, 
By  whim  inspired,  ot  haply  prtst  wi'  care, 
He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route. 
And    down    by    ISiwpson^s*    wheel'd    the    left 

about : 
(Whether  impell'd  by  al'-ilirecting  Fate 
To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate  ; 
Or  whether  rajit  in  meditation  high, 
He  wander'd  out  he  knew  not  where  nor  why), 
Thtf  Avuw^y  Dunuenri-r.luck.^  had  nunii)er'd  two. 
And   Widliice   t/ti-er  f   had   sworn   the  fact  was 

true  : 
The   tide-swoln    Firth,     with    sullen-soundijig 

roar. 
Thro'  the  still  uight  dash'd  hoarse  along  the 

shore  : 
All  else  was  hush'd  as  Nature's  cio^ed  e'e ; 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tow'r  and  tree  : 
The  chilly  frost,  liene.ith  the  silver  beam, 
Ciept,  gently-crusting,  o'er  the  glittering  stream. 

When,  lo  !   on  either  hand  the  list'ning  bard. 
The    clanging    sough    of   whistling    wings     be 

heard  ; 
"ira  (iusky  forms  dart  thro'  the  midnight  air, 
t  (vift  as  the  Gos  \  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare  ; 


♦  /  nofe<i  tsvcm  at  tlie  Aid  I  Brig  end. 

*  1  \.v  t«i>  SI   epics. 

i  T!»e  gos-hawk,  or  falcen. 


Aiie  on  th    Aiild  lirit)  his  airy  shape  upreara, 

The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  risin;/  piers  : 

Our  warlike  Rhymer  instantly  descry'd 

The  Sjuites  that  owre  the  Bnys  of  Aijr  presldo, 

(That  Bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke, 

An'  ken  the  lingo  of  the  sp'ritual  folk  ; 

F.iys,  Spunkies,  Keljjies.a'  they  can  explain  them, 

And  ev'n  the  vera  ileils  they  brawly  ken  tiieiu.'; 

AiiH  Jiihj  appejr'd  of  ancient  I'ictish  race. 

The  very  wrinkles  Ciothic  in  his  face  : 

He  seem'd  as  he  wi'  Time  had  warstl'd  lang 

Yet  toiighly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bant;. 

New  liriy  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat, 

That  he,  at  Lon'on,  frae  ane  A'lams  got  ; 

In's  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth's  a  bead, 

Wi'  virls  and  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 

The    Goth    was    stalking   round   with   anxious 

search. 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  every  arch  ; 
It  chanc'd  his  new-come  neei)or  took  his  e'e, 
And  e'en  a  vex'd  an'  angry  heart  had  he  ! 
Wi'  thieveless  sneer  to  see  each  modish  mien. 
He,  down  the  water,  gles  him  thus  guide'en— . 

AULn    URIC. 

I  doubt  na',  frien',   ye'U  think  ye're  nae  sheep  • 

shank, 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  o'er  frae  bank  to  bauk  ! 
IJut  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  auld  as  me, 
Tho"  faith  that  day  I  doubt  ye'U  never  see  ; 
There'll  be,  if  that  day  come,  I'll  wad  a  t.>odd!e, 
Some  fewer  whigmaleeries  in  your  noddle 

NKW    BKIG. 

Auld  Vandal,   ye  but  show  your  little  meuse, 
Just  much  about  it  wi'  your  scanty  sense  ; 
Will  your  poor  narrow  foot-path  of  a  street, 
Wliere  twa  wlieel-barrows  tremble  when  they 

meet, 
Your  ruin'd  formless  bulk,  o'  stane  an'  lime. 
Compare  wi'  bonnie  lirirjs  o'  nu)dern  time  ? 
There's    men  o'  taste   would   tak'    the    Ducat 

stream,  * 
Tho'  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  and  swim, 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  fee  ings  wi'  the  view 
Of  sic  an  ugly  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULn    KRIG. 

Conceited  gowk  !    jjuffd  up  wi'  windy  pride  ! 
This  monie  a  year  I've  stood  the  flood  an'  tide 
An'  tho'  wi'  crazy  eild  I'm  sair  forfairn, 
I'll  be  a  Urip  when  ye're  a  shapeless  cairn  ! 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter, 
But  twa- three  winters  will  inform  ye  bette. . 
When  heavy,  daik,  ccuitinucd,  a'-day  rains, 
Wi*  dee])ening  deluges  o'eitluw  the  plains; 
Vf'hen  from  the  bills  where  springs  the  bi  awl- 

ing  Coil, 
Or  stately  L>iijitr''s  mossy  fount.iins  bcil, 
Or  where   the    lircenock   wiiids   his   nioorlauJ 

course. 
Or  haunted   Gurpal  |  draws  his  feeble  source. 


•  A  nofcti  fonl,  ju^t  ::bo\c  the  AiiM  Ilnp,. 
\  The  banks  o1'6''<;j7«/ /*'a/i:r  is  oueof  the  lewj)?* 


l2 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Arous  d  byblust'iing  winds  and  spnttirg  tliowes. 
In  mony  a  tdiienl  dv)\vn  liis  s.  a-broo  roww  ; 
While  crashing  ice,   biirne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps   dams,    an*    mills,   an'  brigs,   a'  to  the 

gate  ; 
And  from  Ghnhuik*  down  to  the  Rutton  k(y,f 
Auld  Aur  is  just  one  lengthen'd  tumbling  sea; 
Then  down  ye'U  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  guralie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring 

skies, 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  ynur  cost, 
That  Architecture's  noble  art  is  lost ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Fine  Architecture,  trowth,  I  needs  must  say't 
o't! 
The  L — d  be  thankit  that  we've  tint  the  gate 

o't! 
Gaunt,  ghastly,  gsist-alluring  etlifices. 
Hanging  with  threat'ning  jut,  like  precipices  ; 
O'cr-arching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves, 
Supporting  roofs  fintastic,  stony  groves  ; 
Windows    and    doors,    in    nameless    sculpture 

drest. 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 
Forms  like  some  bedlam  statuary's  dream, 
The  craz'd  creations  of  mi-<guided  whim  ; 
Forms    might    be    worshipp'd    on    the  bended 

knee, 
And  still  the  second  dread  command  be  free. 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or 

Eea. 
Mansions  that  would  di-grace  the  building  taste 
Of  any  mason,  reptile,  bird,  or  beast; 
Fit  only  for  a  doited  Monkish  race. 
Or  frostv  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace. 
Or  cuifs  of  latci  time>,  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  s-terlin^  true  devotion  ; 
Fancies  that  our  guid  Brugh  denies  protection, 
And   soon    may  they  expire,   unblest  with   re- 
surrection ! 

AUI.n  BRIG. 

O  ve,  my  dear-rememlier'd  ancient  yealings. 
Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wminded  feelings ! 
Ye  worthy  Pruveses,  an'  mony  a  liailie, 
Wha  in  the  piths  o'  righteousness  did  toil  aye  ; 
Ye  dainty  Deacons,  an  ye  douce  Conveners, 
To    wliom     our    moderns     are     but     causey- 

doaners  ; 
Ye  godly   Coiinrits  wha  hae  blest  this  town  ; 
Ye  godly  lirUhrvn  of  the  sacred  gown, 
Wha  meeklv  gae  \nur  liunlits  to  the  tmitcrs  ; 
And   (what   would   now   be  strange)  ye  godly 

Writers  : 
A'  ye  douce  folk  I've  borne  aboon  the  broo, 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  jo  say  or  do  ! 
How  would    your  spirits    groan  in  deep  vex- 
ation. 
To  see  each  nulanclmly  alteration  ; 


hi  the  West  of  Scotland,  where  tho;p  fancy.scarinij  he- 
UiCii,  known  l)y  the  name  ol"  O/uiUts,  itiU  conluiuc 
pertinaciously  to  inhaljit. 

•    The  Mill-  e  of  tlic  river  A\r. 

<  A  smail  lanilingpL-u-c  abc-'e  the  large  key. 


And  agonizing,  curse  the  time  anil  place 

M'hen  ye  begat  the  base,  degenerate  race  ! 

Nae    liinger    Rev'rend     Men,     t\e\t     countiy't 

In   plain   braid    Scots  hold  forth  a  plain  braid 

story  ! 
Nae  langer  thrifty  Citizens,  an'  douce, 
Meet  owie  a  pint,  or  in  the  Council  house  : 
But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  Gentry, 
The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country  ; 
Men,  three  parts  made  by  tailors  and  by  bar- 
bers, 
Wha  waste  your  wcll-hain'd  gear  on  d         d 
new  £riijs  and  Uarbours  I 

NEW  BRIG. 

Now  baud  j'ou  there  !    for  faith  ye've  said 

enough, 
And  muckle  mair  than  ye  can  mak  to  through, 
As  for  your  Piiesthood,  I  shall  say  but  little, 
Corbies  and  Cleryy  are  a  shot  right  kittle  : 
But,  under  favour  o*  your  langer  beard. 
Abuse  o'  Magistrates  might  weel  be  spared  ; 
To  liken  them  to  your  auld  warld  squad, 
I  must  needs  say  comparisons  are  odd. 
In  Ayr,  Wag-wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a  hanaie 
To  mouth   '  a  Citizen,'  a  term  o*  scandal  : 
Nae    mair    the    Council    waddles    down    the 

street 
In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit ; 
Men  wha   grew  wise  priggin'   owre  hops   an* 

raisins, 
Or  gathei'd  lib'ral  views  in  Bonds  and  Seisins. 
If  haply  Knowledge,  on  a  random  tramp. 
Had  shored  them  with  a  glimmer  of  his  lamp. 
And  would  to  Common-sense,  fur  once  betrayed 

them. 
Plain   dull    Stupidity    slept    kindly   in    to  aid 

them. 


WTiat  farther  clishmaclaver  might  been  said. 
What   bloody   wars,    if   Sprites  had   blood  to 

shed. 
No  man  can  tell  ;  but  all  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  tra'n  appear'd  in  order  bright: 
Adowr.  the  glitt'riug  stream  they  featly  danced: 
Bright    to    the    moon    their    various    dresses 

glanced  : 
They  footed  o'er  the  wat'ry  glass  so  neat. 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 
Wliile  arts  of  Minstrelsy  among  them  rung, 
And  snul-ennobling  bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 
O  had  M'Laiic/ilin,'  thairm-inspiring  sage. 
Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage. 
When    thro'    his   dear    Struthspei/s   they   bor« 

with  Hij;hland  rage  ; 
Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia's  meltinp  airs. 
The  lover's  raptured  joys  or  bleeding  cares  ; 
How  would  his  Highland   lug  been  nobl»r  fir'd. 
And  even  his  matchless  hand  with  finer  touch 

ins;)ir'd  ! 


•  A  well  knowTi  perlbnner  of  Scottish  miuic  on  lh« 
violin. 


POEMS. 


l> 


No  pi.'ss  coulJ  tell  wnat  instrument  appear'd, 
Hut  ;ill  the  soul  of  Music's  self  was  heard  ; 
H;irnu>iiious  conceit  rung  in  every  part, 
While  simple   melody   pour'd    moving    on    the 

heart. 
The  Genius  of  the  stream  in  front  appears, 
A  venerable  chief  advanced  in  years; 
His  ho;in-  head  with  water-lilies  crown'd. 
His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  hound. 
Next  catne  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  rin"-, 
Sweet    Female    Beauty    hand     in     hajid    with 

Spring  ; 
Then,  crown'd  with  flow'ry  hay,  came  Rural 

Joy, 
And  Suuinier,  with  his  fervid-heaming  eye  : 
A!l-cheering  Plenty,  with  her  flowii^g  horn, 
Led    yellow    Autunm   wreath'd    with    nodding 

com  ; 
Then  Winter's  time-bleached  locks  did  hoary 

show, 
By  Hospitality  with  cloudless  brow  ; 
Next  fiillow'd  Courage  witli  his  nuirtial  stride. 
From  where  the  Feul  wild-woody  coverts  hide ; 
Henevolence,  with  mild  benignant  air, 
A  female  form,  came  from  the  tow'rs  of  Stair: 
[.earning  and  Worth  in  equal  measures  trode 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-lov'd  abode: 
Last,  white-rob'd  Peace,  crown'd  with  a  hazel 

wreath. 
To  rustic  Agriculture  did  Ijcqueath 
The  bri/keii  iron  instruments  of  death  : 
At  sight  of  whom  our  Sprites  forgat  their  ki«d- 

liug  wrath. 


THE  ORDINATION. 


For  sense  they  little  owe  to  Frucal  Heav'n— 
To  please  the  Mob  they  hiile  the  litile  giv'n. 


I. 

KiLMAftNocK  Wabsters,  fidge  an*  claw, 

An'  pour  your  creeshie  nations  ; 
An'  ye  wha  leather  rax  an'  draw, 

Of  a*  denominations. 
Switl:  to  the  Laiyh  Kirk,  ane  an'  a*, 

An"  there  tak  up  your  stations  j 
Then  aff  to  Beyhies  in  a  raw, 

An'  pour  divine  libations 

For  joy  this  day. 

II. 

Curst  Common- sense,  that  imp  o'  hell. 
Cam  in  wi'  Maggie  Lauder;* 

But  O aft  made  her  yell, 

An'  R sair  misca'd  her  ; 

This  day,  M' takes  the  flail. 

An'  he's  the  boy  will  blaud  her  ! 


•  Alliitlmg  to  a  scoffing  baJlad  which  was  made  on 
we  admission  of  the  late  Reverend  and  wortlw  Mr.  L. 
to  tlMi  Laifih  Kirk- 


He'll  clap  a  shanyan  on  her  tail, 
An'  set  the  bairns  to  daud  her 

Wi'  dirt  this  day 

IIL 

Mak  haste  an'  turn  king  David  owre, 

An'  lilt  wi'  holy  clangor; 
O    double  verse  come  gie  us  four, 

An'  skirl  up  the  Hangor  : 
This  day  the  Kiik  kicks  up  a  stouie, 

Na«  mair  the  knaves  shall  wrang  her 
For  heres-y  is  in  her  power. 

And  gloriously  she'll  whang  her 

Wi'  pith  this  day. 

IV. 

Come  let  a  projicr  text  be  read, 

An'  touch  it  alF  v/''  viijour, 
How  graceless  Ham  •  Ici.gh  3*.  his  Dad, 

Which  made  Ciinaan  a  nige;  • 
Or  P/iineasf  drove  the  murdering  b.ad% 

Wi*  whore-abliorriug  rigour  ; 
Or  Zipporah,  \  the  scaulding  jade. 

Was  like  a  bluidy  tiger 

r  the  inn  that  d&r , 


There,  try  liis  mettle  on  the  creed. 

An'  bind  him  down  wi'  caution. 
That  Stipend  is  a  carnal  weed. 

He  tuks  but  for  the  fashion  ; 
An'  gie  him  o'er  the  flock  to  feed. 

An'  punish  each  transgression  ; 
Especial,  rams  that  cross  the  breed, 

Gie  them  sufficient  threshin', 

Spare  them  nae  day. 

VI. 

Now  auld  Kilmarnock,  cock  thy  tail, 

An'  toss  thy  horns  fu'  canty  ; 
Nae  mair  thou'lt  rowt  out-owre  the  dale 

Because  thy  pasture's  scanty  ; 
For  lapfu's  large  o'  gospel  kail 

Shall  fill  thy  crib  in  plenty. 
An'  runts  o'  grace,  the  pick  and  wale, 

No  gi'en  by  way  o'  dainty. 

But  ilka  day. 

vn. 

Nae  mair  by  SabeVs  streams  we'll  weep, 

To  think  upon  our  Zion  ; 
An*  hing  our  fiddles  up  to  sleep, 

Like  baby-clouts  a-dryin'  ; 
Come,  screw  the  pegs  with  tunefu'  ci  eep> 

An'  owre  the  thairms  be  tryin'  ; 
Oh,  rare  !    to  see  our  elbucks  whetp, 

An'  a  like  lamb-tails  flyin' 

Fu'  fast  this  day. 

VIII, 

Lang  Patronage,  wi'  rod  o'  aim. 
Has  shored  the  Kirk's  undoin'. 


•  Genesis,  ch.  ix.  vcr.  22. 
t  Numbers,  ch.  xxv.  ver.  8. 
i  Exodus,  ch.  iv.  ver  25. 


14 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


As  lately  Fenwick,  sair  forfairn, 

Has  proven  to  its  ruin  : 
Our  Patron,  honest  man  !    Ghncairn, 

He  saw  mischief  was  brewin'  ; 
An'  like  a  godly  elect  bairn, 

He's  wal'd  us  out  a  true  ane, 

An*  sound  this  day. 

IX. 

Now  R harangue  nae  inair, 


But  steek  your  gab  for  ever  ; 
Or  try  the  wicked  town  of  Ayr, 

For  there  they'll  think  you  clever  ; 
Or,  nae  reflection  on  your  isar, 

Ye  may  commence  a  shaver  ; 
Or  to  the  Nitherton  repair, 

An'  turn  a  carper  weaver 

Aff  hand  this  day. 


and  you  were  just  a  match, 


M — 

We  never  had  sic  twa  drones  : 
Auld  Hiirnie  did  the  Lni'p/i  Kirk  rt',-\tch, 

Just  like  a  winkin'  baudrons  : 
An'  aye  he  catch'd  the  tither  wretch, 

To  fry  them  in  his  caudrons  : 
But  now  his  honour  maun  detach, 

Wi'  a*  his  brimstone  squadrons, 

Fast,  fast,  this  day. 

XI. 

See,  see  auld  Orthodoxy's  faes. 

She's  swingein'  through  the  city; 
liark  how  the  nine-tail'd  cat  she  plays ! 

I  vow  it's  unco  pretty  : 
There,  Learning,  wi'  his  Greekish  face, 

Grunts  out  some  Latin  ditty  : 
An'  Common-sense  is  gaun,  she  says, 

To  mak  to  Jamie  Heattie 

Her  plaint  this  day. 

XIL 

But  there's  Morality  himsel', 

Embracing  a'  o|)inions ; 
Hear,  how  he  gies  the  tither  yell, 

Between  his  twa  companions  ; 
See,  how  she  peels  the  skin  an'  fell, 

As  ane  were  pcelin'  onions  ! 
Now  there — they're  packed  aff  to  hell, 

An'  banish'd  our  dominions, 

Henceforth  tliis  day 

XIH. 
O  happy  day  !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

Come  bouse  about  the  porter  ! 
Morality's  demure  decoys 

Shall  here  nae  mair  find  quTte;  : 
M' ,  R ,  ar?  the  j^ys, 

That  heresy  ca*'    ortu.'    . 
They'll  gie  u  •:'  on  a  rupe  a  hoyse, 

/  -*  cvwf  iier  mea.'<ure  shorter 

By  the  head  some  day. 

XIV. 

Come  bring  the  tither  luatchkin  in, 
An    here's  for  a  conclusioii. 


To  every  New  Ligid  *  mother's  ton. 
From  this  time  forth.  Confusion  : 

If  mair  they  deave  us  wi'  their  dia. 
Or  Patronage  intrusion. 

We'll  light  a  spunk,  an'  ev'ry  skin, 
We'll  riu  them  aff  in  fusion 

Like  oil,  some  day 


THE  CALF. 

TO  THE  REV.  MR.  

On  his  Text,  Malachi,  ch.  iv.  ver.  9.  '  And  I'M? 
shall  go  forth,  and  grow  up,  like  calves  of  -he  staii,- 

Right  Sir!  your  text  I'll  prove  it  trie. 

Though  Heretics  may  laugh  ; 
For  instance  ;   there's  yoursel'  just  now, 

God  knows,  an  unco  Calf  I 

An'  should  some  Patron  be  so  kind, 

As  bless  you  wi'  a  kirk, 
I  doubt  nae,  Sir,  but  then  we'll  find, 

Ye're  still  as  great  a  Stirk. 

But,  if  the  Lover's  raptur'd  hour 

Shall  ever  be  your  lot. 
Forbid  it,  every  heavenly  Power, 

You  e'er  should  be  a  Slot  I 

Tho',  when  some  kind,  connubial  Dear, 

Your  but-and-ben  adorns. 
The  like  has  been  that  you  may  wear 

A  noblo  head  of  horns. 

And  in  your  lug,  most  reverend  James, 

To  hear  you  roar  and  rowte. 
Few  men  o'  sense  will  doubt  your  claims 

To  rank  amang  the  nowte. 

And  when  ye're  numbcr'd  wi'  the  dead, 

Below  a  grassy  hillock, 
Wi'  justice  they  may  mark  your  head— 

'  Here  lies  a  famous  Dulluck  /' 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL 


O  Prince!  O  Chief  of  many  throned  Power's, 
Tliat  led  th'  embattled  Seraphim  to  war JlliUn. 


O  THOU  !   whatever  title  suit  thee, 

Auld  Hornie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yn  cavern  grim  an'  sootie, 

Clu  ";!  Ui  del     .tt^  S 
6pairj,-es  nbo'i..  *hs  •••unstane  cootie, 

To  sraud  poor  wretcLei 

Hear  me,  auld  Ilan/jie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  danmed  bodies  be  ; 

•  Next'  TAght  is  a  cant  phrase  in  the  West  of  Sort. 
laml,  for  those  religious  npininns  wnich  Dr.  Taylor  ot 
Norwich  has  defended  so  strenuously. 


— 

^OEMS.                                                     'k 

Vw  sure  sma'  ijloasine  it  can  gie. 

Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse. 

E'en  to  II  (Itil, 

Just  at  the  bit. 

To  skclj)  an'  siauil  poor  dogs  like  me. 

An'  lioar  us  squt'cl  ! 

Vi'hon  thowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoort^ 
An'  float  thejinglin'  icy-boord. 

Great  is  tliy  powV,  an'  great  tliy  fame ; 

Then   Water-kclpies  haunt  the  foord. 

'ar  ktiul  and  noted  is  thy  name  ; 

By  your  direction, 

An'  tho'  yon  lowin'  heugh's  thy  hanie, 

An'  nighted  Trav'llers  are  allured 

Thou  travels  far  ; 

To  their  destruction. 

An'  faith  !    tliou's  neither  la^  nor  lame, 

Nor  blate  nor  scaur 

An'  aft  your  moss-traversing  Spunkiet 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  and  drunk  "s  ; 

Wliyh'S,  ranffing  hhe  a  roarin'  lion^ 

The  bleezin',  curst,  mischievous  nionkeyb 

For  prey,  a'  holes  and  corners  trj  in'  ; 

Delude  his  eyes. 

Whyles  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyin*, 

Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is, 

Tirling  the  kirks  j 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pryin', 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

When  Masons'  mystic  u-ortl  an'  grip-. 
In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up. 

I've  heard  my  revi-rend   Grattnie  say. 

Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

In  lanely  glens  you  like  to  stray  ; 

Or,  strange  to  tell .' 

Or  where  auld  ruiu'd  castles  gray, 

The  youngest  Brother  ye  wail  whip 

Nod  to  the  moon. 

Atr  straught  to  helj  ' 

-e  fright  the  nightly  wand'rer's  way. 

\Vi'  eldritch  croon. 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonuie  yard, 
When  yimthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 

WTien  twilight  did  my  Grannie  summon. 

An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shar'd, 

To  say  her  prayers,  douce  honest  woman  ! 

The  ra])tur'd  hour, 

Aft  yont  the  dyke  she's  heard  you  bummin'  ! 

Sweet  on  the  fragrant  flowery  swaird 

\Vi'  eerie  drone  ; 

In  shady  bower  : 

Or,  rustliu',   thro'  the  boortries  comin*, 

\Vi'  heavy  groan. 

Then  you,  ye  auld,  snic-drawing  dog  ! 
Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night. 

An'  played  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

The  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin'  light, 

(  Black  be  your  fa'  \j 

Wi'  you,  rnysel',  I  gat  a  fright, 

An'  gied  the  infant  world  a  shog. 

Ayont  the  lough  ; 

'Maist  ruined  a' 

Ye,  like  a  rash-bush,  stood  in  sight, 

Wi   waving  sough. 

D'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  biza, 
Wi'  reekit  duds,  and  reestit  gizz. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake. 

Ye  did  present  your  snioutie  phiz 

Each  bristl'd  hair  stood  like  a  stake. 

'J\!ang  better  folk, 

'Vlicn  wi'  an  eldritch  stour,  quaick — quaick — 

An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uz 

Amang  the  springs, 

Your  sj)itefu'  joke  ? 

Awa  ye  squatter'd,  like  a  drake. 

On  whistling  wings. 

An'  how  ye  gat  him  i'  your  thrall. 
An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  an'  hall. 

Let  Warh.chs  grim,  an'  wither'd  hags, 

While  scabs  and  blotches  did  him  gall. 

Tell  how  wi'  you  on  ragweed  nags, 

Wi'  bitter  claw. 

They  skim  the  muirs,  and  dizzy  crags. 

An'  lowsed  his  ill  tongued  wicked  ScawV 

M'i'  wicked  speed  ; 

Was  warst  ava  ? 

And  ia  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues. 

Owre  howkit  dead. 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse. 
Your  wily  snares  an'  fechtin'  tierce. 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi'  toil  an'  pain. 

Sin'  that  day  Michael  *  did  you  pierce, 

\l\y  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain  ; 

Down  to  this  time. 

For,  oh  !   the  yellow  treasure's  ta'en 

Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

By  witching  skill ; 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An'  dawtlt,  twal-pint  Hawkies  gane 

As  yell's  the  Bill. 

An'  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  » ..'re  chinlria 

V  certain  Bardie's  rantin',  drinkin', 

Thence  mv«»ic  kcr's  mik  great  ab  jse. 

jou  »  \u<-i».e8s  ..our  «'ii;  st-rd  '"a.  l'"V'u>*. 

Ou  youuf  G-.am  o,  fo-.o,  keeii,  an'  c.uuse  ; 

1    t  }•"'       O'V  f    J'V    • 

^ *•      'L-    vcs     vaiK-iuine  i'  the  house. 

By  cantrip  wit, 

-  Vide  Milton,  book  ti. 

iO 


BURNS'  WORKS 


But,  faltli  '  l.e'll  turn  a  corner,  jinkin  , 
And  clu-at  you  yet. 

But,  fare  ye  weel,  aulil  X!ch!e-len  ! 

0  wad  ye  tak  a  tliou2;1u  f.nd  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  mi;;ht — I  diiini  ken — 

Stiil  hae  a  stake — 

1  m  wae  to  think  upon  \  on  i!eii, 

Even  for  your  sake  ! 


DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS 

OF 

POOR  MAILIE, 

THE  AUTHOR'S  ONLY  PET  YOWE. 
AN  UNCO  MOURNFU'  TALE. 

As  Mailii,  an'  her  lambs  thegither, 
Were  ae  day  nibh'ing  ou  the  tether, 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a  hiteh, 
An'  oivre  she  warsled  in  the  ditch  ; 
There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie, 
When  Huyhoc'  he  came  doytin  by. 

Wi'  glowrin*  een,  and  lifted  hau's, 
Poor  liughoc  like  a  statue  Stan's  : 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 
But,  wae's  my  heart  I   he  could  na  mend  it  ! 
He  gaped  wide,  but  naething  spak  ! 
At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

•  O  thou,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  waefu'  case  ! 
My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 
Kn   bear  them  to  my  Master  dear. 

'  Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep 
As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a  sheep, 
O,  l.'id  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair  ! 
But  ca'  them  out  to  park  or  hill. 
An'  let  them  wander  at  their  will: 
So  may  his  flock  inciease,  an*  grow 
To  scores  o'  lambs,  ati'  packs  o'  woo' ! 

'  Tell  him,  he  was  a  master  kin*, 
An*  aye  was  guid  to  me  an'  mine: 
An*  now  my  dying  charge  1  gie  him, 
My  helpless  lambs  I  trust  them  wi*  him. 

'  O  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives, 
Frae  dogs,  an*  tods,  an'  butchers'  knives  ! 
But  gie  them  guid  cow  milk  their  fill, 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  thenisel   ; 
An'  tent  them  duly,  e'en  an'  morn, 
Wi'  teats  o'  hay  an'  rij)3  o'  corn. 


'  An'  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  ither  vile,  wanrestfu'  pets! 
To  slink  thro'  slaps,  an'  reave  an'  st-al, 
At  stacks  o'  pea^e,  or  stocks  o'  kail, 
So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbean. 
For  muny  a  year  come  thro'  the  sheers: 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  o'  l.-read. 
An'  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they'ie  dead 

'  My  poor  f'lO/)  lamh,  my  son  an'  heir, 
O  bid  hini  breeil  him  up  wi'  caie  ' 
An'  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 
To  pit  some  bavins  in  his  breast  ! 
An'  warn  him,  what  I  winna  name. 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes  at  hauie ; 
An'  no  to  rin  an*  wear  his  cloots, 
Like  ither  menseless,  graceless,  brutes. 

'  An'  neist  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 
Guid  keep  thee  frae  a  tether  strir-g  ■ 
O,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  -ij/ 
Wi'  ony  blastit  moorland  toip  : 
But  aye  keep  mind  to  moop  an'  raell 
Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel'  ! 

'  An'  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last  breatfl, 
I  lea'e  my  blessin'  wi'  you  baith  : 
An'  when  you  think  upo'  your  mither. 
Mind  to  be  kin'  to  aue  auither. 

'  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinaa  fail 
To  tell  my  master  a'  my  tale  ; 
An'  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether. 
An',  for  thy  pains,  thou'se  get  my  blether.' 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn'd  her  head, 
And  closed  her  een  aniang  the  dead. 


*  A  nccbor  heril-callan. 


POOR  MAILIE'S  ELEGY 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 
Wi'  saut  tears  trickling  down  your  nose ; 
Our  bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close. 

Past  a'  remead  ; 
The  last  sad  cape-stane  o'  his  woes ; 

Poor  Maine's  dead ! 

It's  no  the  loss  o'  wail's  gear. 
That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear, 
Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed : 
He's  lost  a  friend  and  neebor  dear, 

In  Mailii  dead. 

.      Thro'  a'  the  town  she  trotted  by  him ; 
A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him  ; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  s])y  him. 
She  ran  wi'  speed  ; 
A  friend  mair  faithfu'  ne'er  cam  nigh  hina, 
Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense. 
An'  could  l)ehave  htrsel'  wi'  mense  • 
ril  say't,  she  never  brak  a  fence. 

Thro'  thiev"  ih.  greed 


rOEMS. 


n 


Ourhaidie,  lanely,  keeps  tliospence 

Sill'  yjailie's  dead. 

Or,  if  hn  wanilors  up  jlie  howe, 
Hei  living  imige  in  her  i/owe, 
Cc'inea  bleating  to  iiini  omto  the  knowe. 

For  liits  ()'  bread  ; 
An'  down  the  briny  |ie;ii  Is  mwe 

For  Alailie  dead. 

She  n-as  nae  get  o'  moorland  tips, 
Wi'  tawted  ket,  an'  hairy  hips: 
For  her  forbears  were  bi'oiinht  in  ships 

Frae  yont  tlie   Tweed! 
A  bonnier^eCiA  ne'er  (•ro.--s'd  the  clips 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

Vae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanch.ineie  thing — a  rape  I 
It  niaks  guid  fellows  girn  an'  gape, 

Wi'  chokin'  dread  ; 
An'  RohMs  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape. 

For  Mailie  dead. 

O,  a'  ye  bards  on  bonnie  Doon  ! 
An'  wha  on  Ayr  your  chaunters  tune  ! 
Come,  join  the  nielancholious  croon 

O'  liihin's  reed  ! 
His  heart  will  never  get  ahoon 

His  Mailie  dead. 


TO  J.  S- 


Friendship  !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ' 
Siveet'ner  of  life,  and  solder  of  society  1 
I  owe  thee  niucJi ! Ulair, 


-,  the  sleest,  paukie  thief, 


Dear  S—  _ 

That  e'er  attempted  stealth  or  rief, 

Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 

Owre  human  hearts; 
For  ne';r  a  bosom  yet  was  prief 

Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  an'  moon, 
And  every  star  that  blirdis  ahoon, 
Ye've  cost  nie  tweuty  pair  o'  siioon, 

Just  gaun  to  see  you  : 
And  every  ither  pair  that's  done, 

JVIair  taen  I'm  wi'  you. 

That  auld  capricious  carlin,  Nature, 
To  niak  amends  for  serimpit  stature, 
She's  tum'd  you  afF,  a  human  creature 
On  liL-rJirsl  plan, 
And  in  her  freaks,  on  every  feature, 

She  s  wrote,  t/te  Man. 

Just  now  Fve  tien  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  barmie  noddle's  working  prime, 
My  fiflcy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon  ; 


Ilae  ye  a  leisure  moment's  time 

To  hear  what's  comin'  ? 

Some  rhyme  a  ncebor's  name  to  lash  ; 
Rome  rhyme  (vain  thought!)  for  neeilfu'  cafih, 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  countra  clash, 

An'  raise  a  <liu  ; 
For  me  an  aim  I  never  fash  ; 

I  rhyme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot. 
Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 
An'  damned  my  fortune  to  the  groat  : 

But  in  re(juit, 
Has  bless'd  me  wi'  a  random  shot 

O'  countra  wit. 

This  while  my  notion's  taen  a  sk".etjt, 
To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  preut ; 
But  still  the  mair  I'm  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries  '  HooUq 
I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent  ! 

Ye'U  shaw  your  folly, 

'  There's  ither  poets,  much  your  betters, 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o'  letters, 
Hae  thought  they  had  ensured  their  debtors, 

A'  future  ages  ; 
Now  moths  deform  in  shapeless  tetters, 

Their  unknown  pages. 

Then  fareweel  hopes  o'  laurel-ljoughs, 
To  garkuxl  my  poetic  brows  ! 
Henceforth  I'll  rove  whei'e  busy  ploughs 

Are  whistling  thrang, 
An   teach  the  lanely  heights  an'  howes 

I\]y  rustic  sang. 

I'll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-hdlling  moments  sj)eed, 
Till  fite  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread  ; 

Then,  all  unknoun, 
I'll  lay  me  with  tli'  inglorious  dead, 

Forgot  and  gone ! 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 
Just  now  we're  living,  sound  an'  hale. 
Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  care  o'er  side 
And  'argc,  before  enjoyment's  gale. 

Let's  tak'  the  tide. 

T^, is  life,  sae  fu's  I  understand, 
Is  a'  enchanted  fairy  land. 
Where  pleasure  is  the  masic  wand. 

That,  wielded  right, 
Maks  hours  like  minutes,  hand,  in  hand. 

Dance  by  fu'  light. 

The  mngic-wand  then  let  us  wield  ; 
For  ance  tint  five-an'- forty's  speel'd, 
See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

Wi'  wrinkled  face. 
Comes  hostin',  hirplin',  owre  the  field, 
Wi'  creepin'  pace. 


18 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Wlien  ance  life's  daii  nraws  near  the  gloamin', 
Then  fciitwcel  vacant  careless  roaniin'  ; 
Aii'  farewee)  rheerfu'  tankards  foam  in', 

An'  social  noise  ; 
An'  farewcel  dear  deluding  womatiy 

The  joy  of  jiiys  ! 

O  Life  !   how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 
Young  Fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning  I 
Cold-pausing  Caution's  lesson  scorning. 

We  frisk  away, 
Like  school-boys,  at  the  expected  warning, 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here, 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier, 
Unmindful  that  the  thorn  is  near, 

Amang  the  leaves : 
And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves. 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flowery  spat, 
For  which  they  never  toiled  nor  swat, 
They  drink  the  sweet  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain  ; 
And  haply  eye  the  barren  hut 

M'ith  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim,  some  Fortune  chase  ; 
Keen  hope  ricies  every  sinew  brace  : 
Thro'  fair,  thro'  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 

An  seize  the  prey : 
Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place. 

They  close  the  day 

An'  others   like  your  humble  servan', 
Poor  wights     nae  rules  nor  roads  observin' ; 
To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin', 

They  zig-zig  on  ; 
Till  curst  wi'  age,  obscure  an'  starvin'. 

They  aften  groan. 

Alas  !   what  bitter  toil  an'  strainings 
But  truce  with  peevish  poor  com|ilaining  ! 
Is  Fortune's  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E'en  let  h-r  gang  ! 
Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let's  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door, 
And  kneel,   *  Ye  pow'rs!'  and  warm  implore, 
'  Tho'  1  should  wander  terra  o'er. 

In  ail  her  climes, 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more. 

Aye  rowth  o'  rhymes. 

'  Gie  drpeping  roasts  to  countra  lairds^ 
Till  icic!(!s  hing  frae  their  beards  : 
Gie  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards, 

An'  maids  of  honovr  ; 
An'  yiil  an   whisky  gie  to  cairds, 

Until  they  sconner. 

•  A  title,  Dempster  merits  it, 
A  'jart'jr  gie  to    WiUie  Pilt ; 


Gie  wealth  to  some  be-Iedger'd  cit, 
In  cent,  per  cent 

But  give  nie  real,  sterling  wit, 

An'  I'm  content. 

'  ^Vlll1e  ye  are  pleased  to  keep  me  bats^ 
I'll  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal, 
Be't  water-brose  or  musliu-knil, 

Wi'  cheerfu'  face, 
As  lang's  the  muses  dinca  fail 

To  say  the  grace.* 

An  anxious  e'e  I  never  throws 
Behint  my  lug,  or  iiy  my  nose  ; 
I  jouk  beneath  misfortvine's  blows. 

As  weel's  I  may  » 
Sworn  foe  to  sorrow,  care,  an'  prose, 

I  rhyme  away. 

O  ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 
Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool, 
Compar'd  wi'  you — O  fool  !  fool  !  fool ! 

How  much  unlike  ! 
Your  liearts  are  just  a  standing  pool. 

Your  lives,  a  dyke  ! 

Nae  hair-brain'd  sentimental  traces 
In  your  unletter'd  nameless  face-s  ; 
In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray, 
But  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 

Ye  hum  away 

Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye"re  uTtaSf 
Nae  ferly  tho'  ye  do  despise 
The  hairum-scairum,  ram-stam  boys. 

The  rattlin*  squad  : 
I  see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes — 

— Ye  ken  the  road.— 

Whilst  I — but  I  shall  hand  me  there— 
Wi'  you  I'll  scarce  gang  any  u/iere^ 
Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  m.iir. 

But  quat  my  sang, 
Content  wi'  you  to  mak  a  jiaii', 

Whare'er  1  gang. 


A  DREAM. 


Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  tlie  statute  blames  vl'Jl 

reason  ; 
But  surely  dreams  were  ne'er  ir.dicted  treason. 

[On  reading,  in  the  public  papers,  tlic  Laurrate's  Odt, 
with  the  other  par^ide  of  June  4,  \'>iG,  the  authof 
was  no  sooner  dro|it  asleep,  than  he  mianincd  him. 
eelf  transpotted  to  the  birth-day  levee;  and  in  ilS 
dreaming  fancy,  made  the  following  W<W/e«."i 

I. 
Guid-mornin'  to  your  Majesty  / 

May  heaven  augment  your  blisses, 
On  every  new  birth-day  ye  see, 

A  humble  poet  wishes  ! 
My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee, 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is, 


POEMS. 


19 


b  siiro  an  uncniith  sifjht  fo  see, 
Aiiiaiijj  t!ie  biitli-d.iv  divssus 

Sue  fije  this  day. 

II. 
I  see  ye're  c-omplfrnentod  thransj, 

I5y  niony  a  lord  an'  lady, 
•  Odd  save  the  King  !'  's  a  cuckoo  sang 

That's  unco  easy  said  aye  ; 
The  poe/s,  too,  a  venal  t^ang, 

Wi"  rhymes  wtel  turn'd  an'  ready, 
Wad  gar  \oii  trow  ye  ne'er  do  wrung. 

Bat  aye  unerring  .stcadv. 

On  sic  a  day. 

III. 

For  me  !   befoie  a  snonanh's  face, 

Ev'n  l/icie  I  winna  flatter  ; 
For  neither  i)ensiiin,  ])()st,  nor  [dace, 

Am  I  your  humhle  debtor: 
So  nae  reflection  on  i/oiir  grucc, 

Your  kingNhl])  to  bespatter; 
Tiiere's  nioiiie  wanr  been  o'  the  race, 

Aq'  aiblins  ane  been  better 

Tiian  you  this  day. 

IV. 

Tis  very  true,  my  sov'reign  king, 
^ly  skill  may  weel.  be  doubted  : 
But  facts  are  chiels  tliat  wiuna  ding, 

An'  dou-na  be  di^^puted  : 
Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing, 

Is  e'en  right  reft  an'  clouted, 
Kn    now  the  third  part  o'  the  string. 
An'  less,  will  gang  about  it 

Than  did  ae  day. 

V. 

Far  be't  frae  me  that  I  aspire 

To  blame  your  legislation, 
Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire. 

To  rule  this  miglity  nation  ! 
But,  faith  !   I  muckle  doubt,  my  Sire, 

Ye've  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps,  wha,  in  a  barn  or  bvre. 

Wad  beUer  fill'd  tlitir  station 

Than  courts  yon  day. 

VI. 

An'  now  ye've  glen  auld  Britain  peace. 

Her  broken  shins  to  piaister  ; 
Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester ; 
for  me,  thank  God,  my  life's  a  lease, 

Nae  barguiii  wearing  faster. 
Or,  faith  !   I  fear,  that  wi'  the  geese, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I'  the  craft  some  day 

VII. 

I'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

\\  hen  taxes  he  enlarges, 
(An'  Will's  a  true  guid  fallow's  get, 

A  name  not  envy  sjjairges), 
Jiat  be  intends  to  oay  your  debt, 

An'  lessen  a'  your  ciiarget ; 


Hut,  God-sake  !   A't  nae  aaving  fit 
Abridge  your  bonnie  liar>res 

An'  boats  this  day, 

VIII. 

Adieu,  my  Lirge  !  may  freedom  geek 

Beneath  your  high  protection  ; 
An'  may  ye  rax  Coiruption's  neck. 

An'  gie  her  for  dissection  ! 
But  since  I'm  here,  I'll  no  neglect. 

In  loyal,  liue  allection, 
To  pay  your  Queen,  with  due  respect, 

My  fealty  an'  subjection 

This  great  birth-dajTi 

IX. 

Hail,  Majesty!  Most  ExceUtrtt  ! 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye. 
Will  ye  accejit  a  coniplinierit 

A  simple  poet  gies  ye  ? 
Thae  bonnie  bairntime,  Ileav'n  has  lent, 

Still  higher  may  they  lieeze  ye. 
In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent, 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

X. 

For  you,  young  potentate  o'  M'ales, 

I  tell  your  Highness  fairly, 
Down  Pleasure's  stream,  wi'  swelling  g«ij% 

I'm  taidd  ye'ie  driving  rarely  ; 
But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails. 

An'  curse  your  folly  sairly. 
That  e'er  ye  biak  Diana's  pales, 

Or  rattled  dice  wi'  Cltiiriie, 

By  night  or  day. 

XI. 

Yet  aft  a  ragged  co'xfe's  been  known 

To  mak  a  noble  uiver  : 
So,  )e  may  doucely  fill  a  throne. 

For  a'  their  clish-ma-claver : 
There,  him  •  at  Agincimrt  wha  shone. 

Few  better  were  or  braver ; 
An'  yet  wi'  funny  queer  Sir  John,f 

He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  nionie  a  day 

XII. 

For  you,  right  rev  rend  Omahrug, 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 
Altho'  a  ribbon  at  your  lug 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer  : 
As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 

That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 
Then,  swith  !   an'  get  a  wife  to  hug, 

Or,  trouth,  ye'l!  stain  the  mitre 

Some  luckless  dajf. 

XIII. 
Voting  royal   Tarry  Greeks,  I  leara, 
Ye've  lately  come  athwart  her ; 


•  Kinp  Ilenrv  V. 

t  Sir  John  Kalstafi;  vide  Shakespcai*. 


20 


BURNS'  WORKS 


A  gloriots  gnlleij*  stem  an  stern, 
Weel  rio^g'd  for   Venus'  barter  ; 

Bjt  first  haa'^  cut,  that  she'll  discern 
Your  hymeneal  diarter, 

Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple  aim, 
An'  large  tpo'  her  quarter, 

Gime  full  that  day. 

XIV. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonnie  blossoms  a', 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty, 
Meav'n  niak  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw, 

An'  gie  you  lads  a-plenty  : 
But  sneer  nae  liritish  hoy  a  awa', 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  aye; 
An'  German  gentles  are  but  sma'. 

They're  better  just  than  wmit  aye 
On  onie  day. 

XV. 

God  bless  you  a'  !   consider  now, 

\''e're  un(ro  muckle  dautet ; 
But,  ere  the  cr.urse  o"  life  be  thro'. 

It  miy  be  bitter  sautet ; 
Au'  I  h^e  seen  their  cogyie  fou, 

That  yet  hae  tarrow't  at  it  ; 
But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 

Fu'  clean  that  d3> 


THE  VISION. 

DIIAN   FIRST.| 

The  sun  had  closed  the  winter  day, 
Tlie  curlers  quat  their  roiiring  pl.iy. 
An'  hunger'd  raaukin  t.i'en  her  way 

To  kail-yards  gre<r 
WTiile  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  l)etray 

Whare  she  has  be». 

The  tliresher's  weary  flinpin-tree 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  nie  : 
And  whan  the  day  had  closed  his  e'e. 

Far  i'  the  west, 
Ben  i'  the  spence,  right  pensivelie, 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle-cheek, 
I  sat  and  ey'd  the  spewing  reek. 
That  fiH'd  wi'  huast-provoking  smeek. 

The  auld  clay  biggin"  ^ 
An'  hoard  the  restless  rattons  s(pieak 
About  the  riggiu'. 

All  in  this  mottle,  misty  clime, 
I  ijackward  musM  on  wasted  time, 
How  I  had  spent  my  youthfu'  prime, 

An'  done  nae-tliing. 


•  Alluding  to  the  ncwspiper  accijunt  of  a  cwtain 
royal  sailor's  amour. 

*  Dunn,  a  term  of  Ossinii's  fur  the (IKnrcnt divisions 
of  a  digressive  iH)em.  itcc  \iii  Ciith-LuUa,  vol.  ■!.  of 
U'Pherwn's  translaiiun. 


But  stringin'  blethei  s  up  in  rhyme 

For  fooLs  to  sing. 

Had  I  to  guid  advice  but  harkit, 
I  might,  by  this,  hae  led  a  market, 
Or  strutted  in  a  bank  and  clarkit 

My  cash  account : 
While  here,  half-mad,  half-fed,  half-sa»'V' 

Is  a'  th'  amount. 

I  started,  mutt'ring,  blockhead!  c-/' 
And  heav'd  on  high  my  wauki*.  ]<rJi, 
To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  rejf. 

Or  soTie  ra"'.!  a'.ib, 
That  I,  henceforth,  v,-o>  id  '.^e  ;ni(.ne  proi^' 

Til)  ,[i'j  la-oi  b.eatn-- 

Wlien  click  !   tni*  st-.n^  the  sneck  did  dr»> 
An*  jee  !  the  dooi  p'.ed  to  the  wa* ; 
An*  by  my  ins''.i-'  avz  I  saw, 

?'ow  bleczin  bright, 
A  tight  jr  .Ja  .d"  .h  flizzie  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight 

Y's  ree"^  vi  daubt,  I  held  my  whisht 
Tte  i4if?.<it  aith  h  il'.'-form'd  was  crush't ; 
I  g'jT  r''"  a'^  eerie's  I'd  been  dusht 

In  some  wild  glen  ; 
f^cic  I  pwcit,  like  modest  worth,  she  blnsh't, 

And  stei)ped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  hnUy-bovghs, 
Were  twisted  gracefu'  round  her  brows; 
1  took  her  for  some  Scottish  Muse, 

By  that  same  token  ; 
An'  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Would  soon  been  broken. 

A  '  hair-brain'd,  sentimental  trace' 
Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face; 
A  wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her  ; 
Her  eye,  ev'n  turn'd  on  empty  space, 

Beam'd  keen  with  honoui 

Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen, 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen  ; 
And  such  a  leg  !   my  bonnie  Jean 

Could  only  pear  it ; 
Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 
Nanu  else  cam  near  it. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue, 
My  gazing  wonder  chiefly  drew  ; 
Deep  lights  and  shaiJes,  bold-mingling,  threw 

A  lustre  grand  ; 
And  seem'd  to  my  astonish'd  view, 

A  well  hnow.i  Und. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost  i 
There,  mnimtains  to  the  skies  were  tost : 
Here,  tumbling  billows  mark'd  the  coast, 

Witli  surging  foam; 
There,  distant  shone  Art's  lofty  t)oast, 

The  lordly  dome. 


POEMS. 


21 


iTeii.  Donn  I'd.irM  down  his  tir-fetch'd  flooils; 
riure.  \V(.'ll-fl(l  Incinv  r^t.itely  tlnids  : 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  st;i\v  thro'  his  wiinds 

On  t(i  tlie  shore  ; 
And  many  a  csser  toiren'  sciiils, 

Vt'it'j  Kti'iiiing  mar. 

Low,  in  a  s;\ndy  valley  s[irca(I, 
An  anciont  hormitik  i'miM  her  head  ; 
Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  luiiists  a  race, 
To  every  nohler  virtue  hred, 

And  [Kilish'd  grace. 

By  stately  tow'r  or  p.ilaie  fair, 
Or  ruins  pemlcnt  in  the  air, 
Bold  stems  of  heruos,  here  and  there, 

I  eoidd  discern  ; 
Some  secm'd  to  muse,  smne  seein'd  to  dare. 

With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  i;In\viiig  transport  feel, 
To  see  a  race  *  heroic  wheel, 
And  brandish  round  thi'  deep-dy'd  st«el 

In  sturdy  hlows  ; 
While  bark-recoiling  seem'd  to  reel 

Tneir  suthron  foes. 

His  Country's  Saviour, f  mark  him  well  ! 
Bold  Jiicliardtiiii's  \  heroic  swe!l  ; 
The  chief  on  Sark  §  who  glorious  fell, 

in  high  command  ; 
And  he  whom  ruthles>  fates  expel 

His  native  land. 

There,  where  a  sceptred  Pictish  shade  || 
Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 
I  niark'd  a  maitial  race  pnurtray'd 

In  coloiirs  strong  ; 
Bold,  soldier-featur'd,  undismay'd 

They  strode  along. 

Thro'  many  a  wild,  romantic  grove,^ 
Near  many  a  hcrniit-faney'd  cove, 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love 

In  musing  mood). 
An  aged  Judge,  I  saw  him  rove, 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe,** 
The  learned  sire  aiul  son  I  saw, 
To  Nature's  God  and  Nature's  law 

Thev  gave  their  lore. 


•  The  Wal'aoes.  i  William  Wallnco. 

t  Adam  Wallace,  of  Richardtoii,  cousin  to  the  im- 
mortal preserver  of  Seotlisli  indeiicndf  nee. 

{  Wall.-icc,  Laird  of  Craii;ii',  who  wassc'cr:nd  in  mm- 
inaiid,  under  r)oiii;las  Karl  of  Ornioiu!,  at  the  fairoiis 
battle  on  the  bank-  of  SarK,  fought  iinno  HIS.  That 
glorious  victory  was  |)riiici|iallv  nwmf;  to  ihe  jmlicioiis 
conduct  and  intrepid  valoi^r  of  the  gallant 'Laird  of 
Cmigic,  who  lied  of  h  s  woi;nds  after  the  action 

i'Coilus,  Kipgof  the  I'lets,  from  whom  the  district 
of  Kyle  is  stiid  to  tdsc  its  name,  lies  hinicd,  as  traili- 
tion  ^i\s,  near  the  family-seat  of  the  Moiitijomcries  of 
Coilsiield,  where  hi~  burial  pl.icc  is  still  shown. 

^  Barskimming,  the  seat  ol  tiie  late  Lord  Justice. 
Clerk. 

••  fatrine,  the  s^it  of  th  late  Doctor,  and  present 
?rof#^sor  .Stewart. 


This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw, 
Tli.it,  to  adore. 

Bri/tiiin'i  brave  ward  •  I  well  could  spy, 
Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eve. 
Who  call'd  on  Fame,  low  stamiitig  bv> 

To  hand  him  on, 
Where  .wny  a  patriot-name  on  hi:^'h. 

And  hero  shone. 

DUAN   SF.CONI). 

With  musing-dec]),  astonish'd  stare, 
I  view'd  the  heav'nly-sceming  /*«/;•  ; 
A  whisp'ring  thruh  diil  witness  hear, 

Of  kindred  sweet, 
When  with  an  elder  si-tei's  air 

She  did  inc  greet. 

'  All  hall !   my  own  insjjircd  hard  I 
In  me  thy  native  muse  regard  ; 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fite  is  hard, 

Thus  jiooily  low, 
I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 

As  we  bestow 

'  Know,  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a  light,  aerial  band, 
Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 

Harmoniouslv, 
As  arts  or  arras  they  understand, 

Tlieir  labours  ply 

'  They  Scotius  race  among  them  share  5 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare  ; 
Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  hare 

Cornijjtion's  heart ; 
Some  teach  the  bard,  a  darling  care, 

Tlie  tuneful  art. 

'  'Jlong  swelling  floods  of  reeking  gor«, 
They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits  pour; 
Or,  'mid  the  venal  senate's  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand. 
To  mend  the  honest  j)atriot-lore. 

And  grace  the  hand. 

'  And  when  the  I).ird,  or  hoarv  sai-e. 
Charm  or  instruct  the  future  a"e, 
Tliey  bind  tJie  wild  jioetic  rage 

In  energy. 
Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Full  on  the  PfC. 

'  Hence  Fullaifoii,  the  brave  and  ycuag; 
Hence  Dempstcr'g  zeai-iiisplred  tongue  ; 
licence  sweet  iiarmonimis  Jie  ittie  sun" 

His  •'  Minstrel  lays;" 
Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung, 

Tiie  scejitics  bays. 

'  To  lower  orders  aie  ass'gn'd 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind. 


•  Colone  Fullanoa. 


1 

22                                           BURNS'  ^VORKS 

rhe  rustic  Bard,  the  lab'iincr  Hind, 

I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song. 

The  Arti>an  ; 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

All  choose,  as  various  they're  incliiiM, 

The  various  man. 

'  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play, 
Wild  send  thee  Pleasure's  devious  way, 

*  WTien  yellow  waves  the  heavy  .c;rain, 

Misled  by  Fancy's  meteor  ray, 

The  threat'ning  storm  some  strongly  rein  ; 

By  Passion  driven  ; 

Some  teach  to  meliorate  the  ))'aiti, 

But  yet  the  liglit  thut  led  astray 

With  tillage  skill  ; 

M'as  light  from  heaven 

And  some  instruct  the  shepherd-train, 

Blithe  o'er  the  hill. 

'  I  taught  thy  manners-painting  strains 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains 

'  Some  hint  the  lover's  haimless  wile  ; 

Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile  ; 

Thy  fame  extends ; 

Some  soothe  the  lab'rer's  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gains, 

And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila's  plains. 

Become  thy  friends. 

And  make  his  cottage  scenes  beguile 

His  cures  and  pains. 

*  Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  show 
To  paint  with  Thomson's  landscape  glow  ; 

'  Some  bounded  to  a  district-space, 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race. 

Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe, 

With  Slienstone^s  art  ; 

To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 

Of  rustic  Sard ; 

Warm  on  the  heart. 

And  careful  note  each  op'ning  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard. 

'  Yet  all  beneath  th'  unrivall'd  rose, 

The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows  : 

'  Of  these  am  I — Ccih  my  name  ; 

Tho*  large  the  forest's  monarch  throws 

And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim, 

His  army  shade. 

Where  once  the  Canijihells,  chiefs  of  fame, 

Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows. 

Held  ruling  pow'r  : 

Adown  the  glade. 

I  mark'd  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame. 

Thy  natal  hour. 

*  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 

Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine  ; 

'  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze. 

And  trust  me,  not  Potosi's  mine. 

Fond  on  thy  little  early  way*, 

Nor  king's  regard, 

Thy  rudely  caroll'd,  chiming  phrase. 

Can  give  a  bliss  o'ermatching  thine. 

In  uncouth  rhymes, 

A  rustic  Hard. 

Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

'  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one, 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan ; 

«  I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 
Delighted  with  the  da-liing  roar  ; 

Preserve  the  dignity  of  Man, 

With  soul  erect ; 

Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

And  trust  the  Universal  plan 

Drove  thro'  the  sky, 

Will  all  protect. 

I  saw  grim  Nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

*  And  wear  thnn  this,' — she  solemn  sitd 

And  bound  the  Holly  round  my  head  ; 

'  Or  when  the  deep-green  mantled  earth 

The  polish'd  leaves,  and  berries  red. 

Warm  chcrish'd  ev'ry  flow'ret's  birth. 

Did  rustling  play  ; 

Anil  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  lied 

In  ev'ry  grove. 

In  light  away. 

I  saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth 

With  boundless  love. 

'  Wlien  ripen'd  fields,  ami  azure  skies, 
Call'd  forth  the  reaper's  rustling  noise, 

ADDRESS  TO  THE  UN'CO  GUID 

1  saw  thee  leave  their  ev'ning  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk, 

OR  TMS 

To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

•  Whtti  youthful  love,  warm-Idushing,  strong, 
Keen-shivering  s'lot  thy  nerves  along. 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  r  n't*. 

Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 
Th    adored  Name, 

And  lum|i  ihem  aye  tlie^itl   rj 

Tlie  Hi^iil  Iiii:/ilf,iiis  fi  a  fool. 
■J  he  U  i,'.U  /y ise  uiiilUcr  1 

^ 

roEMS.                                     as 

'JTic  ripnnest  porn  tliat  e'er  was  dight 

VII. 

M.iy  Mac  »miu'  pyli-s  n"  cair  in  ; 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man. 

Sat-  iieVr  a  I'lllow-orfatiire  slight 

For  ramloni  (its  <>'  ilaflin. — 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 

Sulumou. — Kcclc's.  ch.  vii.  ver.  16. 

Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wrang, 
To  ste|)  aside  is  human  : 

One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark. 

I. 

The  moving  w/ii/  they  do  it  ; 

0  YK  wha  are  sao  £;iiiH  yoursel, 

And  just  as  lanu-ly  can  ye  mark, 

Sae  (lidus  an'  sae  holy, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Yo've  ii(iui;lit  to  <lo  l)iit  miik  ami  tell 

Your  ncel)oiir's  fauts  and  folly  ! 

VIII. 

Wli.ise  life  is  like  i  vveel  tjaiin  iiiill, 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  lie  alone 

Siip|)l;  M  wi'  store  o'  water, 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 

The  heapit  hamper's  e!)l.inrj  still, 

He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

And  still  the  clap  ])lay3  clatter. 

Each  spring — its  various  bias  : 

Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

II. 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 

Hear  me,  ye  vpneiahle  coie. 

What's  tiuiie  we  partly  may  compute. 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals. 

But  know  not  what's  resi.sted. 

That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Follv's  portals  ; 

I,  for  their  thoii;,'litless.  careless  sakes, 

Woidd  here  propone  detences, 

TAM  SAMSON'S*  ELEG? 

Their  donsie  tricks,  their  hl.ick  mistakes, 
Their  failings  and  iiiischauces. 

III. 

An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God.— Po;* 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared, 

Has   nuhl    K                              ',rrr\    tliii    n,iil  1 

An'  shudder  at  the  iiiffer. 

Or  great  ]\1' f  thrawn  his  heel? 

But  cast  a  moment's  fair  resjard, 

Or  R \  again  grown  weel 

Wliat  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 

To  i)reach  an'  read  ? 

Discount  what  scant  occasiou  gave, 

'  Na,  waur  than  a'  !'   cries  ilka  chiel. 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 

'  Tarn  Siimsitns  dead  ! 

An*  (what's  aft  iii  lir  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

K lang  may  grunt  an'  granc. 

An'  sigh,  an'  sab,  an'  greet  her  lane, 

IV. 

An'  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  and  weaa 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

In  mourning  weed  ; 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop. 

To  death,  she's  dearly  paid  the  kane, 

What  ragini;s  must  his  veins  convulse, 

Taui  Samson's  dead 

That  still  eterucd  gallop  : 

Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

The  brethren  of  the  myotic  level, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way; 

May  hing  their  head  in  woefu'  bevel. 

But  in  the  teeth  o'  haith  to  sail. 

While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 

It  maks  an  unco  lee-way. 

Like  ony  bead  ! 

Death's  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  (level, 

V. 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ' 

See  social  life  and  glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking. 

When  winter  muffles  up  his  cloak. 

Till,  quite  tiansnM)L;rified,  tliey're  grows 

And  binds  the  nure  like  a  roek  ; 

Dehauchery  and  ilrinking  : 

When  to  the  loehs  the  curle-s  Hock, 

0  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Wi'  gleesome  speed  ; 

Th'  eternal  con>equences  ; 

Wha  will  they  stat»(n  at  the  oick  9 

Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

Damnation  of  expenses  ' 

He  was  the  king  o'  a'  the  core, 

VI. 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore, 

Ty'd  u|)  in  godly  laces, 
Before  ve  gie  \)inir  fraHtij  names. 

•  Wlien  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out  last 

muirfowl  season,  he  supposed  it  was  to  he,  in  Ossiau'i 

phrase,   '  the  last  of  his  fielils !'  and  expressed  an  ar- 

Suppose a  change  o'  cases  ; 

dent  wish  to  die  and  be  buried  in  the  niuirs      On  thit 

A  dear  lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug, 

hhit  the  author  composed  liis  elet;v  aiid  qi.taph. 
t  A  cert:iin  prcaelier,  a  RTcat  favoiirile  witli  the  mil- 

A  treacherous  inclination — 

lion,     yide  the  Ordination,  Stanza  1  L 

But,  let  nie  whisper  i'  ycmr  lug, 
^'e're  aibiius   --u:  tea;ptatiun. 

X  AnoiluT  preaelier,  an  e(iual  favourite  with  the  fcir 

who  was  al  tltil  time  ailnig.    For  hnii  see  al^o  Uic  Or 

Uuuuon  blanza  I.\.. 

24 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


Or  up  the  rink,  like  Jehu  roar, 

In  time  o'  need  ; 

I)ut  now  he  lags  on  (ieatli's  horj-srore. 

Tain  Sanisun's  dead  ! 

"Sow  safe  the  stately  sawniDnt  sail, 
And  triiuts  be',!ri)|)|)M  wi'  ciinison  luill, 
And  eels  weel  kenn'd  f(pr  simple  tail, 

And  geds  far  greed, 
Since  dark  in  dedth's  Ji.sh-creel  we  wail, 

Tain  Samson  dead  ! 

Rcioice,  ye  lilrrini;  ])aitrieks  s.'  ; 
Ve  cootie  raoori  ocks,  erouselv  craw; 
Ye  niajkins,  cock  your  fiid  i'u'  liniw, 

VVilhouten  dread  ; 
Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa*, 

Tain  Samson's  dead  • 

That  wacfu'  morn  he  ever  moiirnM, 
Saw  liim  in  shootin'  i^raith  acliirn'd, 
\^'hi!e  pointers  rounil  impatient  hiirn'd, 

Frae  i-ouple'*  treed  ! 
iiut,  och  !    he  gaed  and  ne'er  retiirii'd  ! 

Tarn  Samson's  dead  I 

In  vain  auld  aj;e  his  body  hafters  ; 
In  vain  the  fjou't  his  ancles  fetters  ; 
In  vain  the  burns  came  down  like  waters, 

An  acre  braid  ! 
Now  cv'ry  aiild  wife,  greetin',  clatters, 

Tam  Samson's  (lea( 

Owre  mony  a  weary  haj;  he  lliiipit, 
An'  aye  the  tlther  shot  he  thnnipit, 
Till  coward  death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi"  deadly  felde  ; 
Now  he  proclaims  wi"  tout  o'  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 
He  reei'd  his  v.'oufed  bottle-swa^ifjer, 
but  yet  he  drew  tlie  luiu-t.il  triii'^er 

^\'i'  weel-.iiiii'd   lu\-d  j 
L — d,  five  1'   he  cry'd,  an'  owre  did  staij^er 
Tam  Samson's  deai!  I 

irlk  hoary  hunter  moMrii'd  a  hrlt'ier  ; 
I7k  spiiitsuuiii  youth  bi'inoan'd  a  fitlier  ; 
Y(ui  auld  grey  staue,  auian^  the  heathei-, 
Marks  out  his  liead, 
Whare  Hums  lias  wrote,  in  rhyming  l)lether, 
TiiiH  Salmon' s  cleuil  ! 

There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest : 
Perhaps  upon  his  mould'rintj  breast 
Some  spiteiu'  niuirfuwl  bigs  her  nest, 

To  hatch  an'  breed 
Alas  !   nae  mair  Ik''!!  them  molest  ! 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

"WTien  August  winds  the  heather  wave, 
^nd  sportsmen  wauch-r  by  yon  grave, 
flax'e  volleys  let  his  mem'ry  crave 

O    jiouther  au'  lead, 


Till  Echo  answer  frae  her  cave, 

Tain  Samson's  dead ! 

Ileav'n  rest  his  saul,  whare'er  he  be  I 
Is  th'  wish  o'  mony  inae  than  me  : 
He  had  twa  fauts,  or  may  be  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 
A 8  social,  honest  man.  want  we  : 

Tam  Samson's  dead 


THE  EPITAPH 

Tam  Samson's  weel-worn  clay  here  lies, 
Ye  canting  zealots,  spare  him  ! 

If  honest  W(uth  in  heaven  rise, 
Ye'll  mend  or  ye  won  near  him. 


PER  CONTRA. 

Go,  Fame,  an  I  cinfer  like  a  filly 
Thro'  a'  tlie  streets  an'  neuks  o'  Killie,' 
Tell  every  social,  honest  billie. 

To  cease  his  grievin 
For  yet  nnskaith'd  by  death's  gleg  gullie, 

I'ain  SaiDsun's  livin 


HALLOWEEN.! 

[The  foUowin!;  poem  will,  by  many  renders,  be  wrB 
enough  understood  ;  but  for  the  sake  of  tliose  who 
are  unacquaiutcil  with  the  manners  anil  trailitioiisoj 
the  country  wliercthc  scone  is  cast,  notes  are  aililed, 
to  iiivc  some  airouiit  of  the  prineipal  eharma  and 
spells  of  that  niglit,  so  bip  with  (iropheey  to  thepe»- 
sanlry  in  the  West  of  Sedlaiul.  Tlie  pas'sion  of  I'r^. 
ill"  into  futurity  makes  astiikinf;  part  nf  the  history 
of  human  nature  in  its  ruile  state,  in  all  aqes  and 
nations :  and  it  may  he  some  entertainment  to  a 
(ihilo-ophie  mind,  if  any  such  should  hnUDur  the 
author  with  a  perusal,  to  see  th;'  remains  of  it  a 
mong  the  more  uncnliyhiened  in  our  own.] 


^'es  !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain. 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  ci-n;jenial  to  my  heart, 
One  iiali\c  charm,  tl'.an  all  the  jjkts  of  art. 

GaUismiik 


I. 

Urov  that  nit^ht,  when  fairies  light, 
On   CkssHIh  liownans  \  dance. 

Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 
On  sprightly  coursers  praiiceij 

Or  for  Citlcun  the  roi;te  is  ta'en. 
Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beams  ! 


•  KWie  is  a  phr.asc  the  country  folks  sometimes  ust 
for  Kilmariioek. 

t  Is  thonuht  to  he  a  nipht  when  wifehes,  devils,  and 
other  mischii'f-makiiiij  bcnj;s,  .ue  all  abroad  on  then 
baneful  midnipht  errand^:'  partieiilailv  those  ;!eriai 
people,  the  Fairies,  are  saul  on  that  night  to  hold  a 
grand  anniversary. 

t  Certain  little' romartie,  rO' kv,  Rrccn  hills,  in  th» 
nclirhbourliood  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Earls  of  Tss- 
ailis. 


AILCL  KI^LILO'WS    [E^^E. 


POEMS. 


25 


ri  ere,  up  tlie  cove,*  to  str.iy  au'  rove 
AuMng  tliu  rucks  iind  stiear.is, 

To  siKut  tliat  night 

11. 

Aiiiang  the  honnie  winding;  banks 

\\'licre  iJoun  rins,  winiplin',  dear, 
Whi'ie  BiucEf  ance  rul'd  tlx'  niai  tial  ranks, 

An'  ^huuk  his  Cunich  spear, 
Some  n'.eiiT,  friendly,  countia  iulks, 

'i'ogetlier  did  eoincne, 
To  bum  their  nits,  an'  }iim  their  stocks, 

Au'  Laud  their  IhiU'nucn 

l"ii'  hliihe  ihat  night, 

III. 

The  lasses  feat,  an'  clean 'y  neat, 

iMair  braw  ihan  vvlien  their  tine; 
Their  faces  hhtlie,  lu'  sweetly  kythe, 

Hearts  leal,  au'  wami,  an'  kin' : 
The  lads  sae  trig,  \vi'  wnoer-babs, 

\\'e<  1  knotted  un  their  garten. 
Some  unco  b'ate,  an'  ^unie  wx   ga')s, 

Gar  lasses'  liearts  ganj'  startin* 

\Vh)ies  fa>t  at  night. 

IV. 

Then  fust  and  foremost,  thro'  the  kail, 

Tiieir  sti^vks^  maun  a'  be  sought  aiice  ; 
They  steek  tiieir  een,  an'  (jraip  an'  wale, 

l*"or  muckle  anes  and  strauglit  anes. 
Poor  hav'rel  Wdl  lell  art' tiie  drift. 

An'  wander'd  thro'  the  b  w-kuil, 
An'  pou't,  lor  want  o'  better  shift, 

A  rtiiit  was  like  a  sow- tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night. 

V. 

Then,  strauglit  or  cruoked,  yird  or  nane, 

They  roar  an'  cry  a'  thruu'ther  ; 
The  vera  wee  thiiii^s,  todliu',  riu 

N\'i'  stocks  uut-ovvre  their  shoiither  ; 
An    gif  tile  cuntiii's  sweet  or  suur, 

Wr  jiietelig-.  they  taste  tlieni  ; 
Syne  cuziely,  .iboun  the  door, 

Wi'  cauuie  (-are,  they've  jjlac'd  them 
I'o  lie  that  night. 


I 


VI. 


•  A  note<l  cavern  near  Colean-honse,  called  7  he 
Cove  of  C'olean  ;  ivliicli,  ;is  C'assilis  Downans,  is  fanuil 
in  country  siory  fur  bi'iiiL'  a  favour  ite  haunt  for  fairies. 

tThe  famous  family  of  llial  naii.e,  the  aiUTSturs  of 
R'lBiatr,  llie great  deii'veier  of  his  country,  were  Earls 
of  Carritk. 

t  llie  (irst  ceremony  of  Halloween,  is  pulling  each 
a  .'!ocL;  or  plain  of  kail.  They  must  go  out,  hand  in 
li.ind,  with  eyes  slu.t,  and  (iiill  the  liist  thei  mcc; 
wi:h  !  Its  beiiiy  big  or  litile,  straight,  or  ci<Joked,  is 
prophetic  of  the  si/e  aim  shape  of  the  griin  I  object  of 
\li  their  spells— tliL-  husband  or  wife.  If  any  yird,  or 
earth,  stick  to  the  loot,  that  is  tuclier,  or  fortune;  and 
the  tasie  of  the  castuc,  that  is  the  heart  of  the  stem,  is 
Indieativ*  of  the  iiatutai  temper  and  disposition. — 
Lastly,  tne  stems,  or,  to  gi\e  she  n  their  ordinary  a))- 
jicilation,  the  tunti,  ac  plai-eil  s..me  >here  al)o^e  the 
head  of  the  door;  and  tht  iMirisiiaii  names  of  ihe  peo- 
ple wluiin  ihaiice  brings  into  the  house,  are,  aeiorduig 
ty  the  priority  of  plaeint;  tlie  lUiUs,  tJie  names  m  Ques- 
tion. 


'The  lasses  staw  frae  'inang  tliein  & 

To  pon  tl'.eir  itul/is  o'  curii ;' 
Hut  liab  slips  (Hit,  anil  jinks  alout, 

Ik'hiiit  the  muckle  thorn  : 
He  grijipet  Nelly  hard  an'  fast; 

Lond  skirl'd  a'  the  lasses; 
But  her  t(i/i-pick/e  niaist  was  lost, 
When  kiiittliu'  in  the  fiusc-house^ 

\\i'  him  that  uigLU 

vn. 

The  anlil  guidwife's  weel-iioordet  nitsi 

Are  round  an'  round  divided, 
And  inonie  lads  and  lasses'  fates, 

Are  there  that  night  decided  : 
Some  kind'e,  cuuthy,  side  by  side, 

An'  burn  thcgitiicr  trimly  ; 
Some  start  awa'  wi'  saiicy  pride. 

An'  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 

Fu'  high  that  nigbt> 

VHI. 
Jean  slips  in  twa  wi'  tentie  e'e  ; 

Wha  'twas,  she  wadiia  tell  ; 
But  this  is  Jock,  an'  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  liersci'  : 
He  bleez'd  owre  her,  and  she  owre  liim 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ; 
Till  fuff!   he  started  up  the  liim. 

An'  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 

To  tee't  that  night. 

IX. 

Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  bow-kail  runt. 

Was  brunt  wi'  priinsie  Mallie  ; 
An'  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunty 

To  be  coiiipar'd  to  Willie  : 
PJall's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridefu'  fling, 

.\n    her  ain  lit  it  brunt  it  ; 
While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor  hyjinff, 

'Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 

To  be  that  night. 

X. 

Nell  had  the  fause-honse  in  her  niin', 

She  pits  hersel'  au'  Hob  in  ; 
In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join. 

Till  white  in  ase  they're  sobbin' ; 
Nell's  heart  was  dancin'  at  the  view, 

Slie  whi-per'd  Uob  to  look  for't  : 


•  They  go  to  the  barnyard,  and  pull  each,  at  thre* 
several  times,  a  stalk  of  oiits.  If  the  third  '■'^m  wanti 
llie  tup- pick  e,  that  is,  the  grain  at  the  top  of  Ihe  stalk, 
the  jiany  In  qurstion  will  cuine  to  the  marriage-bed 
any  thing  but  a  maid- 

t  When  the  corn  is  in  a  d.wbtful  state,  by  being  too 
green,  or  wet,  the  stack-buililer,  by  means  of  old  tim- 
ber, iVc.  makes  a  large  apailmeiic  in  his  stack,  with  an 
opening  in  the  side  whiih  is  faiiest  exposed  to  the 
v;iiid  ;  this  he  calls  a  fuuse  linuse 

J  Uurniiig  tlie  nuts  isa  i'av. .iiriteeharjn.  Tlicy  iiains 
tlie  lad  and  la>s  to  each  particular  nut,  as  tlicy  1  ly  theia 
in  the  (ire,  and  aciordmgls  as  they  burn  quietly  toge- 
ther, or  start  from  beside  one  anoiher,  tlie  coi'is*  and 
iaoue  of  the  courtship  will  be. 


I 


26 

BURNS 

'  WORKS. 

Rol),  sjawlins,  prieM  her  honnie  mou 

9 

The  siiiuH-r  had  been  canld  an*  wat. 

Fu'  cczie  in  the  neuk  fui  "t, 

An'  stuff  was  uiu-o  greeu  ; 

Unseen  that  night. 

Vn'  AV-  a  rantin  kirn  we  gat. 

An'  just  on  Halloween 

XI. 

It  fell  that  nigh* 

But  Mcrr.-.n  sat  hehint  their  hacks, 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell  ; 

XVI. 

She  lea'es  them  !5a>hia'  at  their  cracli 

s, 

"  Our  stibblc-rig  was  Rah  M'Grasn, 

And  sli|)s  out  by  hersel'  : 

A  clever,  sturdy  fallow  ; 

She  thro'  tlie  yanl  the  nearest  taks, 

He's  sin  git  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean, 

An'  to  the  kihi  siie  goes  then, 

That  liv'd  in  Achmacall  i  : 

An'  darklins  graipit  fur  the  l)aiiks, 

He  gat  hemp-seed,*  I  mind  it  weel, 

And  ia  the  blue  c/  e*  throws  then 

An'  he  made  unco  light  o't  ; 

Right  fear't  that 

night, 

But  niony  a  day  was  hi/  himael', 
He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 

XII. 

That  vera  night.* 

An'  aye  she  win't,  an'  aye  she  swat, 

I  wat  she  msJe  nae  juiikin  ; 

XVII. 

Till  sonuthir.s;  liehl  witliin  the  pat, 

Than  up  gat  fechtin'  Jamie  Fleck, 

Guid  L — d  !    but  >he  was  quakin*  ! 

An'  he  swoor  by  his  conscience, 

But  whether  'twas  tlie  Deil  hiuisel', 

That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck  ; 

Or  whether  'twas  a  hauk-en, 

For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense  ! 

Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

The  auld  guid- man  raoght  down  the  poc'a 

She  did  na  wait  on  talk  in' 

An'  out  a  haiulfu'  gled  him  ; 

To  sjiear  that  night. 

Syne  b.id  him  slip  frae  'mang  the  folk. 

Scmetinie  when  nae  ane  see'd  him. 

XIII. 

An'  tiy't  that  night 

Wee  Jenny  to  her  Grannie  says, 

"  VvMll  ye  (JO  wi'  me,  graunie? 

XVIII. 

l'l\  eat  the  apple  f  at  the  (/lass, 

He  marches  thro'  amang  the  stacks. 

I  gat  frae  uncle  Johnie  :" 

Tho'  he  was  somtthing  sturtin, 

She  f'uff't  her  |)i|je  wi'  sic  a  iunt. 

The  ffraip  he  for  a  harmw  taks, 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'riii', 

An'  haurls  at  his  eurpin  : 

She  uotic't  na,  an  aizle  biunt 

An'  ev'ry  now  an'  then  he  says, 

Her  braw  new  worstt  a|)ron 

"  Hemp-seed  I  saw  thee. 

Out  thro'  that  night.            | 

An'  her  tliat  is  to  be  my  l.iss. 

Come  after  me,  and  draw  thee, 

XIV. 

As  fast  this  night." 

"  Ye  little  skelpie-linnner's  face  ! 

How  daur  ye  try  ^!c  sportin', 

XIX. 

As  seek  the  foul  Thief  ony  place. 

He  whistl'd  up  Lord  Lennox'  march, 

For  him  to  sjjae  your  fortune  ; 

To  keep  his  courage  cheery  ; 

Nae  doubt  hut  ye  may  get  a  siyht  / 

Altho'  his  hair  began  to  at  eh. 

Great  cause  )e  hae  to  fear  it; 

He  was  sae  fley'd  an'  eerie  : 

For  mcmie  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright, 

Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak. 

An'  liv'd  an'  di'd  d,leeret 

An'  then  a  grane  an'  gruiitle  ; 

On  sic  a  night. 

He  by  his  shouther  gae  a  keek, 
Au'  tumbl'd  wi'  a  wintle 

XV. 

Out-owre  that  night 

"  Ae  hairst  afire  the  Sherra-moor, 

I  mind  't  as  weel's  yesMeen, 

XX. 

I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I'm  sure 

He  roar'd  a  horrid  niuider  shout. 

I  was  na  past  fyfteeo  : 

In  dieadfu'  despeiation  ! 

An'  ynuiig  an'  auld  cam  rinnin'  out. 
To  hear  the  sad  narration  . 

•  Whoever  would,  with  siipccss,  try  this 
•trictly  (iliserve  Ihisc  iliieclioiis:  S-eal  out, 

rrt  f),0   M/ri      till.)       it.rl/li.i,.      ,1.^.....;.,    .,    lU,.    .. 

pell,  must 
all  alone,  | 

♦  .^f(>a]  nut  tllltl/imolfnit     nilit    cr»,tr  ->    Ii-ii,<trit1  ^f  harynr\. 

blue  yarn  ;  wind  it  In  ;i  iiewdue  olfrlic  .  Id  one:  and, 
toward*  tho  latter  end,  s.imetliinn  will  hold  the  thread, 
demand  h/w  /uiwls'r  i.  e.  wlio  hcilds,'  an  answer  wjll 
be  returned  <"roni  the  kdn-po',  liv  naming  the  Chris- 
tian iiid  sirname  of  your  I'litiire  sponse. 

t  Take  a  eandlo,  and  po  alone  to  a  lookinp-plass  ; 
Mt  an  apple  hcfore  it.  and  s,  nic  Irailitions  s.iv,  von 
•liould  cond)  your  hair  all  tlie  limi':  the  face  oV  your 
conjucsl  oom)iaiicnii.  In  he,  «  i||  Lie  «cen  in  the  glass,  as 
if  lieepiU);  over  your  shouldor. 


seed ;  harrowin'^  it  with  any  ihiiif;  von  can  ennvcnieiit- 
ly  draw  after  you.  Reprat  iiow  and  then,  •  lltmp-sci'd 
1  saw  thee;  heinp-secd  1  saw  thee:  a' d  him  |i>r  litr) 
that  is  to  be  my  true-love,  eome  after  me  and  |>ou 
thee."  I^ixiU  over  your  \t"t  ^hmilder,  ai.d  von  wdl  se« 
the  apiiearanee  of  the  pemon  invokeil,  in  the  attitude 
of  pulhiif;  hemp.  .'Some  tr  ditions  sav,  '  eonie  after 
me,  and  shaw  thee,'  that  is,  show  tliyself :  in  which 
ca-e  it  simply  appears,  iithrr^  nniit  the  harrowing 
and  tay,  '  coirie  after  me,  ami  h.irrow  the*.' 


»OEMS. 


27 


[Ic  swoiji-  't\ras  hilcliiii  JLVin  IM'Crau', 
Or  I'loui'liie  Merran  Iliiiiijjliie, 

Tii'  stop  !   she  tiotttil  thio'  them  a'  ; 
A  V  wha  was  it  but   (jriiwp/iie 

AstCLT  that  night . 

XXI. 

Mog  fiin  wail  to  the  ham  hae  gane, 

To  win  three  wec/its  o'  naethinc/  ;  * 
But  for  to  nit'ft  the  (k'il  her  lane, 

She  ])at  but  little  faith  in  : 
She  gies  the  herd  a  piikle  nits, 

An'  twa  reil  chcekit  ajiples, 
To  watch,  while  for  the  ham  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tain  Ripples 

That  vera  night. 

XXII. 

She  turns  the  key  wi'  cannie  thraw 

An'  owre  the  threshold  ventures; 
But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a  c  i". 

Syne  banldly  in  she  enters  ; 
A  Tatton  rattled  up  the  wa'. 

An'  she  ciy'd,  L — d  preserve  her  ! 
An'  ran  thro'  niiddeu-liole  an'  a', 

An'  pray'd  wi'  ze.d  and  fervour, 

Fu'  la^t  that  n  ght. 

XXIII. 
Thev  hoy't  out  Will,  wi'  sair  advice  ; 

Then  lieeht  him  some  fine  hraw  ane ; 
It  ehane'd  the  stack  \\\i  fnililntnd  thrice,f 

Was  tininier-prapl  for  thr.iwiu   ; 
He  taks  a  swirlie  auld  moss-oak, 

For  some  black,  tirousome  carlin  ; 
An'  loot  a  wince,  an'  diew  a  stroke, 

Till  tkin  in  biypes  cam  haurlin' 

All's  nieves  that  night. 

XXIV. 
k  wanton  widow  Leczie  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kittlen  ; 
But  Oeh  !    that  nii^lit,  ama'ig  n     shaws, 

She  got  a  feaifu'  settlin'  I 
She  thill'  the  wiuns,  an'  by  the  cairn. 

An'  owre  the  hdl  gaed  scrievin', 
Whare  three  lairds'  la/n.'s  met  at  a  burn,\ 

To  dip  her  left  sark->leeve  in. 

Was  bent  that  night. 


»  This  charm  must  likewise  be  performeii  unpcr- 
feived,  and  alone.  Vi>u  rc  to  thi  barn,  and  ojieii  bot!i 
doors,  taknifi  ijiem  ort'ihc  lunges,  it'  |io>.'iibles  'or  lliee 
is  danger,  that  the  lifiti/;  ab.nit  to  appear,  may  Nhul 
the  doors,  and  do  yon  sonv.-  mischief.  Then  take  thai 
instriimiiu  nsecl  in  wjnnowniij  the  corn,  which,  in  oiu 
country  dialei!t,  we  call  a  i;'cc/)<,a-id  go  through  all  ihc 
ittiludes  of  letting  down  corn  against  the  wiid.  Re- 
peal it  three  times:  .inri  the  ihiTil  time  an  apparitinn 
will  pass  throi'gd  the  Itun,  in  at  the  windy  door,  and 
out  at  the  other,  having  boih  the  fignre  in  question, 
and  the  appear.inc-.  or  letinue,  m.;rk.ng  the  employ- 
men!,  or  sliiiioi)  in  lit'j. 

t  'I'ake  an  opponunity  of  going,  unnoticed,  to  a 
Detir.sl  cl:,  and  i.nh'im  it  three  iMnc>  round.  \l£ 
last  fathom  of  he  last  liiue  you  will  catch  in  your 
arms  the  appe*  nice  of  your  future  conjugal  yoke- 
fellow. 

t  V  ou  ^i  oi't,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  .•»  social  pell, 
(o  a  vinij,  ■nimig  sprii  g  it  rivulet,  where  '  three 
lairUi.-' iaiids  meet,   and  dip  your  Lft  shut  sleeve.     (Jo 


XXV. 

Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  !)urnie  plays, 

As  thro'  the  glen  it  winijd't ; 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays  ; 

Whyles  in  a  wiel  it  dimpl't  ; 
Whyles  glitter'd  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi*  bickeiing,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  biacs, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel. 

Unseen  that  night. 

XXVI. 

Aniang  the  brackens,  on  the  brae, 

Between  her  an'  the  moon. 
The  deil,  or  else  an  cutler  quey. 

Gat  up  an'  gae  a  croon  : 
Poor  Leezie's  heart  maist  lap  the  hool ; 

Ne'er  lavrock-height  she  jumpit, 
But  mist  a  tit,  an'  in  the  7;i;o/ 

Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi'  a  pluiige  that  niglib 

XXVII. 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane, 

The  litpgies  three'  are  ranged. 
And  ev'ry  time  great  care  is  ta'cn, 

To  see  them  duly  changed  : 
Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys 

Sin'  iiLir's-t/ear  did  desire. 
Because  he  gat  the  toom-dish  thrice. 

He  heav'd  them  on  the  fire. 

In  wrath  that  night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi'  merry  sangs,  an'  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  did  na  weary  ; 
An'  unco  tales,  and  funnie  jokes. 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery  : 
Till  hiitler'd  so'ns,f  wi'  fragrant  lunt. 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin'  ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt, 

They  parted  alf  careerin' 

Fu'  blithe  that  night. 


to  beil  in  sight  of  a  fire,  and  hang  your  wet  sleeve  1)8- 
forc  it  to  dry.  l.ie  awake;  and  some  time  near  mid- 
night, an  ajiparition,  having  the  exact  figure  of  the 
grand  object  m  ipiestion,  will  come  and  turn  the  sleeve 
as  if  to  dry  the  oiher  side  of  it. 

•  Take  three  dishes,  put  clean  water  in  one,  foul 
water  in  another,  leave  the  third  empty  ;  blindfold  a 
person,  and  lead  him  to  the  hearth  where  the  dishea 
are  ranged  :  lie  (or  shei  dips  the  left  hand  :  if  by 
chance  in  the  cieaii  water,  the  future  hti^band  or  wife 
will  ooine  10  the  bar  of  matrimony  a  maid  ;  if  in  tha 
foul,  a  widow;  if  in  the  empty  dish,  it  foretil's,  with 
equal  cer'ainty,  no  marriage  at  all.  It  is  repeated 
three  times,  and  every  time  the  arrangemei  t  of  th« 
dishes  is  abend. 

t  Sowcus,  with  butter  instead  of  mill;  Ic  litem,  ia 
always  the  Ualluaetn  Supper. 


1 

?R                                            BURNS' 

WORKS. 

THE 

\Mien  thou  was  corn't,  an'  I  was  melloW, 
We  took  the  road  aye  like  a  swallow : 

AULD  FARMER'S 

At  Urooses  thou  1-ad  ne'er  a  fellow, 

N>W-TEAR  MORNING   SALUTATION  TO  HIS 

For  pith  an'  speed  ; 
But  ev'ry  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow, 

AULD  MARE  MAGGIE, 

Whsre'er  thcu  gaed. 

ON  GIVING  HER  THE  ACCL'STOMED  RIPPOF  CORN 

The  sma',  droop- rumpl't,  hunter  cattle. 

TO  HANSEL  IN  THE   NEW  YEAR. 

Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle  ; 
But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle. 

A  Gtiid  Nfw-  Year  I  wish  thee,  INIagpit ! 

An'  gar't  them  whaizle  : 

Kae,  there's  a  rijip  to  thy  auld  busTgie  . 

Nao  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 

Tho'  thou's  howe-backit,  now,  an'  knaggie, 

0'  saugh  or  hazel. 

I'vn  seen  the  day, 

Thou  could  liae  gaen  like  onie  stai;gie 

Thou  was  a  Tioh]e  Jittie-!an', 

Out-owre  the  lay. 

As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn  ; 
Aft  thee  an'  I,  in  aught  hours  gaun, 

Tho'  now  thou's  dowie,  stiff,  an'  crazy, 

On  guid  March  weather, 

An'  tliy  auld  hide's  as  white's  a  daisy, 

Hae  turn'd  sax  rood  beside  our  han', 

I've  seen  thee  dapul't,  sleek,  an'  glaizie. 

Foi'  days  thegither. 

A  bonnie  gray  : 

He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize  th3e, 

Thou  never  braindg't,  an'  fetch't,  an'  fliskit 

Ance  ia  a  day. 

But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 
An'  spread  abreed  thy  weel  tiU'd  brisket, 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 

Wi'  pith  an'  pow'r. 

A  filli/  buirdly,  stecve,  an'  swank, 

Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair't  an'  ri>ket, 

An'  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank 

An'  slypet  owre. 

As  e'er  tred  yird  ; 

An'  could  hae  flown  out-owre  a  ^tank, 

MTien  frosts  lay  lang,  au'  snaws  were  deep, 

Like  onie  bird. 

An'  threiiten'd  labour  back  to  keep, 
I  gied  thy  cop  a  wee  bit  heap 

It's  now  some  nine-an'-twi-nty  year, 

Aboon  the  timmer : 

Sin'  thou  was  my  guid  father's  metre  ; 

I  ken'd  my  Maggie  wadna  sleep 

He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  <;lear. 

For  that,  or  simmer. 

An'  fifty  mark  ; 

Tho'  it  was  suia',  'twa<  weei-won  gear, 

In  cart  or  car  thou  never  recstit  ; 

An'  thuu  was  stark. 

The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac't  it  ; 
Thou  never  lap,  and  sten  t,  and  breastit, 

When  fir>it  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 

Then  stood  to  blaw  ; 

Ve  then  was  trottin*  wi'  your  miiinie  : 

Out  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit, 

Tho'  ye  was  trickie,  slee,  an*  funnie, 

Thou  snoov't  awa. 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie, 

Lut  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  an'  c^mriie. 

Jly  pleuf/h  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a  . 

An'  unco  sonsie. 

Four  gallant  bi  utes  as  e'er  did  draw  ; 
Forbye  sax  niae,  I've  seli't  awa. 

That  day,  ye  pranc'd  wi'  ir.uckle  pride, 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 

When  ye  buie  hame  my  I onnie  bride  : 

They  drew  me  thretteen  pui;d  an'  twa, 

An"  sweet  an'  giacefu'  jhe  did  ride, 

The  vera  warst. 

Wi'  maiden  air  ! 

I\yh  Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrought; 

For  sic  a  pair. 

An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought  ! 
An'  monie  an  anxious  day,  I  thought 

Tho'  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  an'  hobble, 

We  wad  be  beat  ! 

An'  wiutle  like  a  samouiit-c oiile, 

Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we"re  brought, 

That  day  ye  was  a  jiukei   uol.le. 

Wr  simiuthing  yet. 

I'l.T  heels  an*  win' ! 

An'  ran  them  till  the\  a'  did  waulde. 

And  think  na,  my  auld,  trusty  servan  , 

Far,  fai  bchin'. 

That  now  perhaps  tliuu's  le>s  deseivin', 
An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvia', 

When  tho'i  an'  I  were  young  and  skcigh. 

Fur  my  last  /<;«, 

Au'  stalple-M:eal>  at  fiiis  weie  dieigh. 

A  heapit  stiinpart,  I'll  nscrve  ane 

How  thou  Wad  prunce,  an'  >nore,  an'  skreigh. 

Laid  liy  for  you. 

An'  tak  the  road  ! 

Town's  bodieu  ran,  an'  stood  abeigb, 

We've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither; 

Au'  ca't,  tlictt  mad. 

We'll  toyte  about  wi'  ane  anither  : 

POi£MS. 


29 


Wi'  teiitie  rare  I'll  flic  thy  tcflipr, 

To  Sdiiic  li;iii:'(l  rig, 
Whare  je  may  nobfy  r.ix  _>.nir  It-.itlier, 


\Vi'  siiia'  fatigue. 


TO  A  I\IOUSE, 


OV  T'JRNINO   HEa   VV  IN    HER    NF.ST  WITH   TH2 
fLOUGH,   NOVKJIUEII,    1785. 

Wee,  slceUit,  cow'rin',  tim'roiis  beastie, 
O,  uOiat  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  lu*  start  awa  sae  ha^ty, 

Vt'V  bickering  brattle  ! 
I  wad  be  laitU  to  rin  an'  chase  tUce, 

\Vi'  inurd'ring  pattle  I 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  doniiiiion 
Has  tjroken  Natiiitt's  social  union, 
An'  just  r,es  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  [loor  eartli-born  com[)anion 
An'  J'Llloic-niurtal ! 

I  (ioul)t  na,  whylcs,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
Vr'hat  then  ?    poor  beastie,  thou  man  live  ! 
\  daiinen  nlur  in  a  throve 

'S  a  sma'  request : 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave. 

An'  never  miss't  ! 

Thy  wee  bit  hnusie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin'  ! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 


O'  f. 


oirirajrc  srreerj 


Au'  bleak  December's  wind^  eusuin', 

Baith  snell  an'  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an*  waste. 
An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast. 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  I)last, 

Thou  thought  to  dv.'ell, 
Till  crash  !   the  cruel  osulter  past 

Out  thro"  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble, 
His  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
New  thou's  turn'd  Jut,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald, 
F)  thole  tae  winter's  sleety  dribble. 

An'  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,  Miinsie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane, 
In  proving  fonsiyht  may  be  vain  : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an"  men, 

Gang  aft  agley. 
An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an  pain, 

For  promis'd  ioy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compar'd  wi'  me  I 
The  jiTMenf  «  "Iv  toiicheth  thee  : 


n-.it,  Och  :    I  backward  cast  my  ee 

On  prospects  drear : 

Au'  forward,  though  i  caana  .sec, 

I  f)uess  an'  J'tar. 


A  WINTER  NIGHT. 


Poor  naked  wrctclic;,  wheresoo'er  you  are, 
That  l)iile  the  |)eltiii(,'  of  this  pitiless  storm  ! 
Iloiv  sh:ill  your  houseless  heads,  auM  loitVd  sides 
\uux  looji'il  a.'ul  wiiiilowM  rajjtje  liiess,  rtefeiid  you 
From  seasons  such  as  these  i—S/iu/csepean. 


When  biting  Jii  reus,  fell  and  dotire, 

Sh  irp  shivers  thr(uigh  the  leafless  bow'r  ; . 

When  P/iabus  gi'es  a  short-liv'd  glower 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Diui-dark'ning  through  the  flaky  show'r 

Or  whirling  drift : 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rocked, 
Poor  labour  sweet  in  sleep  was  locked, 
While  buriw,  wi'  snawy  wreaths  up-choked, 

Wild -eddying  swirl, 
Or  through  the  mining  outlet  hocked, 

Down  heudlong  hurl. 

List'ning,  the  doors  an'  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle. 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  winter  war, 
And  through  the  drift,  dcep-lairiug  sprattle 

Beneath  a  scar. 

Ilk  happing  l.'iid,  wee,  helpless  trsing, 
That  in  the  merry  month  o'  sjiring. 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  th'^u  cow'r  tiiy  chitteiins;  wing, 


An'  close  tl 


y  e  e  : 


Ev'n  you  on  murd'ring  errands  toil'J, 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exil'd. 
The  blood  stain'd  roost,  and  sheep-cote  spoir<i 

My  heart  forgets, 
While  pitiless  the  teinjrest  wild 

Sore  on  you  be.its. 

Now  P/icehe,  in  her  midnight  reign, 
Dark  muffled,  view'd  the  dreaiy  jdain  ; 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train, 

Rose  in  my  soul, 
V/hen  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strair. 

Slow,  solemn  stoic — 

'  Blow,  blow,  y    wiiuls,  with  heavier  gust 
And  (Veeze,  ye  b.tter-biting  frost  ; 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  sniotlieriug  snows  ; 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now,  united,  shown 

IMore  hard  uiikindncss,  unrelenting. 

Vengeful  malice  unrepeating, 


so 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


rhaa   heaven-illumin'd    man    on   brother   man 
bestows  ! 
See  stern  0|)pression's  iron  ,?rip. 
Or  mad  Ambition's  gory  hand, 
Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip, 

Woe,  Want,  and  Murder  o'er  a  land  ! 
Even  in  the  peaceful  rural  vale, 
Truth,  weepinfj,  tells  the  mournful  talc. 
How  pampered  Luxury,  Flatt'ry  by  her  side, 
The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear, 
With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear. 
Looks  o'er  proud  property,  extended  wide  ; 
And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind, 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  giitt'ring  show, 
A  creature  of  another  kind, 
Some  courser  substance,  unrefined. 
Placed    for  her  lordly  use  thus   far,   thus   vile, 
below. 
AVhere,  where  is  Love's  fond,  tender  throe. 
With  lordly  Honour's  lofty  brow. 
The  powers  you  proudly  own  ? 
Is  there,  beneath  Love's  noble  name, 
Can  harbour,  dark,  the  selfish  aim, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ! 
Mark  maiden-innocence  a  prey 

To  love-pretending  snares, 
This  boasting  Honour  turns  away, 
Shunning  soft  Pity's  rising  sway. 
Regardless  of  the  tears,  and  unavailing  pray'rs  ! 
Perhaps,  this  hour,  in  Mis'ry's  squalid  nest. 
She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast. 
And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the  rock- 
ing blast ! 
Oh  ye  !  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down. 
Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create, 
riiink,  for  a  moment,  on  his  wretched  fate. 
Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 
[11-satisfy'd  keen  Nature's  clara'rous  call, 

Stretch'd   on  his  straw  he  lays  himself  to 
sleep, 
While  thro*  the  rugged  roof  and  chinky  wall. 
Chill  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap  ! 
Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine. 
Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine  ! 
Guilt,  eriing  man,  relenting  view  ! 
But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 
The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 
By  cruel  Fortune's  undeserved  blow? 
Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress, 
A     brother    to    relieve,     how    exquisite    the 
bliss  !' 

I  beard  nae  mair,  for  Chanticleer 

Sho<ik  off  the  pouthery  snaw. 
And  hail'd  the  morning  with  a  cheer, 

A  cottage-rousing  cr"- . . 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  laind^ 

Thro'  all  his  works  abroad. 
The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 

The  most  resembles  God. 


EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 


A   BROTHER   rOET. 


January 


I. 


While  winds  frae  a!f  Den-Lomond  h\zv. 
And  bar  the  doors  wi'  driving  snaw, 

And  hing  us  owre  the  ingle, 
I  set  me  down  to  pass  the  time. 
And  spiu  a  verse  or  twa  o'  rhyme. 

In  hamely  westlan'  jingle. 
While  frosty  winds  blaw  in  the  drift, 

Ben  to  the  chimla  lug, 
I  grudge  a  wee  the  great  folk's  gift. 
That  live  sae  bien  and  snug  : 
I  tent  le.'s,  and  want  less 
Their  roomy  fireside  ; 
But  hanker  and  canker. 
To  see  their  cursed  pride. 

IL 

Its  hardly  in  a  body's  pow'r 
To  keep  at  times  frae  being  sour, 
To  see  how  things  are  shai'd  ; 
How  best  o'  chiels  are  whiles  in  want, 
While  coofs  on  countless  thousands  rant, 

An'  ken  na  how  to  wair't : 
But,  Davie,  lad,  ne'er  fash  your  head. 

Tho'  we  hae  little  gear, 
We're  fit  to  win  our  daily  bread, 
As  ling's  we're  hale  and  fier  : 
'  Mair  speir  na,  nor  fear  na'-f- 
Auld  age  ne'er  mind  a  feg, 
The  last  o't,  the  warst  o't, 
Is  only  for  to  beg. 

in. 

To  lie  in  kilns  and  barns  at  e'en, 

When  iianes  are  craz'd  and  bluid  is  thia, 

Is,  doubtless,  great  distress  ! 
Yet  then,  content  could  make  us  blest; 
Ev'n  then  sometimes  we'd  snatch  a  taste 

Of  truest  happiness. 
The  honest  heart  that's  free  frae  a' 

Intended  fraud  or  guile, 
However  fortune  kick  the  ba'. 
Has  aye  some  cause  to  smile  ; 
And  mind  still,  you'll  find  still, 

A  comfort  this  nae  sma' : 
Nae  mair  then,  we'll  care  then, 
Nae  farther  can  we  fa'. 

IV. 

\Miat  though,  like  commoners  of  air. 
We  wander  out  we  know  not  where. 

But  cither  house  or  hall  ? 
Yet  nature's  charms,  the  hills  and  woods, 
The  sweeping  vales,  and  foaming  floods, 

Are  free  alike  to  all. 
In  days  when  d.iisies  deck  the  grounJ- 

And  bla  .\birds  whistle  clear. 


•  David  Sillar,  nnp  of  the  club  at  Tarboltoi),  aarf 
auttior  of  a  volume  of  poems  in  tlic  Scottish  dia'ecK 
t  Kani^av. 


POEMS. 


8J 


With  lione«t  joy  our  licarts  will  bniiiid, 
To  sec  the  comiiuj  year  : 

On  hraes  when  we  please,  then, 
We'll  sit  and  sowth  a  tune  ; 
Syne  rhijme  till't,  we'll  time  till't, 
And  sing't  when  we  hae  done. 

V. 
It's  no  in  titles  nor  in  rank  ; 
Ft'n  no  in  wealth  like  Lon'im  bank, 

To  jmrch.ise  peace  and  rest ; 
It's  no  in  inakiiitj  inuckle  viair  : 
It's  no  in  bonks  ;   it's  no  in  lear, 

To  niak  us  truly  blest  ! 
If  happiness  hae  not  her  seat 

And  centre  in  the  breast, 
We  may  b".  wise,  or  rich,  or  great, 
Hut  never  can  be  blest  : 

Nae  treasures,  no«  pleasures. 

Could  make  us  '.appy  lang  ; 
The  heart  ay'es  the  part  aye, 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang. 

VI. 

Think  j'c  that  sic  as  you  and  I, 

Wia  drudge  and  drive  through  wet  an'  dry 

Wi'  never-ceasing  toil  ; 
Think  ye,  are  we  less  blest  than  they, 
Wlia  scarcely  tent  us  in  their  way, 

As  haidly  worth  their  while? 
Alas  !   how  oft  in  haughty  mood, 
God's  creatures  they  oppress  ! 
Or  else,  neglecting  a'  that's  guid. 
They  riot  in  excess  ? 

Baith  careless  and  fearless 

Of  either  heav'n  or  hell ; 
Esteeming  and  deeming 
It's  a'  an  idle  tale  ! 

VII. 

Then  let  us  cheerfu'  acquiesce; 
Nur  make  our  scanty  pleasures  less, 

By  pining  at  our  state; 
And,  even  should  misfortunes  come, 
I  here  wha  sit,  hie  met  wi'  some, 

An's  thankfu'  for  them  yet. 
They  gie  the  wit  of  age  to  youth  ; 
They  let  us  ken  oursel'; 
T'ney  make  us  see  the  naked  truth. 
The  real  guid  and  ill. 
Thu'  losses  and  crosses, 

15e  lessons  right  severe. 
There's  wit  there,  ye'll  get  there, 
Ye'll  tiud  uae  other  where. 

VIII. 

But  tent  me,  Davie,  ace  o'  hearts  ! 

^To  say  aiii^ht  else  wad  wrang  the  cartes. 

And  flatt'ry  I  detest) 
This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I ; 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy  ; 

And  joys  the  very  best, 
riiere's  a'  l/ic  pleasures  o'  the  heart. 

The  lover  an'  the  frien' ; 
Ye  hae  your  Me(/,  your  dearest  part. 

And  I  my  darling  Jean  I 


It  warms  uic,  it  charms  n.e. 
To  mention  but  her  name  ; 

It  heats  me,  it  beets  nie. 
And  sets  me  a'  on  flame! 

IX. 

O  all  ye  Powers  who  rule  above ! 
O   Thou  whose  very  self  art  love  t 

Thou  knowest  my  words  sincere  ! 
The  life-blood  streaming  thro*  my  heart« 
Or  my  more  dear  immoital  pait. 

Is  not  more  fondly  dear  ! 
When  heart-corroding  care  and  giief 

Deprive  my  soul  of  rest. 
Her  dear  idea  brings  relief 
And  solace  to  my  breast. 
Thou  Being,  All-seeing, 

O  hear  my  fej vent  piay'r ; 
Still  take  her  and  make  her 
Thy  most  peculiar  care  ! 

X. 

All  hail,  ye  tender  feelings  dear! 
The  smile  of  love,  the  friendly  tear. 

The  sympathetic  glow  ; 
Long  since,  this  world's  thorny  ways 
Had  numbered  out  my  weary  days, 

Had  it  not  been  for  you  ! 
Fate  still  has  blest  me  with  a  friend, 

In  every  care  and  ill ; 
And  oft  a  more  endearing  band, 
A  tie  more  tender  still. 
It  lightens,  it  brightens 
The  tenebrific  scene. 
To  meet  with,  and  greet  with 
My  Davie  or  my  Jean. 

XI. 

O,  how  that  name  inspires  my  style  ! 
The  words  come  skelpin'  rank  and  file, 

Amaist  before  I  ken  ! 
The  ready  measure  rins  as  fine. 
As  Phccbus  and  the  famous  Nine 

Were  glowrin'  owre  my  pen. 
My  spaviet  Per/aaus  will  liiiij). 

Till  ance  he's  fairly  het ; 
And  then  he'll  hiltcli,  and  stilt,  and  jimp^ 
An'  rin  an'  unco  fit  : 

But  lest  then,  the  beast  then. 
Should  rue  his  hasty  ride, 
I'll  light  now,  and  (light  now 
His  sweaty  wlzeti'd  hide. 


THE  LAMENT, 

OCCASIONED   BY  THEU.'IKOUTIIN ATE  ISSUK   ;T    k 
friend's  AMOL'R. 


Alas  I  Jiow  oft  docs  Goodness  wound  itself 

And  sweet  Affection  prove  ihc  spring  of  woe  U-Somt- 


I. 

O  THOU  pale  orb,  that  silent  shines. 
While  care-uutroubled  mortals  sleep  ' 


82                                            BURNS' 

WORKS. 

w 

Thou  Fcest  a  wreti-h  tliat  inly  pines, 

Must  wring  my  soul,  ere  Phcehus,  low. 

And  wanrlers  htTe  to  wail  and  weep  ! 

Shall  kiss  the  distant,  v.'esterr-  main. 

Witl.  woe  I  nigl.'vly  vigils  ktej/, 

Beneath  thy  wan  unwaiming  beam  ; 

VIII. 

K'aA  mourn,  in  lamentatinn  deep, 

And  when  my  nightly  couch  I  try. 

How  life  and  Lve  are  all  a  dream. 

Sore-harass'd  out  with  care  and  grief, 
3Iy  toil-beat  nerves,  and  tear-worn  eye. 

IT. 

Keep  watchings  with  the  nightly  thief: 

/  joyless  view  thy  rays  adorn 

The  fiinily-marked  distant  hill  : 

I  joyless  view  thy  trembling  horn, 
Reflected  in  the  gurgling  rill  : 

Or  if  I  slumber,  fancy,  chief. 

Heigns  baggard-wdd,  in  sore  aflright  : 

Ev'n  day,  all-bitter,  brings  relief, 

From  such  a  horror-breathing  night. 

Jly  fondly-fluttering  heart  be  still  ! 

IX. 

Thou  bu-^y  povv-er.  Remembrance,  cease  ! 

0  !   thou  bright  queer,  wl:o  o'er  t'l'  expanse 
Now  highest  reign'st,  with  boundless  sway 

^h  I   must  the  agonizing  thrill 

For  ever  bar  returning  peace  ! 

Oft  has  thy  silent-marking  ghince 

Observ'd  us,  fondly  wandering,  stray  : 

III. 

Tl'.e  time,  unheeded,  sped  away. 

No  idly-feign'd  poetic  pains, 

While  love's  luxurious  pulse  beat  hlgi, 

My  sad,  love-lorn  lanientings  claim  ; 

Beneatli  thy  silver-gleaming  ray, 

No  sheplierd's  pipe — Arcadian  strains  ; 

To  mark  the  mutual-kiadling  eye. 

N  )  fabled  tortures,  quaint  and  tjuie  : 

1  p.e  pligV.  cd  faith  ;    the  niutiial  flame; 

X. 

The  oft-attested  Powers  above  ; 

Oh  !   scenes  in  strong  remembrance  act ! 

The  protnised  Fatlicr'a  tairJer  name ; 

Scenes,  never,  never,  to  return  ' 

These  were  the  pledges  of  my  love  ! 

Scenes,  if  in  stujjor  I  forget, 
Again  I  feel,  again  I  burn  ! 

IV. 

Encircled  in  her  clasping  arms. 

How  have  the  raptur'd  moments  fiown  ! 

From  ev'ry  joy  and  pleasure  torn. 

Life's  weary  vale  I'll  wander  thro' ; 

And  hopeless,  comfortless,  I'll  moura 

How  have  I  wish'd  for  Fortune's  charms, 

A  faithless  woman's  broken  vow. 

For  her  dear  sake,  and  hers  alone ! 
And  must  I  tliink  it?  is  she  gone, 

My  secret  heart's  exulting  boast  ? 
And  does  she  heedless  hear  my  groan  .' 

DESPONDENCY : 

And  is  she  ever,  ever  lost ! 

AN  ODE. 

V. 

Oh  !  can  she  bear  so  base  a  heart, 

I. 

Oppress'd  with  grief,  oppress'd  with  call, 

So  lost  to  honour,  lost  to  truth, 

A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear, 

As  from  the  fondest  lover  ]iart. 

I  sit  me  down  and  sigh  : 
O  life  !    thou  art  a  galling  load, 

Tl'.e  plighted  husband  of  her  youth! 

Alas!   life's  p,ith  may  be  unsmooth  ! 

Along  a  rough,  a  weary  road, 

Her  way  may  lie  tliro'  rough  distress! 

To  wretches  such  as  I  ! 

Then,  who  h.er  )):in;;s  and  pains  will  sooth  ? 

Dim  backward  as  I  cast  my  view, 
V.'hat  sick'ning  scenes  ap;)ear  ! 

Her  sorrows  share  and  nrdie  them  less  ? 

What  sorrows  Jjet  may  pierce  me  thro', 

VI. 

Too  justly  I  may  fear  ! 

Ye  winged  hours  that  o'er  us  past, 

Still  caring,  despairing. 

Eniaplur'd  mure,  the  nu)re  enjoy 'd. 

j\Iust  be  my  bitter  doom  i 

Your  dear  remembrance  in  my  breast. 

My  woes  here  shaH  close  ne'er, 

I\Jy  fondly-treasur'd  thoughts  employ 'J. 

Hut  with  the  closing  tomb ! 

That  breast,  how  dreary  now,  and  void, 

For  her  too  scanty  once  of  room  ! 

II. 

Ev'n  cv'ry  ray  ol  hope  de-troy'd. 

Happy  ye  scms  of  busy  life, 

And  nut  a  wish  ta  gild  the  gloom  ! 

Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife, 
No  other  view  regard  ! 

VII. 

Ev'n  when  the  wished  end's  deny'd. 

Tlie  morn  that  warns  th'  approaching  day. 

Yet  while  the  busy  yiiains  are  ply'd, 

Awakes  me  up  to  toil  and  woe  : 

They  bring  their  own  reward  : 

I  see  the  hours  in  long  array. 

Whilst  I,  a  hope-abanJon'd  wight, 

That  I  must  suffer,  lingering,  slow. 

Unfitted  wirh  an  aim, 

Full  many  a  |)ing,  and  many  a  throe, 

Meet  ev'ry  sad  returning  night, 

Keen  recollection's  direful  train, 

And  joyless  muru  the  same  ; 

.^ ' 

POEMS. 


33 


You,  biistlini^,  and  justlin^, 
rmgut  each  jziiff  ami  pain  ; 

I,  liutK'sa,  vft  tf^tlf.''s. 
Find  ev'ry  i)io>i)ect  vain, 

III. 
Hniv  blest  the  solitary's  lot, 
Wlio,  uJl-fors^ettiii!;.  ail-forgot, 

Within  liis  liumlili'  I'l'li, 
The  cavtrn  wild  »ith  ran;;;iing  roots, 
Sits  oVr  his  ciewiy-ir.itlier'il  fruits, 

I5esiile  his  crystal  well ! 
Or,  haply,  to  his  ev'riino;  thought, 

By  uiifrcquetited  strcatn. 
The  ways  ut  nion  are  distant  brought, 
A  faint  i-ullecteil  dreani  : 
^y}li^e  praisini;,  and  raising 

His  thoughts  to  heav'a  oa  high. 
As  wand'rinr;,  ineaiid'ring, 
He  views  the  suieiim  sky. 

IV. 

Tlian  I,  no  lonely  hermit  placed 
Where  never  hiuMan  footstep  traced. 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part  ; 
The  lucky  nionient  to  improve, 
Am]  just  to  stop,  undjitst  to  move, 

With  self-respecting  art  : 
But  ah  !    those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joys, 

Which  I  too  keenly  taste, 
The  Solitary  can  despise. 
Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest  ! 
He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate, 
Whi^t  I  here  must  cry  here, 
At  perfidy  ingrate  ! 


Oh  !  enviable,  early  days. 

When  dancing  thoui^luless  pleasure's  maze, 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 
How  ill-exchanged  for  riper  times, 
To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes, 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 
Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport. 

Like  linnets  in  the  bush. 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 
When  manhood  is  your  wish  ! 
The  losses,  the  crosses. 

That  active  man  engage! 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  all, 
Of  dim  declining  a(/c  I 


WINTER : 

A    niRCE. 

L 

Tbe  ■wintry  west  extends  his  blast, 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw  ; 
Or,  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 

The  blinding  sleet  anil  snaw  • 
Whil>>  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  down, 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae  3 


And  bird  and  beast  in  coven  rest. 
And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

n. 

"  The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'ereast,"  • 

The  joyless  winter-day. 
Let  others  fear,  to  me  nu>re  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May  : 
The  tempest's  howl,  it  sootlies  my  so\lV, 

My  griefs  it  swims  to  join, 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please. 

Their  fate  resembles  mine  ! 

IIL 

Thou  Power  Suprerne,  whoso  mighty  schenM 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil. 
Here,  firm,  I  rest,  they  mu.%t  be  best, 

Because  they  ave  Thi/  Will ! 
Then  all  I  want  (O,  do  thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine  !  ). 
Since  to  enjoy  thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign. 


COTTER'S  SATURDAY  NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED  TO   11.  AIKEN,   ESQ. 


Let  not  ambition  niocl<  their  useful  toil. 
Their  homely  joys,  ami  destiny  ob?ourf. 

Nor  prandeur  hear,  with  a  di^lainlvil  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  tJie  poor.— Crai/. 


L 

My    lov'd,    my   honoui'd,     much    respected 
friend  ! 
No  mercenary  bard  his  homige  pays  : 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end. 
My   dearest  meed,   a   friend's   esteem   and 
praise  : 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  secjuester'd  scene  ; 

The     native     feelings    strong,     the    guileless 

ways  ;  [lieen  ; 

What    Aitken    in    a    cottage   would    hav« 

Ah  !  tho  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  therni 

I  ween  ! 

n. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sough  ; 
The  short'ning  winter-iiay  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh  ; 
The    black'ning    trains   o'   craws    to   their 
repose  : 
The  toil-worn  Cotter  frae  his  labour  goes. 

This  nlijit  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end.; 
Collects   his    spades,    his   mattocks,    and  hij 
hoes, 
Hoping  the  rnorn  in  case  anil  rest  to  spend, 
And    weary,    o'er   the   moor,    his   course    Jooi 
hameward  bend. 


*  Dr.  Young^. 


12 


S4 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


III. 

At  length  Ills  lonely  cot  appears  in  vic\y, 

Beneath,  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 
TL'  expectant    u-ee  things,   toddlin,    stacher 
thro'  [an'  glee. 

To  meet  their   Dad,   wi'   flichteria'  noise 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin'  bonnily, 

His  clem  hearth-stane,   his  thriftie  ivijies 
smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee, 
Does  a'  his  weary  carking  cares  beguile, 
A  id  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  liis 
toil. 

IV. 
Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun*. 
Some  ca*  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie 
rin 
A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town  ; 
Their    eldest     hope,     their    Jenny,     woman 
grown, 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparklin'  in  her  e'e, 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  bra'  new 
gown, 
Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


Wi*  joy  unfelgn'd  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

An'  each  for  other's  wcelfare  kindly  spiers : 

The    social    hours,    swift-wing'd,    unnotic'd 

fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  h<ipeful  years  ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  shears. 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the 
new  ; 
1h.e  father  mixes  a'  wi*  admonition  due. 

VI. 

Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command. 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey  ; 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eyedent  hand. 

And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play  : 
*  An'  O  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  ahvay  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray, 

Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might  : 
They  never   sought    in  vain  that  sought    the 
Lord  aright  !' 

vn. 

But  hark  !   a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door- ; 

Jtninj,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lail  cam  o'er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  fiame 

Sparkle  in  Jemiy^s  e'e,  and  flush  lur  cheek  ; 
Wi'   heart-struck  anxious  care,   inquires  his 
name. 
While  Jenny  halTlins  is  afraid  to  speak  ; 
Weel  plca.s'd  the  niotlvr  liears  it's  nae  wild, 
worthless  rake. 


VIIL 
Wi'  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 
A  strappin  youth  ;  he  taks  the  mother's  eye; 
Blithe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill  ta'en ; 
The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and 
kye.  [joy 

The    youngster's    artless  heart   o'erflows  wi 
But    blate    and   laithfu',    scarce  can  wael 
behave  ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  an'  saa 
grave  ; 
Weel  pleas'd  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like 
the  lave. 

IX. 

O  happy  love  !  where  love  like  t'nis  is  found  ! 
O   heart-felt  raptures  !   bliss  beyond  com- 
pare ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare—. 
'  If  Heav'n  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure 
spare, 
Oue  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the 
ev'ning  gale.' 


Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  hears  a  heart— 
A  wretch!  a  villain  !  los:  to  love  and  truth! 
That  can,  with  studied,  siy,  ensnaring  arv. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  / 
Curse  on  his  perjur'd  arts !  dissembling  smooth! 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience  all  exil'd  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenfing  ruth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their 
child  ! 
Then  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distrac* 
tion  wild? 

XL 

But   now   the   supper   crowns  their  simple 
board, 
The  halesome/)«rri7cA.  chief  o'i'co^ifj's  food: 
The  sowpe  their  only  Haw/tie  does  afford. 
That  'yont  the   hallan  snugly  chows  her 
coed  : 
The  dame  brings  forth  in  c<.mpiimental  moo(l, 
To  srrace  the  lad,  her  weel-  haiu'd  kebbuck 

fell. 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid  ; 
The  frugal  wilie,  garrulous,  will  tell. 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the 
belh 

xn. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wP  serious  hco-. 
They,  round  the  ingle,  form  a  circle  wide; 

The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patrlaichal  grace, 
Tlie  big  ha'-Iiible,  ance  liis  father's  pride  . 

His  bonnet  rev'rently  is  laid  aside. 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  tl.in  an'  bare  j 

Those   strains   that  once  did  sweet  u<   Zioa 
glide, 


POEMS. 


3d 


I 


rie  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care  ; 
And   '  Let   us   u-orMp    God  !'    he   says,    with 
solemn  air. 

XIII. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise  ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,   by  far  the  noldest 

aim  :  '  [,ise  ; 

Perhaps   Dundee  s  wild   warbling    measures 

Or  plaintive  Marti/rs,  worthy  of  the  name  ; 

Or  noble  EU/in  beets  the  heav'u-ward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame  ; 
The  tickl'd  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise  ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

XIV. 

Tlie  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 
How  Abram  was  thv friend  o/'God on  high; 
Or,  Moaes  baile  eternal  warfare  wage 

AVith  Amaltk's  ungracious  progeny  ; 
Or  how  the  rni/al  burd  dtti  groaning  lie   [ire  ; 
Beneath    the  stroke  of  Heav'n's  avenging 
Or,  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  tire; 
Or  Giher  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  vnhime  is  the  theme, 

How   guiltless  blood   for    guilty  man  was 

shed  ;  [name, 

How  He,   who  bore   in   Heaven  the  second 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head  ; 

How  his  first  followers  ahd  servants  sped  ; 

The   precepts  sage   they  wrote  to  many  a 
How  Ae,  who  lone  in  /'afmos  banished,    [laud  : 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand  ; 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by 
Heaven's  command. 


XVI. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  eternal 

King,  [prays: 

The  saint,    the  father,   and  the  hiisbiiiid 

Hope  '  sjirings  exulting  on  triumphant  wiiig,» 

That   thus  they   all   shall    meet  in  future 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays,        [days : 

No  mo:e  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear'. 
Together  liymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ; 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in  an  eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 
Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  c'>"gregations  wide. 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace,  except  the  heart  ! 
The  Pow'r,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  hapiy,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

Way  hear,  well-pleased,  the  language  of  the 
soul  ; 

Ab'J  :q  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

•^  III 

•  lope's  Windsor  I oresf 


XVIII. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  sev'ral  way; 

1  lie  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest  : 
The  parent  pair  tlielr  secrtt  homage  pav. 

And  prciffer  u])  to  Heaven  the  warm  request, 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clam'rous  nest, 

And  decks  the  Illy  fair  in  flow'ry  piide, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best, 

For  them  and  fur  tlu'ir  little  ones  provide; 
But   chiefly  in   their  hearts  with  yrace  divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur 

springs, 

That   makes  her  loved   at  home,   revered 
abroad  ; 
Princes  and  lorfts  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
"  An    honest   man's    the  noblest   work    ot 
Gon!" 
And  certcs,  it  ^r  virtue's  heav'nly  road, 

The  cottage  (eaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 
What  is  a  lordllng's  pomp  !  a  cumbrous  load, 
Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ' 

XX. 

O  Scotia  !  my  dear,  my  native  soil  ! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  ii 
sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil, 
Be  blest  with  health,  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content  ! 
And,  O  !   may  Heav'n  their  simple  lives  pre- 
vent 
From  Luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile . 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  jjopuiace  may  rise  the  whUe, 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much> 
loved  Isle. 


XXL 

O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide. 
That  stream'd  thro'   Wallace's  undauatM 
heart ; 

MTio  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
(The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian, and  reward.) 
O  never,  never,   Scotia's  realm  desert ; 
But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and 
guard  ! 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN* 


A   DIRGE. 


When  chill  November's  surly  blast 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 

One  ev'nlng,  a"  I  wander'd  forth 
Along  the  banks  ol  Ayr, 


\- 

S6                                             BURNS 

WORKS. 

I  spy' J  a  man,  wbise  aged  step 

VIIL 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care; 

See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wigb^ 

Ills  face  was  funow'd  o'er  with  years, 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile, 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil  ; 

11. 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

Young  stranger,  whither  wand'rcst  thou  ? 

The  poor  petftion  spurn. 

Began  the  rev'rend  sage  ; 

Unmindful,  tho'  a  weeping  wife 

Does  thirst  of  weahh  thy  step  constraiEj 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ? 

Or,  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

IX. 

Too  soon  thou  ha«t  began 

If  I'm  design'd  yon  lordling's  s1aT&i»  ■ 

To  wander  forth,  with  nie,  to  mourn 

By  Nature's  law  design'd, 

The  miseries  of  man  ! 

Wh;,  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 

III. 

If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  pow'r 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  ; 

X. 

I've  seen  yon  weary  winter-suu 
Twice  foity  times  return  ; 

And  ev'ry  time  has  added  proofs, 
That  man  was  mide  to  mourn. 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast  : 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

IV. 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man. 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 

0  man  !  while  in  tliy  early  years, 

Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 
To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

Hew  prodigal  of  time  ! 

Mis-spending  all  thy  precious  hours ; 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 

XI. 

Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  ; 

0  Death  !   the  poor  man's  dearest  friei  s* 

Licentious  passions  burn  ; 

The  kindest  and  the  best  ! 

Which  tenfold  force  gives  Nature's  law, 

Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 
Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest  ! 

That  man  was  made  to  mouru. 

The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  bloV 

V. 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn  ; 

Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prmie. 

But,  Oh  !   a  blest  relief  to  those 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 

That,  wearv-laden,  mourn  ! 

Msn  then  is  useful  to  his  kind. 

' 

Supported  is  his  right  : 
But  see  him  on  the  edgu  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 

Then  age  and  want.  Oh  !   il!-match'd  pair 
Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

A  PRAYER 

VI. 

IN  THE  TROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest ; 

I. 

0  THOU  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear  ! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 

Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 

But,  Oh  !   what  crowds  in  every  land. 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ; 
.  Thro*  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

Perhaps  I  mu*t  appear  ! 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

IL 

If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  patirt 

vn. 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun  ; 

Many  and  sharp  the  num'rous  ills. 

As  snmttlting,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 

Remonstrates  1  have  dune  ; 

Mote  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 

in. 

And  man,  whose  heav'n-erected  face 

Thou  know'st  that  Thou  hast  formed  tat 

The  Kniilcs  of  love  adorn, 

M'itli  passions  wilil  ami  strong  ; 

Man's  inhumatiity  to  man 

And  list'ning  to  their  witching  voice 

Mokes  countless  thousands  mouru 

Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

POEMS. 


y 


IV. 

Whete  human  ireaknens  has  come  short, 

Or  Jrailti/  stout  .iside. 
Do  thou,  All  Giiid!  for  such  tliou  ait, 

la  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

V. 

Where  with  ihtentinn  I  have  crr'd. 

No  otlier  jilea  I  have, 
But,  Thou  art  gnod  ;  aud  goodness  still 

Delisrbteth  to  forijive. 


STANZAS 

ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Why  am  I  loath  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 
Have  I  .«o  found  it  lull  of  pleasing  charms? 
Some  drops  of  joy  with  draughts  of  ill  be- 
tween : 
Some    gleams    of  sunshine  'mid   renewed 
storms  : 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ; 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode? 
For  guilt,  for  guili,  my  terrors  are  in  arms  ; 
I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
An41  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-averjging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say,  '  Forgive  my  foul  offence  !' 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey ; 
But,   should   my   Author    health   again   dis- 
pense, 
Again  I  might  desert  fair  virtue's  way  ; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray  ; 

.\gain  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man  ; 
Thjn  how  shon'id  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 
Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  moura'd,  yet  to  temptation 
ran  ? 

0  Thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below  ! 

If  1  may  dare  a  lilted  eye  to  Thee, 
Thy    nod   can    make   the   tempest    cease    to 
blow. 
Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea  ; 
With  that  coiitroliiiig  pow'r  as:.i>t  ev'n  me. 
Those   headlong   furious   passions  to  con- 
fine ; 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  pou'rs  to  be. 

To  rule  their  torrent  m  th'  allowed  line  ! 
0  «id  me  with  thy  lielp,  Omnipotence  Divine  I 


IflSG  AT  A    REVEREND   FUIENd's  HOUSE  ONE 
MGHT,  THE  AUTHOR   LEFT  THE   FOLLOWING 

VERSES, 

IN  THE  ROOM  WHERE  HE  SLEPT. 
I. 

0  THOU  dread  Pow'r,  who  reign'st  above, 
I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear. 


^^^!en  for  this  scone  of  peace  anrl  ove, 
I  make  my  ])rayer  sincere. 

II. 
The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stn  ke, 

Long,  long  be  itleased  to  spai'e, 
To  bless  his  little  filial  flock. 

And  show  what  good  men  an, 

III. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 

With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 
O  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys. 

But  spare  a  mother's  tears  ! 

IV. 

Their  hope,  their  stay,  their  darling  ^outhi 
In  manhood's  dawning  blush  ; 

Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 
Up  to  a  parent's  wish  ! 

V. 

The  beauteous,  seraph  sister-band. 

With  earnest  tears  I  pray. 
Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  ev'ry  hand, 

Guide  thou  their  sttps  alway  ! 

VI. 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coas^ 

O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driv'n, 
May  they  rejoice,  no  wand'rer  lost, 

A  family  in  Heav'n  ! 


THE  FIRST  PSALM. 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  placed. 

Hath  happiness  in  store. 
Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked's  way, 

Nor  learns  their  guilty  lore  ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 

Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad, 
But  with  humility  and  awe 

Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow  ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  ou  high. 
And  firm  the  rout  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  in  guilt 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast. 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

For  why?    that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  giv'n  them  peace  and  rest. 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


S8 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


A  PRAYER, 

mZK,  THE  PRESSURE  OF  VIOLENT  ANGL'ISII. 

Tlfou  Great  Being  !   what  thou  srt 
Surpasses  me  to  know  : 
vt  sure  am  I,  that  known  to  thee 
A.re  all  thy  works  below. 

rhjr  creature  here  before  thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  thy  high  behest. 

Sure  thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ! 
O,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears, 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  ! 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  be, 

To  suit  some  wise  design  ; 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves. 

To  bear  and  not  repine. 


THE  FIRST  SIX   VERSES  OF 

THE  NINETIETH  PSALM. 

O  THOU,  the  first,  the  greatest  Friend 

Of  all  the  human  ra-.-e  ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

Their  stay  and  dwelling  place  ! 

Before  the  nx)untains  heav'd  their  heads 

Bcueath  thy  forming  hand, 
Before  this  pond'rous  globe  itself 

Arose  at  thy  command  ; 

That  pow'r  which  rais'd,  and  still  upholds 

This  universal  frame, 
From  countless,  uabeginning  time, 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 

Those  mighty  periods  of  years, 

Which  seem  to  us  so  vast. 
Appear  no  more  before  th)  sight. 

Than  yesterday  that's  past. 

Tliou  gav'st  the  word  :   Thy  creature,  man, 

Is  to  e.MNtence  brought : 
Again  thou  say'st,  '  Ye  sons  of  men, 

Return  ye  into  nought !' 

Thou  layest  them,  with  all  their  cares. 

In  cverla-ting  sleep  ; 
As  with  a  flood  tium  tuk'st  them  off 

With  overwhelniing  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flow'r. 

In  bciufy's  pride  ai  ray'd  ; 
But  long  ere  nigiit  iiit  down,  it  lie* 

All  witlier'd  and  decay 'd. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

ON  TCKNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  rLVTOB}  tX 
APRIL,   1786. 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem  ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonny  Lark,  companion  meet  , 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet  ! 

Wi'  spieckl'd  breast, 
When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 
The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  nurth 
Upon  thy  early,  humble,  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm. 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield. 
High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield  ; 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stdi»e. 
Adorns  the  his  tie  stiihle-Jidd, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  ; 
But  now  the  ahare  ufirears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  Jloweret  ot  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust, 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 
Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 
On  life'^  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd, 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Oi  ]>rii(hnt  lorci 
Till  billows  rage,  and  !;ales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er  • 

Such  fate  to  svffering  u-nrth  is  giv'n, 
Who  long  with  wints  and  woes  has  striv  D, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  UMs'ry's  blink. 
Till  wrench'd  of  eve-y  ^t.iy  but  Heaven, 
lie,  ruin'd,  sink  ! 

Ev'n  tlion  wild  niourn'>t  the  Daisy  j  fat<!. 
That  Jute  is  titiiie — no  ^ll^taut  ilate  : 


POEMS. 


SB 


Sttrn  Rui-"'*  f  lough-share  drive's,  cl;ite, 
Full  on  rliy  l)l()oin, 

Fill  crush  ]  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 
Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 


TO  RUIN. 
I. 

Al.r,  hail !   iiiexniahlt  hird  ! 

At  whose  destriuti(in-l)reatliing;  word, 

The  mightiest  ein|iires  fall  ! 
Thy  cruel,  woe-ilelighred  train. 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  weleiiMie,  all  ! 
With  stem  resolv'd,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aiiUL-d  dait  ; 
For  one  has  eut  my  deiirest  tie, 
And  quivers  in  my  heart. 
Then  low  rini;,  and  pouring, 

The  s/orm  no  more  I  dread  ; 
Tho'  thiek'niiiir  and  bl  lekn'in'r. 
Round  my  devoted  head. 

11. 

And  thou  grim  power,  by  life  abhorr'd, 
While  life  a  pleasure  can  afford, 
Oh  !    hear  a  wretch's  prayer  : 
No  more  I  shrink  anpaiTd,  afraid  ; 
I  court,  I  beg  rhy  frienrlly  aid. 
To  close  this  scene  of  care  ! 
When  shall  my  scjul,  in  silent  peace, 

Resign  \\fe\j()i/(iss  diy  ; 
My  weary  heart  its  throl.bings  cease. 
Cold  moulilering  in  the  ciay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 
To  sta'n  my  lifeless  lace; 
Enclasped,  and  grisped 
V/ithin  niv  cold  embrace  ! 


TO  MISS  L- 


WITH  beaU'e's  i'oe.ms,  as  a  new-year's  gift, 
JAN.  1,  1787. 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 

Their  annual  round  have  driv'n, 
And  you,  tho'  scarce  in  maiden  prime. 

Art  so  much  nearer  lleav'n. 

No  gifts  hav<  I  from  IniVan  coasts 

The  inlar  t  year  to  h  lil  ; 
I  send  you  n  )re  tli  in  India  boasts 

In  Edu-iyi  ;  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  fiitl.Iess  lore 

Is  chiirg'd,  peril  ip^,  too  true; 
3ut  may,  lipir  maid,  each  lover  prove 

An  Edwin  still  to  vou  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND 


17S6. 


I  LA  NO  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  Friend, 

A  sonii  thing  to  have  sent  yon, 
Tho'  it  should  serve  iiae  other  end 

Than  ju-t  a  kind  memento  ; 
But  how  the  suhject-thenie  may  gang, 

Let  time  and  chance  determine  ; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 

Pel  haps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

IL 

Ye'II  try  the  warld  soon,  my  lad, 

And,  Anitrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 

And  mnckle  they  miy  grieve  ye  : 
For  care  ami  tiouhle  set  your  thought, 

E'en  when  your  end's  attained  ; 
An  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nou'^ht, 

\Vhere  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained. 

III. 

I'll  no  say,  men  are  villains  :i' ; 

The  real,  harden'd  wickcil, 
Wha  hae  nae  check  hut  human  law, 

Are  to  a  iew  restricted  : 
But  och,  niinkinl  are  unco  weak. 

An'  little  to  be  trusted  ; 
If  seethe  wavering  balance  shake, 

Its  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 

IV. 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortime's  strife 

Their  fate  we  shunld  na  censure, 
For  still  th'  ini/)ortiiiit  end  of  life 

They  e(|ually  m&v  answer  ; 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Tho'  poortith  hourly  stare  him  ; 
A  man  may  tak  a  neebor's  part. 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 


Aye  free  aif  ban'  your  story  tell, 

When  wi'  a  bosom  cionv  ; 
But  still  keep  somelhing  to  yoursel* 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
CoiU'eal  ynursel'  as  weel'g  ye  can 

Fiae  critical  dissection  ; 
Bi;t  keek  thro'  every  other  man, 

Wi'  bharpen'd  sly  inspection. 

VI. 

The  siicred  lowe  o'  weei-plac'd  tovt) 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it  ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it 
I  wave  the  quantum  o'  the  sin. 

The  hazard  of  concealing  ; 
But  och  !    it  hardens  a'  within. 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 

vn. 

To  catch  dame  Fortunes  golden  iau]% 
Assiduous  wait  upon  her; 


40 

And  gather  fjear  liy  ev'ry  wil* 
That's  jiistitii'd  liy  honour  ; 

Not  for  to  hiile  it  in  a  hedge, 
Nor  for  a  train-attendant; 

But  for  the  ghn  ious  privilege 
Of  being  incltjjendcnt. 


VIII. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip 

To  hand  the  wretch  in  order  ; 
But  where  ye  feel  \i)ur  honour  grip, 

Let  that  aye  he  your  border  : 
Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause — 

Dehar  a'  side  pretences  ; 
And  resolutely  l<eep  its  laws, 

Uncai  ing  consequences. 

IX. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere, 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  i 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear. 

And  ev'n  the  rigiil  feature: 
Vet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 

Be  complaisance  extended  ; 
An  Atheist's  laui^h's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  oifeuded ! 

X. 

Wlien  lanting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  ni;iy  be  Idinded  ; 
Or,  if  she  gie  a  riindom  stinp, 

It  may  be  little  minded: 
But  when  on  life  we're  tenipest-dri>''n, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  coriespondcnce  fix'd  wi'  Heav'n, 

la  sure  a  noble  anchor. 

XI. 

Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth  ! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting  : 
Mav  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth, 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 
In  plon;,'lMn;in  phrase,   '  God  send  you  spe"<l, 

Still  daily  to  glow  wiser  ; 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede. 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser  ! 


BURNS'  WORKS 


ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD, 

CONE  TO  THE   WEST  INDIES. 

A'  TE  wha  live  by  soups  o*  drh.'\-, 
A'  ye  wha  live  by  crandiO-dink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  and  never  thirds, 

Come  mourn  wi'  me  ! 
Oar  hillie's  gi'vn  us  a'  a  jink. 

An'  owre  tlic  sea. 

Lament  him  a'  ye  rantin  core, 
Wha  deaily  like  a  random-spliMC, 
Nfte  inair  he'll  join  the  iiierrii  rorr, 
lu  Social  key  ; 


For  now  he's  ta'en  anither  shnrp, 

An'  jwre  thi  <8& 

The  honnie  lassies  weel  mjiy  wiss  him, 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  plait  hini  ; 
The  widows,  wives,  an'  a'  may  bless  him, 

Wi'  tearfu'  e'e  ; 
For  weel  I  wat  they'll  sairly  miss  him. 
That's  oAvre  the  sea. 

O  Fortune,  they  ha'e  room  to  grumble 
Iladst  thou  ta'en  all  sjme  drows\  bumnieS, 
\\'ha  can  do  nought  but  fyke  ;in'  fumble, 
'Twad  been  nae  plea 
But  he  was  gleg  as  ony  wuiuble, 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Auld,  cantie  Ki/Ie  may    vecpers  wear. 
An'  stain  them  wi'  the  s.iut,  saut  tear; 
Tuill  niak'  her  poor  auld  lie.ii t,  1  fear, 

In  flinders  tlee  ; 
He  was  her  lavreat  monie  a  year, 

That's  owre  the  sea 

He  saw  misfortune's  cauld  nor-wast 
Lang  mustering  up  a  bitti'r  blast  ; 
A  jillet  brak'  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be  ! 
So,  took  a  birth  afore  the  mast. 

An'  owre  the  sea 

To  tremble  under  Fortune's  cummock, 
On  scarce  a  bellyfu'  o'  drumiiioik, 
Wi'  his  proud,  independent  st.miach 

C(udd  ill  agree  ; 
So,  row't  his  hurdles  in  a  hiunimick, 
An'  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne  er  was  gi'en  to  great  niisguidilig 
Yet  coin  his  u?uches  wai'  na  hide  in  ; 
Wi'  hir.  it  ne'er  was  undir  hidinr;  ; 

He  dealt  it  fiee  : 
The  must  was  a'  that  he  took  pride  in. 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Jiimaica  bodies,  use  him  weel. 
An'  luip  him  in  a  cozie  biel  ; 
Ye'll  find  him  aye  a  dainty  cliiel. 

And  fu'  o'  glee: 
He  wadna  wrmg'd  the  veradeil. 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Farewcel,  my  rhj/mc-composing  hilliet 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie  ; 
But  may  ye  flourish  like  a  li  y. 

Now  bonnilie  ; 
ril  toast  ye  in  my  hindnuist  gillie, 

Tho'  owre  the  Bea. 


TO  A  HAGGIS. 

I  Fa  IK  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  fice. 
Great  chieftain  o'  the  puddiu-race .' 


POEMS. 


4,: 


Aboon  thorn  a'  ye  t.ik  your  place, 

I'aiiiuli,  tripe,  or  thainn  : 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a  yrnce 

As  lung's  my  arm. 

The  £;rn,ininq:  trenchiT  there  ye  fill, 
Your  liiirdies  like  n  distant  hill. 
Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a  mill 

In  time  o'  need, 
While  thro'  your  pores  the  dews  distil 
Like  aiiiher  head. 

Ilis  knife  sec  rustic  laI)our  liight, 
An'  cut  you  up  ui'  ready  slij;ht. 
Trenching  your  t;ii<hin_;;  entrails  hriglit. 

Like  oiiie  diteh  ; 
And  then,  O  what  a  (glorious  sifjht, 

Warni-reekin',  rieh  ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  an'  strive, 
Deil  tak  the  hiMtlmost,  on  tliey  drive. 
Till  a'  their  weelswall'd  kytes  belyve 

Are  iieiit  like  drums  ; 
Then  auld  guidman,  niai^t  like  to  ryve, 
Uct/iun/tit  hums. 

Is  there  that  o'er  his  French  ragout, 
Or  olio  that  wad  xtaw  a  sow, 
Orfiicassce  wad  niak  her  sjiew 

^\'i'  perfect  sponner, 
Looks  down  wi'  sneerin;;,  scornfu'  view, 
Ou  sic  a  dinner  ? 

Poor  devil  !   see  him  owre  his  trash, 
As  feckless  as  a  wither'd  rash, 
His  8,iindle-shaiik  a  j;jid  whip-hsh, 

His  nieve  a  nit ; 
Thro'  bloody  flood  or  lii  Id  to  dash, 

O  how  ur.tt ! 

But  mark  the  rustic,  hngrjis-fed. 
The  trenddinir  earth  resounds  his  tread, 
Clap  in  his  walle  nieve  a  hlaile, 

He'll  make  it  whissle  ; 
An'  legs,  an'  arms,  an  heail,  will  sned. 
Like  taps  o'  thrissle 

Ye  Pow'rs  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  tlieii  bill  o"  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  na  skinking  ware 

That  jaups  in  . 
But,  if  ye  wljh  her  gratefu"  pray'r, 

Cjie  her  a  Hag (j is  I 


A  DEDICATION. 

TO  GAVIN    HAMILTON,   ESQ. 

Expect  na,  Sir.  in  (his  narration, 
.\  fl^echin,  (letli'Mn  dediearion. 
To  rooze  you  up,  an    c,i'  you  sjnid. 
An'  sprung  o'  i;re^t  an'  nol.le  hluiil, 
Because  ve're  surii  inied  like  lits  grace, 
Perhaps  relalc'  to  the  race  ; 


Tlien  when  I'm  tiicd — and  sac  ure  ye, 
Wi'  mony  a  fulsoi.ie,  sinfu'  lie. 
Set  up  a  face,  hi  w     stop  sliort, 
For  fear  your  modesty  be  hui t. 

This  may  do — maun  do,  Sir,  wi'  th^ai  wti 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a  wamefii'  j 
For  me  !    sae  laigh  I  neediia  bow, 
For,  Lord  he  thinkit,  [cm  /)li>urjh; 
And  when  I  downa  yoke  a  n  lig, 
Then,  Lord  he  tl.ankit,  I  ecu  biq  ; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  and  that's  nae  flatt'iin', 
It's  just  sic  pott  an'  sic  patron. 

The  Poet,  some  giiiu  ingel  help  hini, 
Or  t'se,  I  fear  some  ill  a.ie  skelp  him  • 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he's  done  )(■•   ' 
But  only  he's  uo  ju-t  begun  yet. 

"The  Patron,  (Sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me, 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  nie) 
On  ev'ry  hand  it  will  allowed  be, 
He's  just — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readily  and  freely  grant, 
He  dowua  see  a  poor  man  want  ; 
What's  no  his  ain  he  winiia  tak  it. 
What  ance  he  says  he  wiima  break  it ; 
Ought  he  can  lend  he'll  no  refuse 
Till  aft  his  goodness  is  al)use<l  ; 
And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang, 
Ev'n  thiit,  he  does  iia  mind  it  lang  ; 
As  master,  landlord,  hu-baud,  father 
He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  tlien,  nae  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that  j 
Nae  godly  sgmptom  ye  can  ca'  that ; 
It's  naething  hut  a  miMer  featuie, 
Of  our  poor,  sinfu'  coirupt  nature: 
Ye'll  get  the  best  o'  moral  works, 
'Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks, 
Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponntuxi, 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 
That  he's  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  ia  word  and  deed. 
It's  no  thra'  terror  of  damnation  ; 
It's  just  a  carnal  inclination. 

Jlorality,  thou  deadly  bane, 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  tli;iu  hast  slain  . 
Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trust  il 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  • 

No — stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plaek  ; 
Abuse  a  brother  t,)  his  bick  ; 
Steal  thro'  a  winwicit  frae  a  wh-re, 
But  point  the  rake  that  tak^  the  <l,or  : 
Be  to  the  ])oor  like  oiiIl-  whunstane. 
And  baud  their  nosus  to  tbe  giuustane  • 
Ply  ev'ry  art  o'  le-inl  tliievin:,'  ; 
No  matter,  stick  to  sound  bdieving. 

Learn  three  mile  jjrayVs,  an'  half-mile  givsa^ 
Wr  weel-spread  loDves,  an    lang  wry  f,ces  ; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  len-then'd  groan, 
And  daiua  a'  parties  but  your  uwu  ; 


12 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


r'l  t(M;ant  then,  ye're  5ne  deceiver, 
A  steadv,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

0  ye  wlia  leave  the  sj)i'ings  of  Calvin, 
For  gumlie  ditlis  of  your  ain  delvin  ! 

Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 
Ye'U  some  diiy  squetl  in  qu.iking  terror  ! 
When  vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath  ; 
When  ruin,  with  hi-;  sweejiing  hesum. 
Just  frets  till  Heav'n  commission  gies  hioi : 
While  o'er  the  /c/r/j  p.ile  Misery  moans, 
And  strikes  the  ever-detp'ning  tones, 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  ! 

Your  pnrdon.  Sir,  for  this  digression, 
I  maist  forgat  my  dedication ; 
Rut  when  <livinity  comes  cross  me, 
Wy  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 

So,  Sir,  ye  see  'twas  nae  daft  vapour, 
But  I  n-.atiire'y  thoiiglit  it  proper, 
When  a'  my  works  1  did  review. 
To  dedicate  them.  Sir,  to  You  : 
Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 
I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel*. 

Then  patronise  them  wi'  your  favour, 
Ami  your  petitioner  shall  ever — 
I  had  amai>t  said  tvtr  pray. 
But  that's  a  word  I  need  na  sav  : 
For  prayin*  I  hae  little  skill  o't ; 
I'm  haith  dead-sweer.  an*  wretched  ill  o't ; 
But  I'se  repeat  each  poor  man's  pray'r, 
That  kens  or  heats  aliout  you,  Sir — 

"  May  ne'er  misfortune's  gowling  bark, 
Howl  thro*  the  dwelling  o'  the  Clerk! 
May  ne'er  his  geii'roiis.  hone-t  heart, 
Fur  that  same  gen'rous  spirit  smart  ! 

May  K 's  far  honoiir'd  name 

Lang  lieet  his  hyiiieiieal  flame. 

Till  H s,  at  lea-t  a  dizen, 

Are  frae  her  nuptial  liliotirs  risen: 
Five  hiiiinle  lasses  round  their  taUle, 
And  seven  liriw  fellows,  sfnut  an'  able 
To  serve  their  V\n\i  and  country  weel, 
By  word,  or  pen,  oi   pointed  steel  ! 
]May  hejlth  auil  peace,  with  mutual  rays, 
Shine  on  the  evening  o'  his  days  ; 
Till  his  wee  cuilie  Juliii  x  ier-oe, 
When  elihiiig  life  iiae  m.ir  shall  flow, 
The  last,  sad,  mournful  lites  bestow!'' 

1  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion, 
Wi'  complimentary  clfuHiuii  ; 

But  vvhl-t  your  wishes  and  etideavours 
Are  blest  with  Fmtune'*  siiiilis  and  favours 
I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  zeal  iixist  fei  vent, 
Your  much  iiidchtvd,  huiiilde  servant. 

But  if  (  ivhuh  Povv'tM   ihnve  prevent  !) 
That  iruu-hcaitci/  call.    \V,ii,t, 
Attetiilcd  in  Ins  i;rim  advance-:, 
By  sad  tnistukc*.  and  bhik  uiiiithances, 


^Vliile  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fiy  hitn. 

Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am. 

Your  humble  servant  the:i  no  more; 

Fur  who  would  humbly  serve  the  poor  I 

But,  by  a  poor  man's  hopes  in  Heavea  ' 

While  recollection's  power  is  given. 

If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life. 

The  victim  sad  of  fortune's  strife, 

I,  thro'  the  tender  gushing  tear, 

Should  recognize  my  master  dear, 

If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together, 

Then,  Sir,  your  hand — my  friend  and  hrotker 


TO  A  LOUSE 

ON     SEEING     ONE     ON    A     LADy's     BONNET     A 
CHURCH. 

Ha  !   whare  ye  gaun,  j-e  crowlin'  lerlie  ? 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly  : 
I  canaa  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely, 

Owre  gauze  and  lace; 
Tho'  faith,  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 

On  sic  a  place. 

Y"  ugly,  creepin',  blastit  wonner. 
Detested,  shunn'd  by  saunt  an'  sinner, 
How  dare  you  set  your  tit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady  ! 
Gae  somewhere  else  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  haffet  squattle  ; 
Theie  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi*  ither  kindred,  juntpin'  cattle. 

In  shoals  anil  nations  ; 
AMiare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  dare  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantatioDS. 

Now  hand  you  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight. 
Below  the  fatt'rils,  snug  and  tight  : 
Na,  faith  ye  yet  !   ye'll  no  be  light 

Till  ye've  got  on  it, 
The  vera  tapmost,  tow'ritig  height 

O'  Jtliss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth  !   right  bauld  ye  set  your  nos'  r;i^ 
As  ])lump  and  grey  as  ony  grozet ; 

0  lur  some  rank,  mercurial  lozet, 

Or  fell,  red  sineddunc, 
I'd  gi'e  ycu  sic  a  heaity  dose  o't. 

Wad  dress  your  drod''  im  , 

1  wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  fl.innen  toy  ; 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  iluddie  boy, 

On's  wyiiecoat ; 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunnrdit  !  tie, 

How  date  ye  do't ! 

O,  Jenny,  dinna  tos«  your  head, 
An'  set  )our  beauties  a'  al'read  ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makia'l 


POEMS. 


43 


Tl.a3  trtnks  -dnA  Jiiiprr-enrl'),  I  dread, 
Arc  notice  takiu'  ! 

O  wad  .•iome  power  tlie  giftie  gie  us 
To  see  oiirsels  as  ol/wrs  see  us  ! 
It  wad  fr.ic  inonic  a  hliiiidcr  free  us, 

And  foolish  notion  : 
What  airs  in  dress  an'  pa  it  wad  lea'e  us, 

And  ev'n  Devotion  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 


I. 

Edin.v  !    Scotin^s  d  irlinsj  seat ! 

Ail  tiail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 
Wheie  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

S.it  lc;;i«l.iti()n's  sovereign  pow'rs  ! 
From  iiiirkinsj  wildiy-scitter'd  llow'rs, 

As  on  the  l)aiiks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd, 
And  siii'j;iti!^,  lone,  the  hnt^'rin?  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 

II. 
Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide, 

As  hii*y  trade  his  lahours  plies  ; 
There  archirectiire's  nol)le  pride 

Bids  elejjaiice  and  splendiiur  rise  ; 
Here  justice,  from  her  native  skies. 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod; 
There  learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes, 

Seeks  science  in  her  cuy  abode. 

Ill 

Thy  sons.  Edin.v,  social,  liind. 

With  o|ien  aims  the  stranger  hail  ; 
Their  views  enlarged,  their  liberal  luind, 

Abi.ve  the  narrow,  rural  vale; 
Attentive  still  to  sorrow's  wail, 

Or  modest  merit's  silent  claim  ; 
And  never  may  their  soorces  fail  ! 

And  uever  envy  blot  their  name. 

IV, 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn  ! 

fiay  as  the  gilded  Mimnitr  sky, 
Bweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn. 

Dear  as  the  r.iptiired  thrdi  of  joy  ! 
Fair  Dtrnet  srrikes  tli'  adoring  eye. 

Heaven's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine  : 
1  See  t\kK  sire  itf  l,,ve  on  hhih. 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine  ! 

V. 

There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms, 

Thy  rough  ruile  fortre.-s  gleams  afir  ; 
Like  some  liold  vetiian.  giev  m  anus, 

And  iiiiik'd  with  ni  tuv  a  seamy  scar: 
The  piin'drous  wall  and  massy  U.ir, 

Grim-rising  o'er  the  i  uggeil  rock  ; 
Have  oft  withstood  a>^uding  war. 

And  oft  repell'd  the  invader's  shock. 


VT. 

With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tearsj 

I  view  that  noble,  stately  di  r.ie, 
Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years. 

Famed  heroes,  had  theu  royal  home. 
Alas  !   how  changed  the  times  to  come  ' 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 
Their  hapless  race  wild-wand'ring  roata  ! 

Tho'  rigid  law  cries  out,  'twas  just ! 

VII. 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 

Whose  ancestors  in  days  of  yore. 
Thro'  hostile  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps 

Old  Scotiii's  bloody  lion  bore  • 
E'en  /who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  mi/  sires  have  \i'^^.  Cr.wr  shed, 
And  faced  grim  danger's  loudest  roar. 

Bold-following  where  yaur  fathers  led  1 

VTII. 
EniNA  !    Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  tow'rs. 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  legislation's  sov'reign  pow'rs  ! 
From  maiking  wiliilv-scatter'd  flow'rs, 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ai/r  I  stray'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  ling'ring  hours, 

I  shelter'd  in  thv  honour'd  shade. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK, 

AN   OLD   SCOTTISH   BARD,     APRIL    1  St,    I7S5 

While  briers  an'  woodbines  building  gretn, 
An'  paitricks  scraichin  loud  at  e'en, 
An'  niurning  poussie  whiddin  seen. 

Inspire  my  muse, 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien' 

I  pray  excuse. 

On  fasten-een  we  had  a  rockin' 
To  ra'  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockia  ; 
And  there  was  muckle  fun  and  jokin'. 

Ye  need  na  doubt : 
At  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin' 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang  amang  the  rest, 
.\boou  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best. 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addicst 

To  some  sweet  wife  : 
It  thirl'd  the  heart-strings  thro'  the  Lriai^ 

A    to  the  life. 

I've  scarce  heard  ought  described  sae  weel, 
What  gen'ruus,  maiiiy  bosoms  feel  ; 
Thought  I,   '  Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

iie  Heattie's  wark  ?* 
They  tald  me  'twas  an  oild  kind  chiel 

Al)out  JJiiirkirk. 

It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear't. 
And  sae  about  hiiu  there  I  s;)icrt, 


ti 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


ITien  a'  that  keu't  him  round  declarea 

lie  had  inr/ine, 
That  nane  excell'd  it  few  cam  r.eai't, 

It  was  sae  fine. 

That  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale, 
Au'  either  dnuce  or  mciry  tale, 
Or  rhymes  au'  saiigs  he'd  made  himsel'. 

Or  wittv  catches, 
Tween  Inverness  and  Teviotdale, 

He  had  few  uiatches 

Then  up  I  gat,  an'  swoor  an  aith, 
T'qo'  I  should  pawn  my  plough  an'  graith, 
Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's  death, 

At  some  dyke  back, 
A  pint  an'  gill  I'd  gie  them  baith 

To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  an'  foremost,  I  should  tell, 
Amaist  as  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
I  to  the  crambo-jinyle  fell, 

Tho'  rude  and  rough, 
Yet  crooning  to  a  body's  sel' 

Does  weel  eneugh. 

I  am  nae  pnct,  in  a  sense, 
But  )ust  a  rliyiner,  hke,  by  chance. 
An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence, 

Yet,  what  the  matter  ? 
Whene'er  my  muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic  folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say,   '  How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You  wiia  ken  hardly  verse  fiae  prose, 
To  ni.ik  a  sang  ?' 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye're  may  be  wrang 

Uliat's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools, 
/our  Latin  names  for  horns  an    stools  ; 
If  honest  nature  made  you //o/.s. 

What  saii»*  your  grammars? 
Ye'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  kuappin-hammers. 

A  set  o'  dull  conceited  hashes, 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes  ! 
They  (/a?t</  in  stirks,  and  come  nut  asses. 

Plain  truth  to  speak  ; 
An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek  ! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature'ii  fire  ! 
Th:it's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 
Then  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an*  mire 

At  ])leugh  or  cart. 
My  muEC,  though  hanrcly  in  attire, 

May  tuucl;  the  heart. 

O  for  a  spunk  o*  AlUui's  glee, 
Or  Fer<insim's,  the  lijuld  and  slee. 
Or  bright  Z,<ijfaik's.  my  iVietid  to  be, 

If  I  can  hit  it '  I 


That  would  be  lear  eneugh  for  me  ? 
If  I  could  get  it. 

Now,  Sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 
Tho'  real  friends,  I  b'lieve  are  few, 
Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fou, 

I'se  no  insist. 
Bat  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that's  true, 

I'm  on. your  list. 

I  winna  bliw  lirout  mysel ; 
As  ill  I  like  my  faults  to  tell ; 
But  friends,  and  folk  that  wish  me  well, 

They  sometimes  roose  me 
Tho'  I  maun  own,  as  nionie  still 

As  far  abuse  me. 

Tliere's  ae  wee  f ant  they  whyles  lay  to  me, 
I  like  the  lasses — Guid  forgie  me  ! 
For  monie  a  plaek  they  wheedle  frae  nie. 

At  dance  or  fair  ; 
Alay  be  some  itlier  thing  they  gie  me 

They  weel  can  spare. 

But  UfaiiMine  race,  or  Mavchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there  ; 
We'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  care, 

If  we  foigather, 
An'  hae  a  swap  o'  rhyming-ware 

Wi'  aue  anither 

The  four-gill  chap,  we'se  gar  him  clatter, 
An'  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin'  water  ; 
Syne  we'll  sit  down  an'  tak  our  whitter. 

To  cheer  our  heart ; 
An'  faith  we'se  be  acquainted  bettei 

Before  we  part. 

Awa  ye  selfish  warly  race, 
Wha  think  that  bavins,  sense,  an'  grace, 
Ev'n  love  and  friendship,  should  give  ])lace 

To  catch  the  plack  ! 
I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face, 

Is'or  hear  your  crack. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms. 
Whose  hearts  the  tide  of  kindness  warm)., 
Who  hola  your  being  on  the  terms, 

'  Each  aid  the  othere,' 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  wrms, 

My  frienuB,  my  brother* . 

But,  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle. 
As  my  auld  pen's  worn  to  the  grissle  ; 
Twa  lines  frae  you  wad  gar  me  fissle. 

Who  am,  most  fervent. 
While  I  can  either  sing,  or  whissle. 

Your  friend  and  servant 


PuEMS. 


4^ 


TO  THE  SAME. 

APRIL  21,  IT^S. 

Wirn  E  new-ca'il  ky«  rout  at  the  stake, 
An'  [Knvnifs  rock  in  pleiigli  or  lirake, 
This  hour  on  e'cnin's  e<igc'  I  take, 

To  own  I'm  debtor 
to  honcst-Iieai'tcd  aiild  Lit/raik 

For  his  kind  letter. 

Forje-ket  sair,  with  weary  legs, 
Ratthii'  the  corn  oiit-owre  the  rigs, 
Or  dealing  thro'  anians;  tlie  nai^s 

Thfir  ten  hours  bite, 
My  awkart  muse  sair  pleads  and  Legs, 

I  would  na  write. 

The  tajjctless  ramfeczl'd  hizzle. 
She's  salt  at  best,  and  something  lazy. 
Quo'  sLii.    •  Ye  ken,  we've  been  sae  busy. 
This  month  an'  mair, 
That  trouth  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie, 
An'  something  sair.* 

Ilcr  dowIT  excuses  pat  me  mad  ; 
'  Conscience,'  says  I,    '  ye  thowless  jad  ! 
I'll  write,  au'  that  a  hearty  blaud. 

This  vera  night ; 
So  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

liut  rhyme  it  right. 

'  Shall  baiild  Lapraik,  the  king  o'  hearts, 
Tho'  mankind  were  a  pack  o'  cartes, 
Iloose  yi  u  sae  weel  for  your  deserts, 

In  terms  sae  friendly, 
ifet  ye'U  neglect  to  shaw  your  parts, 

An'  thank  him  kindly  !' 

Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink, 
An'  down  gaed  stunipie 'm  the  ink: 
Quoth  I,   '  Before  I  sleep  a  wink, 

I  vow  I'll  close  it; 
An'  if  ye  winna  mak'  it  clltd<. 

By  Jove  I'll  prose  it!' 

Sae  I've  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whether 
In  rhyme,  or  prose,  or  baith  thegither. 
Or  some  hotch-potch  that's  rightly  neither, 

Let  time  mak  proof; 
But  I  shall  scribble  down  some  blether 

Just  cleao  aff  loof. 

My  worthy  friend,  ne'er  grudge  an'  carp 
Tho'  fortune  use  you  hard  an'  shaip  ; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  mnnrland  harp 

Wi'  glees'ime  touch  ! 
Ne'er  mind  how  Fortune  icaft  and  warp  ; 

She's  but  a  b-tch. 

She's  gien  me  inonie  a  jirt  and  fleg. 
Sin    I  could  striddle  owre  a  rig  ; 
Bu^  by  the  L — d,  tho'  I  should  beg, 
Wi'  lyart  Jiow, 


I'll  laugh,  an'  sing,  an'  shake  my  leg. 
As  laiig's  I  dow  ' 

Now  comes  the  sax  and  twentieth  simaiei, 
I've  seen  the  bud  u|)o'  the  timir.er, 
Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer, 

I'^ae  year  to  yccr ; 
But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

I,  liiib,  am  here 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  Gettt, 
Rehint  a  ki^t  to  lie  ;uid  sklent. 
Or  purse-proud,  big  wi"  cent.  u<t  cent. 
And  muclde  waiae, 
In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

A  liii'.lits  name  ? 

Or  is't  the  paughty  feudal  tliane, 
Wi'  ruffleil  sark  and  glancin'  cane, 
Wha  thinks  himself  nae  sheep-shank  bane, 

But  lordly  stalks. 
While  caps  an'  bonnets  aff  are  taen, 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

'  O   Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift ! 
Gie  ine  o'  wit  and  sense  a  lift. 
Then  turn  me,  if  Tudu  please,  adrift 

Thro'  Scotland  wide  < 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift. 

In  a'  their  pride  !' 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 
*  On  ))ain  o'  hell  be  rich  and  great,' 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate. 

Beyond  lemead  ; 
But,  thanks  to  Heav'n  !    that's  no  the  ga^ 

Me  learn  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 
MTien  first  the  human  race  began, 
'  The  social,  friendly,  hone>t  man, 

Whate'er  he  i;e, 
'Tis  he  fulfils  great  Nature's  j.htn. 

An'  none  but  lie  P 

O  mandate  glorious  and  divine  ! 
The  ragged  followers  o'  the  Nine, 
Poor,  thoughtless  devils  !   yet  miy  sliine 

In  glorious  ii'^lit. 
While  sordid  sons  of  Mammon's  line 

Ai-e  dark  as  night. 

TIto'  here  they  scrape,  an'  squeeze,  an'  (jrowl, 
Their  worthless  nievefu'  o'  a  soul 
May  in  some  future  carcase  howl 

The  forest's  fright ; 
Or  in  some  day>dctesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise, 

To  reach  their  native,  kindred  skies. 
And  i/«//  their  jileasures,  hopes,  and  joys, 

In  some  mild  sphere. 
Still  closer  knit  in  fricn(lshi|)'s  ties, 

Each  pas^sing  year. 


16                                            BURNS' 

WORKS. 

TO  \V.  S            N, 

We'll  gir  our  streams  ann  Lurnies  sltine 
Up  wi'  the  best. 

OCHILTREE. 

We'll  sing  auld  Collars  plains  au'  fells, 

May  1785. 

He-  moors  red- brown  wi'  heather  bells. 

I  GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie  : 

Her  banks  an'  braes,  her  dens  an'  dells, 

Wi'  Ejratefu'  heait  I  thank  you  brawlie ; 

W^here  glorious  Wallact 

Tho'  I  uuiun  siiy't,  I  wad  be  silly, 

Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells. 

An'  unco  vain, 

Frae  southern  billies. 

Should  I  believe,  my  coasLn'  billie, 

Your  fiat-teiin'  strala. 

At  Wallace^  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring- tide  flood  ! 

But  I'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it. 

Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 

By  Wallace'  side, 

Ironic  satire,  sidelins  sklented 

Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat  shod. 

On  my  poor  musie  ; 

Or  glorious  died. 

Tho'  in  kIc  phraisin'  terms  ye've  penn'd  it, 

I  scarce  excuse  ye. 

0  sweet  are  Coila  s  haughs  an'  woods, 
When  lintwhites  chant  among  the  buds, 

My  senses  wad  be  iu  a  creel, 

An'  jinkin  hares,  in  amorous  whids. 

Should  I  but  dare  a  hope  to  sneel, 

Their  loves  enjoy. 

Wi'  Allan  or  wi'  Gilbertfidd, 

While  thro'  the  braes  the  cushat  crooda 

The  braes  of  fame  ; 

With  wailfu'  cry ! 

Or  Ferguson,  the  writer  chiel. 

A  deathless  name. 

Ev'n  winter  bleak  has  charms  to  me 
When  winds  rave  thro'  the  naked  tree; 

(0  Ferguson  !  thy  glorious  parts 

Or  frost  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Ifl  suited  law's  dry,  musty  arts  ! 

Are  hoary  grey ; 

My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Or  blindmg  drifts  wild-furious  flee. 

Ye  E'librugh  Gentry  ! 

Dark'ning  the  day ! 

The  tithe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes. 

Wad  stow'd  his  pantry  !) 

O  Nature  !  a'  thy  shows  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms ! 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head, 

Whetlier  the  summer  kindly  warms 

■ 

Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a  screed. 

Wi'  life  an'  light, 

As  whyies  they're  like  to  be  my  dead, 

Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

(0  sad  disease  !) 

The  lang,  dark  night  5 

T  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed  ; 

It  gies  me  ease. 

The  Muse,  rae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel  he  learn'd  to  wander. 

Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu'  fain, 

Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander, 

She's  gotten  poets  o'  her  ain, 

An'  no  think  lang  ; 

Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain. 

0  sweet,  to  stray,  an'  pensive  ponder 

But  tune  their  lays. 

A  heartfelt  sang  ! 

Till  echoes  a'  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 

The  warly  race  may  drudge  and  drive, 
Kog-shouther.  jiiudie,  stietch,  an'  strive, 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while, 

Let  me  fair  Nature's  face  descrive. 

To  set  her  name  in  measured  style  ; 

And  I,  wi'  pleasure. 

She  lay  like  some  unkenned  of  isle 

Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  hive 

Bes'.dc  New-  Holland, 

Bum  o'er  their  treasure* 

Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 

Besouth  Magellan. 

Farewcel,   '  my  rhyme-composing  britherl 
We've  been  owre  lang  unkenn'd  to  ither  : 

Rmnsaij  an'  famous  Ferguson 

Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegithcr, 

Gici   Forth  an'   Tag  a  lift  aboon  ; 

In  love  fraternal : 

Yarrow  an'  Tweed  to  nionie  a  tunc, 

May  Envy  wallop  in  a  tethir. 

Owre  Scotland  rings. 

Black  Oend,  iafemkl  ! 

Whil?  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  on'  Doon, 

Kae  body  sings. 

Whiic  I',igli!andmpn  hate  tolls  and  taxes  ; 
While  moorian'  herds  like  guid  fat  braxie«  ; 

Th'  Jllssus,  Tiber,  Thames,  an'  Seine, 

While  ten  a  fiima  on  her  axis 

Gliile  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu'  line  ! 

Diurnal  turns, 

But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine, 

Count  OQ  a  friead.  in  faith  and  practice. 

An"  cock  your  crctt, 

Ik  Hubert  Burns. 

POEMS. 


47 


POSTSCRIPT. 

Mr  memory's  no  worth  a  prees  j 

I  hud  aniai^t  f;)ri;()ttoa  dean, 

Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 

Hy  this  neio-liglit,  * 

Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 

Maist  Hke  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callaus 
At  grammar,  logic,  an'  sic  talents, 
They  took  nae  [isius  their  speech  to  balance, 

Or  rules  to  gi'e, 
But  spak  their  thoucihts  in  plain  braid  lallans, 

Like  you  or  me. 

In  thae  au.d  times,  they  thought  the  mooru, 
Inst  like  a  sark,  or  pair  o*  shoon, 
Wore  by  degrees,  til!  her  last  roon, 

Gaed  past  their  viewing, 
An*  shortly  after  she  was  done, 

They  gat  a  new  ane. 

This  past  for  certain,  undisputed  ; 
It  ni'er  cam  i'  thei.-  heads  to  doubt  it, 
Tdl  chiels  gat  up  an'  wad  confute  it. 

An*  ca*d  it  wrang  ; 
An   muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  toud  an'  lang. 

Some  herds,  weel  learn 'd  upo*  the  beuk, 
Wad  threap  auld  fulk  the  thing  misteuk ; 
For  'twas  the  auld  moon  turn'd  a  neuk, 

An*  out  o'  sight. 
An'  backlins-comin',  to  the  leuk, 

She  grew  Dcair  bright 

This  was  deny'd,  it  was  affirm'd ; 
The  herds  and  kissels  were  alarm'd  ; 
The  rev'rend  grey-beards  rav'd  an'  storra'd, 

That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform'd 

Than  their  auld  daddies, 

Frae  less  to  tnair  it  gaed  to  sticks  ; 
Frae  words  an'  aith»  to  clours  an'  nicks  j 
An'  nionie  a  fiUow  gat  bis  licks, 

Wi'  hearty  crunt ; 
An'  some,  to  learn  them  for  tlieir  tricks, 

Were  hang'd  an'  biunt. 

This  g:^me  was  play'd  in  monie  lands. 
An    avld-Uylit  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 
That  faith,  the  youngsters  took  the  sands, 

Wi'  nimble  shanks, 
Till  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  comraamls. 
Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  new-light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowt. 
Folk  thou<;iit  theni  ruin'd  stick-an'-stowe. 
Till  now  aiziist  on  cv'ry  knowe, 

Ye'll  find  ane  plac'd  ; 


An'  some,  theii  new-light  fair  avow, 

Just  quite  burefac'd. 


Nae  doubt  the  auld-Ught  fluchs  are  bleatis'  j 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex'd  an'  sweatin' ; 
AJysel,  I've  even  seen  them  greetin" 

W'V  girnin'  s])ite. 
To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  He'd  on 

By  word  an'  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  louns  ! 
Some  auld-light  herds  in  neebor  towns 
Are  mind't,  in  things  they  ca'  balloons, 

To  ta'k'  a  flight. 
An'  stay  a  month  amang  the  moons 

An'  se«  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them  ; 
An'  when  the  auld  moon's  gaun  to  lea'e  then, 
The  hindmost  shaird,  they'll  fetch  it  wi'  theoi, 

Just  i'  their  pouch. 
An*  when  the  new-light  billies  see  them, 

1  think  they'll  crouch  ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a'  this  clatter 
Is  naething  but  a  '  moonshine  matter;* 
But  tho'  dall  prose- folk  Latin  splatter 

In  logic  tuhie, 
I  hope,  we  bardies  ken  some  better 

Than  mind  sic  brulzie. 


•  See  Note,  p.  11 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  RANKINE. 

ENCLOSING   SOME   I'OEMS. 

O  ROUOH,  rude,  ready-witted  Rankine, 
The  wale  o'  cocks  for  fun  and  diinkin'  ! 
There's  mony  godly  folks  are  thiukin'. 

Your  dreams  *  an*  trickj 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin'. 

Straight  to  auid  Nick'». 

Ye  ha'e  sae  monie  cracks  an'  cants 
And  in  your  wicked,  drucken  rants, 
Ye  mak'  a  devil  o'  the  saunts, 

An'  fill  them  fou  ; 
And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  an'  wants, 

Are  a'  scon  thru'. 

Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it  ! 
That  lioly  robe,  O  dinna  tear  it  ! 
Spare't  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it. 

The  lads  in  blach  ! 
But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it, 
Rives't  aff  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye' re  skaithing 
It's  just  the  blue-gown  badge  an'  claithing 
O'  saunts ;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  naethicg 
To  ken  them  bv, 


.     •  A  certain  humorous  dream  cf  his  was  then  n»Jf 
ing  a  noise  in  the  country-eide. 


€8 


BURNS   WORKS 


Frae  ony  unrcgencrate  ncathen 

Like  yuu  or  I. 

I've  sent  you  Tiere  snine  rhyinii::g  ware, 
A   that  I  bargainM  for  an'  inair  ; 
Sae,  when  you  hae  ;in  hour  to  spare, 

I  will  expect 
Yon  sanff,*  ye'll  sen't  \vi'  eunnie  care. 

And  no  neglect. 

Tho'  faith,  sma'  heart  liae  I  to  sin;^  ! 
My  muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing  ! 
I've  play'd  mysel  a  bonnie  spring. 

An'  diinc'd  my  fill  ! 
I'd  better  gaea  and  eair'd  the  king 

At  Bunkers  Hill. 

*Twas  ae  night  lately  in  my  fun, 

I  gaed  a  roving  wi'  t!ie  gun. 

An'  brought  a  paitriek  to  the  grun,  ' 

A  bonnie  hen, 
And,  as  the  twilight  w".s  begun, 

T'nought  nane  wad  ken. 

Tlie  poor  wee  thing  wks  Tttle  huit  ; 
I  straikit  it  a  v/ee  for  sjwrt. 
Ne'er  thinkin'  they  wad  fash  me  for't  ; 

B-.it,  deii-ma  care  I 
Somebody  tells  the  pmicfier-roiirt 

The  hale  affair. 

Some  auld  us'd  hands  had  ta'en  a  note. 
That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shut ; 
I  was  suspected  for  the  plot  ; 

1  scorn 'd  to  lie  ; 
So  gat  the  whiasle  o'  my  groat, 

Aa'  pay't  the  fee. 

But,  }>y  my  gun,  o'  guns  the  wale, 
An'  by  my  pouther  an'  my  hail. 
An'  by  my  hen,  an'  by  her  tail, 

I  vow  an'  swear  ! 
The  game  shall  pay  o'er  moor  aa'  dale, 

For  this,  niest  year. 

As  soon's  the  clorkin'  time  is  by, 
An'  the  woe  pouts  begun  to  cry, 
L — d,  I'se  hae  sportin'  by  an'  by. 

For  my  gnwd  guinea  : 
Tho'  I  should  herd  the  hnckskiii  kye 

For't,  in  Virginia. 

Trowth,  they  had  meikle  for  to  blame  ! 
'Twas  neitlier  broken  wing  nor  limb, 
But  twa-three  draps  about  the  wame, 

Scarce  thro'  the  fes'Aero ; 
\n'  biitli  a  yellow  George  to  claim, 

An'  tliule  their  blethers  ! 

It  ](its  nie  aye  as  mad's  a  hare  ; 
So  I  can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair. 
But  jientit/wort/is  again  is  fair, 

When  time's  expedient  : 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient. 

•  A  icr:ig  he  had  i)romiiie<l  the  Author. 


WRITTEN  IN 

FRIARS  CARSE  HERMITAGE* 

OM   NITH-SIDE. 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 
Be  tlum  clad  in  russet  weed. 
Be  thou  deckt  in  silken  stole. 
Grave  these  counsels  on  tliy  soul. 

Life  is  but  a  day  at  most. 
Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost ; 
IIo])e  not  sunshine  every  hour, 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lour. 

As  youth  and  love  with  sprightly  dancs, 
Beneath  thy  morning  star  advance, 
Pleasure  with  her  siren  air 
May  deluile  the  thoughtless  pair; 
Let  prudence  bless  enjoyment's  rup. 
Then  raptur'd  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  Lig'n, 
Life's  meridian  flaming  riigh, 
Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 
Life's  proud  summits  wouldst  thou  scale  ? 
Check  thy  climbing  ste]),  elate, 
Kvi's  lurk  in  felon  wait : 
Dangers,  e.igle-pinion'd,  bold, 
Soar  around  each  cliffy  hohl, 
While  cheerful  peace,  with  linnet  song, 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  ev'ning  close, 
Beck'ning  thee  to  long  repose: 
As  life  it>e!f  becomes  disease. 
Seek  the  ehimney-ncuk  of  ease, 
There  ruminate  with  sober  thought. 
On  all  thou'st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrougi 
And  teach  the  sportive  younker's  routid, 
Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 
Say,  man's  true,  genuine  estiniats, 
The  g^and  criterion  of  bis  fate. 
Is  not,  Art  thou  high  or  low  ? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow? 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 
Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one  ? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  raind^ 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find. 
The  smile  or  frcrrn  of  ^wfu!  Hea?'^, 
To  virtue  or  to  vice  !»  iiv'n. 
^l-AV,  to  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise, 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies  ; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways. 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile,  and  base. 

Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep  ; 
Sleep,  whence  tliou  shalt  ne'er  awake.. 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  breaa^ 
Till  future  life,  future  no  more, 
To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 
To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 


POEMS. 


49 


Stranf;or,  po  !    Iloav'n  ho  tliy  jjuiilc^ 
Qtiod  t'lf  bt'uilsiiiaii  (if  Nitli-siile. 


ODE, 

SACRED  TO  THE   MKMOKY   OK   MRS.  OK  

DvvF.i.i.Kii  in  ynti  (liiiifrt'on  dark, 
}laii;;man  of  cro itiim  !    iiiatk 
Wiio  ill  widow-M-ocds  aiPijears, 
LadiMi  with  iiiihonomi'd  years, 
>i'i«»in>j;  with  (Mix-  a.  hurstinsj  purse, 
Halted  with  many  a  deadly  cuisl'  I 

STKOI'IIE. 

View  the  witherM  lielil.itii's  face — 

Can  thy  keen  iiispe'/tioii  trace 

Aiiylit  of  hinnaiilty's  sweet  melting  gract? 

Not  that  eye,  'tis  rluMmi  o'erflows, 

Pity's  flood  there  never  rose 

See  tluise  hand>,  ne'er  stretch 'd  to  save. 

Hands  that  took — hut  never  iiave. 

Kee])er  of  .Mauunon's  iron  chest, 

Lo,  there  she  goes,  uiipitied.  and  imhiest  ; 

She  i^oes.  hut  not  to  realms  of  everli-.ting  rest  ! 

ASTISTIIOPIIE. 

I'iunderer  of  armies,  lift  thine  eyes, 

(A  vliil'i  <orbear,  ye  tort'rini.'  fieni!s\ 

Sees-  thou  wnose  sre])  unwi.iing  nirner  necjs  ? 

No  '"alien  angel,  hurl'd  from  uj);)er  skies  ; 

Ti>.  thv  trusty  rjuntidinn  mute, 

Dtiom'd  to  share  thy  fiery  fate, 

Slie,  tardy,  hell-ward  plies. 

EPODE. 

And  are  they  of  no  more  avail. 
Ten  thousand  glitt'ring  pounds  a-ycar  ? 
In  other  worlds  can  Mannnon  fail, 
Omnipotent  as  lie  is  here  ? 
O,  hitter  mock'ry  of  the  jioriipous  bier, 
Wiiile  down  the  wretched  vitul  part  is  driv'n  ! 
Tlic  cave-lodg'd  heggar,  with  a  conscience  clear, 
Eapires  in  rags,  unknown,  and  goes  to  Heav'u. 


ELEGY 


ON 


CAPTAIN  MATTHEW  HENDERSON, 

A  CENTI.F.MAV  WHO  MFI.n  TIIK  PATENT  FOR 
HIS  IIOSOIII'.S  IMMKn'AXtLV  FROM  A I.- 
SlIGHTy   GOD  ! 


But  now  his  raitiant  course  Is  run, 
ror  Matlliew's  coiiric  w.is  brif^ht; 

His  soul  was  like  the  );lnrioiis  sun, 
A  matchless,  ilea\''iiiy  lifjlil! 


0  Death  !   ;l.;.u  tyrant  fell  and  bloody; 
T";*  meikle  devil  wi  a  woodie 


Haul  1  thee  liame  to  his  lilack  smiddie. 

O'er  liiircheon  hideOy 

And  like  stock-fish  come  o'er  his  stinldie 
Wi'  thv  auld  sides  ! 

He's  gane,  lie's  gaiie  !    he's  frac  us  tore, 
The  ae  best  fcliiiw  e'er  was  horn  ! 
Thee,  Matthew,  Nature's  sd  >hall  mourn 

I5y  wood  and  wild, 
Where,  haply,  Pity  strays  forlorn, 

Frae  man  exil'd. 

Ye  hills,  near  ncebors  o'  the  Jtarns, 
That  proudly  cock  voiir  cresting  cairns  ! 
Ye  clilis,  the  luuiits  of  sailing  yearns. 

Where  echo  slumbers  f 
Come  join,  ye  Nature's  sturdiest  h.iiins, 

My  wailing  numl>ers; 

Mourn  ilka  grove  the  cushat  kens! 
Ye  haz'llv  shaws  and  briery  dens  ! 
Ye  hurnies,  wimplin  down  your  glens, 

Wi'  toddlin'  din. 
Or  foaming  Strang,  wi'  liasty  stens, 

Frae  lln  to  hn. 

Mourn  little  harebells  o'er  the  lee  ; 
Ye  stately  fox-gloves  fair  to  see; 
Ye  Woodbines,  hanging  Ixmnllie 

In  scented  bow're  ; 
Ye  roses  on  your  thorny  tiec. 

The  first  o'  pKiw'rs. 

At  dawn,  when  ev'ry  grassy  blad" 
Droops  with  a  diamond  at  his  head. 
At  ev'n,  when  beans  their  fragiance  shrd 

I'  th'  rustling  gale, 
Ye  maukins  whiddin  thio'  the  glade, 

Come  join  my  waiL 

Mourn  ye  wee  songsters  o'  the  wood  ; 
Ye  grouse  that  crap  the  heather  biul  ; 
Ye  curlews  calling  thru'  a  cliid  ; 

Ye  whistling  ])lover  ; 
And  mourn,  ye  whirring  paitiick  brood  ; 

He's  gane  for  ever  ! 

Mourn,  sooty  coots,  and  sjteckled  teals; 
Ye  fisher  herons,  watching  eels  ; 
Ye  duck  and  drake,  wi'  airy  wheels 

Circling  the  lake  ; 
Ye  bitterns,  till  the  (piagmire  reels, 

Uair  for  his  sake. 

iMourn,  clam'ring  cralks  at  cKiso  o'  dayi 
'Mang  fields  o'  flow'ring  clover  gay  ; 
And  when  ye  wing  your  annual  way 

Frae  our  cauld  shore, 
Tell  thac  far  v.'iulils,  wha  lies  in  clay. 

Wliani  we  deplore. 

Ye  houlets,  frae  yo'jr  ivy  bow'r. 
In  some  auld  tree,  or  eldritch  tow'r, 
What  time  the  moon,  wi'  silent  glow  r. 
Sets  up  her  horn. 


1 

&0                                              BURNS 

WORKS 

Wall  tLro'  the  dreary  midnight  hour 

Here  lies  u  ha  wetl  had  ron  thy  prait*. 

Till  waukrile  morn  ! 

For  Matthew  was  a  bright  man 

O  rivers,  fDrcsts,  hll's,  and  plains  ! 

If  thou  at  friendship's  sacred  ca', 

Oft  nave  jv  heard  my  cauty  strains  : 

Vi'ad  life  itself  resign,  man  : 

But  now,  what  else  for  me  reraairis 

Thy  sympathetic  tear  maun  f&'. 

But  t^iles  of  woe  ; 

For  iMatthew  was  a  kind  man. 

An'  frae  my  een  the  drappin^  rains 

Maun  ever  flow. 

If  thou  art  staunch  without  a  stain. 

Like  the  unchanging  blue,  man  ; 

Mourn,  sprinj,  thou  darlings  of  the  year  ! 

This  was  a  kinsman  o'  thy  ain. 

Ilk  cowslip  cu])  shall  kep  a  tear: 

For  IMatthew  was  a  true  man. 

Thou,  simmer,  while  each  corny  spear 

Shoots  up  its  iiead, 

If  thon  hast  wit,  and  fun,  an<l  fire, 

Thy  gay,  green,  flow'ry  tresses  shear. 

And  ne  er  guid  wine  did  fear,  man  , 

For  hira  that's  dead  . 

This  was  thy  billie,  dam,  and  sire. 

For  IMatthew  was  a  queer  man. 

Thou,  autumn,  wi'  thy  yellow  hair, 

In  grief  thy  sallow  mantle  tear  ! 

If  ony  whiggish  whingin  sot. 

Thou,  winter,  hurlinq:  thro'  the  air 

To  blame  poor  Matthew  dare,  man 

The  roaring  blast, 

Jlay  dool  and  sorrov/  be  his  lot, 

Wide  o'er  the  naked  world  declare 

For  IMatthew  was  a  rare  man. 

The  worlh  we've  lost  I 
Mourn  him,  thou  sun,  great  source  of  light ! 

Mourn,  empress  of  the  silent  night ! 
And  you,  ye  twinklin?  starnies  bright, 

LAMENT  OF  MARY  QUEFS 

My  Matthew  mourn  ! 

OF  SCOTS, 

For  through  your  orbs  he's  ta'en  his  flight. 

Ne'er  to  return. 

ON  THE  APPROACH   OF  SPRING. 

O  Henderson  !  the  man,  the  brother  ! 

Now  Nature  hangs  her  mantle  green 

And  art  thou  gone,  and  gone  for  ever  ! 

On  every  blooming  tree. 

And  hast  thou  cross'd  that  unknown  river. 

And  spreads  her  sheets  o'  daisies  white 

Life's  dreary  l)ound  ! 

Out  o'er  the  grxssy  lea : 

Like  thee,  where  shall  I  find  another, 

Now  Phcehus  cheers  the  crystal  streams, 

The  world  around  ! 

And  glads  the  azure  skies  ; 

But  nought  can  glad  the  weary  wight 

Go  to  your  scnlptur'd  tombs,  ye  Great, 

That  fast  in  durance  hcs. 

In  a'  the  tinsel  trash  o'  state  ! 

But  by  the  honest  turf  I'll  wait, 

No^v  lav'rocks  wake  the  merry  morn. 

Thou  man  of  worth  ! 

Aloft  on  dewy  wing  ; 

And  weep  the  ae  best  fellow's  fate 

E'er  lay  in  earth 

The  merle,  in  his  noontide  bow'r, 

M  ikes  woodland  echoes  rino;  ; 

The  mavis  mild  wi'  many  a  note. 

Sings  drowsy  day  to  rest : 
In  love  and  freedom  they  rejoice, 

THE  EPITAPH. 

Wi'  caie  nor  thrall  o])i)rest. 

Stot,  passenger  !   my  story's  In  lef 

Now  blooms  the  lily  by  the  hank. 

And  truth  I  shall  relate,  man  : 

The  primiose  down  the  brae  ; 

I  tell  nae  common  tale  o'  grief. 

The  hawthoi  n's  budding  in  the  gleu 

For  Matthew  was  a  great  man. 

And  milk-white  is  the  slae  : 

The  meanest  hind  in  fair  Scotlani, 

If  thou  uncommon  merit  hast. 

May  rove  their  sweets  auiang  ; 

Yet  spurn'd  at  fortune's  door,  man  ;                  ; 

Ihit  1,  the  Queen  of  a'  Scotland, 

A  look  of  pity  hither  cast, 

Maun  lie  in  prison  Strang. 

For  JVhitthew  was  a  jxior  man. 

I  was  the  Queen  o'  bonnie  France, 

If  tliou  a  ni.ble  sodger  art. 

V.'here  lia])jiy  I  hne  been  ; 

'Mi.it  p.isvi'st  by  this  grave,  man  ; 

Fu'  lightly  raise  I  in  the  morn, 

Tlirie  iiiiiuldcrs  here  a  gallant  heart, 

As  blithe  lay  down  at  e'en  : 

For  Ahittliew  was  a  bt  ive  man. 

And  I'm  the  sovereign  of  Scotlaoi?, 

And  mony  a  traitor  ther**  • 

>         If  thou  on  men,  their  works  and  ways^ 

Yet  here  I  lie  in  foreiij^n  bands, 

Canst  throw  uncommon  light,  man  , 

And  never  ending  care. 

J 

POEMS. 


But  as  for  tlu-e,  thru  f.ilse  woman. 

My  sifter  and  my  fae, 
GiinJ  von'^eance,  yet,  shall  whet  a  sword 

Tliat  thio'  thy  soul  shall  ijae  : 
The  \vi'i'|)ing  olood  in  woman's  breast 

Was  never  known  to  thee  ; 
Nor  th'  balm  that  draps  on  wounds  of  woe 

Frae  woman's  pitying  e'e. 

Mv  son  !   my  son  !   may  kinder  stars 

Upon  thy  fortune  shine  ; 
An<l  may  those  pleasures  gild  thy  reign, 

That  neer  wad  blink  on  mine  ! 
Goil  keep  thee  frae  thy  mother's  faes, 

Or  turn  tlieir  hearts  to  thee  ; 
And  where  thou  nieet"st  thy  mother's  friend, 

Remember  him  for  me  I 

O  !  soon,  to  me,  mav  svimmer-suas 

Nae  mair  light  up  the  morn  ! 
Nae  mair,  to  me,  the  autumn  winds 

Wave  o'er  the  yellow  corn  ! 
And  in  the  narrow  house  o'  death 

Let  wmter  round  me  rave  ; 
And  the  next  flow'rs  that  deck  the  spring, 

Bloom  on  my  peaceful  grave. 


TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esq. 


OF  FINTRA. 


Late  crippled  of  an  arm,  and  now  a  leg, 

Al)out  to  bog  a  pass  for  leave  to  heg  ; 

Dull,  listless,  teas'd,  dejeited,  and  deprest, 

(Nature  is  adverse  to  a  cripple's  rest^  ; 

Will  generous   Graham  list  to  his  jioet's  wail  ? 

(It    soothes    poor    misery,    hearkening    to    her 

tale), 
And  hear  him  curse  the  light  he  first  survey 'd, 
And  doubly  curse  the  luckless  rhyming  trade  ? 

Thou,  Nature,  partial  Nature,  I  arraign  ; 
Of  thy  capr-ce  maternal  I  complain. 
The  lion  and  the  bull  thy  care  have  found, 
One    shakes    the  forest,     and    one    spurns    the 

ground  : 
rhou  giv'st  the  ass  his  hide,  the  snoil  his  shell, 
Th'  envenom'd  wasp,  victorious,  guards  his  cell. 
Thy  minions,  kings  defend,  control,  devour, 
In  all  th'  omnipotence  of  rule  and  power. — 
Foxes  and  statesmen,  subtile  wiles  ensure  ; 
The  cit  and  polecat  stink,  and  are  secure  ; 
Toads  with  their  poison,    doctors   with   their 

<hug,  [snug. 

The  priest  and  hedge-hog,  in  their  robes  are 
Ev'n  silly  woman  has  her  warlike  arts,  [dart*. 
Her   tongue   and   eyes,    her  dreaded   spear  and 

But  0\  !  thou  bitter  step-mother  and  hard. 
To  thy  poor,  fenceless,  naked  child — the  Bard  ! 
A  thing  unteachable  in  world's  skill, 
And  half  an  idiot  too,  more  helpless  still. 
No  heels  to  bear  him  from  the  opening  dun 
No  claws  to  dig,  his  hated  siglit  to  shun  ; 


No  horns,  hut  those  by  luckless  Hymerj  woru, 
.\nd  thiise,  alas!    not  .\matthea's  horn  : 
No  tierves  olfactory,  Mammon's  trusty  cur, 
Clad  in  rich  dulness'  comfortable  fur, 
In  naked  feeling,  and  in  aching  pride, 
■Jlii  bears  tli*  ii'ibroken  blast  from  every  side: 
Vampyre  booksellers  drain  him  to  the  heart, 
And  scorpion  critics  cureless  venom  dart. 

Critics — appall'd,  I  venture  on  the  name, 
Those  cut-thro  It  bandits  in  the  paths  of  fame; 
Bloody  dissectors,  worse  than  ten  .Monn)es  ; 
He  hacks  to  teach,  they  mangle  to  e.\pose. 

His  heart  by  causeless,  wanton  malice  wrung. 
By  l)!ockheads'  diriiig  into  madness  stuiig  ; 
His  well-won  bays,  than  life  itself  more  dear. 
By  miscreants  torn,   who  ne'er  one  sprig   must 

wear  ; 
Foil'd,  bleeiling,  tortur'd.  in  the  unequal  strife 
The  hapless  poei  floimders  on  through  life, 
Till  II  m1  each  hope  tiiat  once  his  bosom  fired, 
.And  tied  eich  muse  that  glorious  once  inspired. 
Low  sunk  in  squalid,  unptotected  age, 
Dead,  even  resentment,  for  his  injured  page, 
He   heeds  or  feels  no  more  the  ruthless  critic's 
rage  ! 

So,   by  some  hedge,    the  generous  steed  de- 
ceased, 
For  half-starv'd  snarling  curs  a  dainty  feast; 
By  toil  and  fimine  wore  to  skin  and  bone. 
Lies  senseless  of  each  tugging  bitch's  son. 

0  dulnes-;  !    poi  tion  of  the  truly  blest  ! 
Calm  shelter'd  haven  of  eternal  rest  ! 

Thy  sons  ne'er  ma<iden  in  the  fierce  extremes 
Of  fortune's  polar  fro-t,  or  torrid  beams. 
If  mantling  high  she  fills  the  golden  cup, 
With  sober  selfish  ease  they  sip  it  up  ;       [serve. 
Conscious   the   bounteous   meed    they   well  de- 
They  only  wonder   '  some  folks'  do  not  starve. 
The  grave  sage  hern  thus  easy  picks  his  frog, 
.Aiid  thinks  the  mallard  a  sad  worthless  dog. 
Wlien  (lis appointment  snips  the  clue  of  hope, 
.•\iid  thro'  di-a^truus  night  tliey  darkling  grope, 
With  deaf  endurance  sluggi^hly  they  bear, 
.\nd  jjist  conclude  '  that  fouls  are  fortune's KVe.' 
So,  heavy,  passive  to  the  tempest's  shocks, 
Strong  on  the  sign- post  stands  the  stupid  ox. 

No'  so  the  idle  muses'  mad-cap  train. 
Not   such   the   workings    of   their  moon-struck 

brain  ; 
In  eauanimity  they  never  dwell, 
By  turns  in  soaring  heaven,  or  vaulted  hell. 

1  dread  thee,  fate,  relentless  and  severe. 
With  all  a  poet's,  husband's,  father's  fear; 
Already  one  strong  hold  of  hope  is  lost, 
Glc!iC(tir7i,  the  truly  noble,  lies  in  dust  ; 
(Fled,  like  the  sun  eclips'd  as  noun  appears, 
And  left  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears)  : 

O  !   he.ir  ii,y  ardent,  grateful,  selfish  prav'rl 
Fintra,  my  other  stay,  long  bless  anil  spare ! 


.. 

>2                                             BURNS' 

WORKS. 

Hirn'  a  long  life  his  hopes  aid  wislies  crown, 

"  Awake  thy  last  sad  voice,  my  harj  ! 

\n(l  briifht  in  clouiilt'ss  skies  liis  sun  go  down  ! 

The  voice  of  woe  and  wild  despair  ! 

Uay  bliss  domestic  sniootii  his  privute  path  ; 

Aivake,  resound  thy  latest  iay. 

Give  enersry  to  life;  and  soothe  his  latest  breath, 

Then  sleep  in  silence  evermair  ! 

ft'ith    nianv   a   filial   tear   circling    the    bed   ol' 

And  thou,  my  last,  best,  only  frienu, 

death  ! 

That  fillest  an  untimely  tomb, 

Accept  this  tribute  from  the  bard 

Thou  brought  from  fortune's  mirkest  glooa 

LAMENT  FOR  JAMES   EARL 

OF  GLENCAIRN. 

"  In  poverty's  low  barren  vale. 

Thick  mists,  obscure,  involv'd  me  round  ; 

The  wind  Mew  hollow  frae  the  hills, 

Tho'  oft  I  turn'd  the  wistful  eye. 

By  fits  the  sun's  departing  beam 

Nae  ray  of  fame  was  to  be  found  : 

Look'd  on  the  fadinc^  yellow  woods 

Thnu  found'st  me  like  the  morning  sun 

That  wav'd  o'er  Lugar's  winding  stream  : 

That  melts  the  fogs  in  limpid  air. 

Beneath  a  craigy  steep,  a  bani, 

The  friendless  bard  and  rustic  song, 

Laden  with  years  and  nieikle  pain, 

Became  alike  thy  fo-tering  cai-e. 

[n  loud  lament  bewail'd  his  lord, 

Whom  death  had  ail  untimely  ta'en. 

"  0  !   why  has  worth  so  short  a  date  ? 

While  villains  ripen  grey  with  time  ! 

lie  lean'd  him  to  an  ancient  aik, 

Must  thou,  the  noble,  gen'rous,  great, 

Whose    trunk    was    niould'ring    down    with 

Fall  in  bold  manhood's  hardy  prime  ! 

y«ars ; 

Wliy  did  I  live  to  see  that  day? 

His  locks  were  bleached  white  wi*  time, 

A  day  to  me  so  full  of  woe  ! 

His  hoary  cheek  was  wet  wi'  tears  ! 

0  !   had  I  met  the  mortal  shaft 

And  as  he  touch'd  his  trembling  harp. 

Which  laid  my  benefactor  low  ! 

And  as  he  tun'd  his  doleful  sang. 

The  winds,  lamenting  thro'  their  caves, 

"  The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 

To  echo  bore  the  notes  alang. 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen  ; 

The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

"  Ye  scatter'd  birds  that  faintly  sing, 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been  ; 

The  relies  of  the  vernal  quire! 

The  mother  may  forget  the  child 

V'e  woods  that  shed  on  a'  the  winds 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee  ; 

The  honours  of  the  ai'ed  year  ! 

But  I'll  remend)er  thee,  Glencairn, 

A  few  short  months,  and  glad  and  gav. 

And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me  I" 

Again  ye'll  charm  the  ear  and  e'e  ; 
But  nocht  in  all  revolving  time 

Can  "lad.uess  brin-.^  airain  to  me. 

D                                              O         i5 

LINES, 

"  I  am  a  bending  aged  tree. 

SENT  TO  SIR  JOTIN  WIIITEFORD,  OF  WHITEFORB, 

That  long  has  stood  the  wind  and  rain  ; 

BAUT.  WITH   THE   lOKEGOING   POEM. 

But  now  lijs  come  a  Ci  uel  Mast, 

And  my  last  hald  of  earth  is  gane  : 

Thou,  who  thy  honour  as  thy  God  rever'st. 

Nae  leaf  o'  mine  shall  greet  the  sjiring. 

Who,  save  thy  mind's  rcprtxich,  nought  earthlj 

Nae  simmer  sun  esalt  my  bloom  ; 

fear'st, 

But  I  maun  lie  before  tiie  storm. 

To  thee  this  votive  offeiing  I  impart. 

And  ithers  plant  them  in  my  room. 

"  The  tearful  tribute  of  a  broken  heart." 

The  friend  thou  vahied'st,  I  the  patron  lov'd  ; 

"  I've  seen  sac  mony  changefu'  years, 

His  worth,  his  honour,  all  the  world  approv'd. 

On  earth  I  am  a  strai-.ger  grown  ; 

We'll  nu)urn  till  we  too  go  as  he  is  gone, 

I  wander  in  the  waw  of  men, 

And  tread   the  dreary  path  to  that  dark  wsnd 

.\like  unkiu)wing  and  unknown  ; 

unknown. 

Unheard,  im]>itied,  unrelieved, 
I  bear  alane  my  laile  o'  care. 

.""or  silent,  hiw,  on  beds  of  dust. 

Lie  a'  that  would  my  sorrows  sharek 

TAM  0'  SHANTER: 

"  And  last,  (the  sum  of  a'  my  griefs).' 

A   TALE. 

My  noble  master  lies  in  cl.iy  ; 
llie  flow'r  auiatig  our  barons  bold, 

His  country's  pride,  his  country's  stay: 
111  weary  being  now  I  pine. 
For  a'  the  life  of  life  is  <iend, 

Of  Crownyis  .iml  of  Uogihs  full  is  tills  Hi  kc. 

And  iiope  has  left  my  aged  ken. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 

On  forward  wing  for  ever  fled. 

Ami  drouthy  necbors,  -actbors  meet. 

1 

POEMS.                                                    5S 

Aj  martiet-d.iys  arc  woariiij;  late, 

Or  like  tlic  borcalis  race, 

All'  folk  bi'gin  to  tak  tlic  ijate  ; 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  tlieir  place; 

Wliile  ue  sit  Ixiusiiifi;  at  the  nappy, 

Or  like  the  r.iiiihow's  lovelv  form 

An'  j^'ottiii'  I'ou  am!  uiii'o  li:ippy. 

Kvanishing  amid  the  storm 

\Vf  tliink  na  on  the  lin;^  Sints  miles. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide  ; 

The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  ami  stik's, 

The  hour  apiuoiches   Tarn  maun  ride  ; 

That  lie  between  us  ami  <iur  hanie, 

That  hour,   o'  nij;ht's  biack  arch  the  key-»Mna, 

Whare  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in; 

Gathering  her  lirciws  like  gathering  stoim, 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in, 

Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

.■^s  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

This  truth  fanii  honest   Tain  o'  Shaiitcr, 

The  wind  blew  as  'f.vad  blawn  its  last  ; 

As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  nij;ht  did  cinter. 

The  rattliii'  showers  rose  on  the  blast : 

(Aulil  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd  ; 

For  houest  men  aud  bonny  lasses). 

Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow'd  ; 

That  ni^ht,  a  child  might  understand. 

O   Tarn  !  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 

The  deil  had  business  oii  his  hand. 

As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 

Weel  monnteil  on  his  grey  mare,  Meg^ 

A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum  ; 

A  better  never  lifted  leg — 

That  Crae  Novcndier  tiii  October, 

Tarn  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire, 

Ae  market-day  tliou  was  na  sober  ; 

Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  lire  ; 

That  ilka  meliler,  wi'  the  miller, 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet; 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller  ; 

Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet; 

That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 

Whiles  glow'riiig  round  wi'  prudeut  cares, 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on  ; 

Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares  ; 

That  at  the  I — d's  house,  ev'n  on  Sundav, 

kirk-Allowat/  was  drawing  nigh. 

Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  .Monday. 

Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry — 

She  prophesy 'd,  that  late  or  soon. 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon  ; 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford. 

Or  cateh'd  wi'  warlocks  in  t'le  mirk, 

Whaie  in  the  sn  iw  the  chapman  smoor'd  ; 

By  AUvway's  auld  haunted  knk. 

And  past  the  biiks  and  meikle  stanc. 

Whare  drunken   Cliailie  bnk  's  neck-bane; 

Ah,  gentle  dames!    it  gars  me  greet, 

And  thro'  the  whins,  aud  by  the  cali'n. 

To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet, 

Wliare  hunters  fand  the  muider'd  bairn; 

How  nic.ny  kngthen'd  sage  advices, 

And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 

The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises  ! 

Whare  Mantid's  niither  hanged  hersel.— 

1 

F?efore  him  Do  n  pours  all  his  floo<is  ; 

But  to  our  tale  :    Ae  market  night, 

The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods; 

Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 

The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 

Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely. 

Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll  ; 

V'i'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely  ; 

When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 

.\nd  at  his  elbow,  soiiter  Johnny, 

Kirh-Alloicit'j  seem'd  in  a  bleeze  ; 

His  ancient,  trusty,  droiithy  crony  ; 

Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  alancinsr. 

Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  hrither  ; 

And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing— 

They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter  ; 

Inspirinjf  bold  Ji.hn  Jiarleycorn  ! 

And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better : 

What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  ! 

The  landlady  and    Tarn  grew  gracious, 

Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil  ; 

Wi'  favours,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious  ; 

Wi'  uscpiebae  we'll  fu'e  the  devil 

The  souter  taulil  his  queerest  stories  ; 

The  swats  sae  ream'd  in   Tanimits  noddlt. 

The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus  : 

Fair  play,  he  cared  n a  deils  a  boddle. 

The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle. 

But  Mnyri'te  stood  right  sair  astouish'd. 

Tain  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Fill,  by  the  heel  and  hand  adnionish'd, 

She  ventured  forward  on  the  light  ; 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy, 

And,  vow  !     Titm  saw  an  unco  sight  I 

E'en  drown'd  himself  amang  the  nappy  ; 

Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance  ; 

As  l)ees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasuie. 

Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 

The  minutes  wiii.;'d  their  way  wi'  pleasure: 

Hut  hornpipes,  jigs,  str.ithspcys,  and  reels, 

Kings  may  be  blest,  but   Tarn  was  glorious, 

I'ut  life  anil  mettle  m  their  heel.i. 

•J'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious  ! 

A  winiiock-bunker  in  the  east. 

There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast ; 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 

A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large, 

Von  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed  ! 

To  gie  them  niu^ic  was  his  charge  : 

Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river. 

He  si-rew'il  his  pipes  and  gart  them  skirL 

\  moment  wil■^J' — then  melt-  for  ever; 

L_ \ 

Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dlrL— • 

b* 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Coflins  stnnd  rnund  like  open  presses. 
That  sliawM  tliy  <leail  in  their  list  dresses  ; 
And  liy  some  devilish  cantrip  siip;ht, 
Each  in  its  cauld  h;md  held  a  light, — 
By  which  heroic   Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims  ; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unehristen'd  bairus  : 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  g  isp  his  gab  did  gape  ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bliide  rcd-riisted  ; 
Five  sevmltars  wi'  murder  crusted  ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled^ 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  grey  hairs  vet  stack  to  the  heft  ; 
V/i'  niair  o'  hoirible  and  awfu' 
Which  ev'n  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amaz'd  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fist  and  furious  : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew  ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew  ; 
Thev  reel'd,  thev  set,  they  cross'd,  tl-.ey  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  leekit. 
And  ciiost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

^mv  Tarn,   O   Tnm  !   had  they  been  queans 
A'  plump  an'  strapping,  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw- white  seventeen  hnniler  bnen  ' 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  (miy  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  giiid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  aff  my  luirdies  ! 
For  ae  blink  o'  tiie  bonnie  burdi-es  ! 

B\it  witberM  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rig  wood  ie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Low|)iiig  and  flinging  on  a  crunimock, 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Turn  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlle, 
There  was  ae  winsume  wenidi  and  walie, 
That  niijlit  enl  sted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Currick  shore  ! 
For  mony  a  heust  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perlsh'd  niony  a  bonnie  boat. 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  countty  side  in  fear), 
Her  cutty-sarii,  o'  Paisley  ham, 
That  whi'e  a  Ijssie  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty. 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  w^'S  vauntie. — • 
Ah  !   little  kenn'rl  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nwinic, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots,  ('tw.is  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  grac'd  a  dance  of  witches  ! 

Hut  nere  my  muse  her  wing  matin  cour  ; 
fs'r  llit^ht-*  are  l.ir  beyond  her  pow'r  ; 
To  sing  how  I\'ii7iiiii-  lap  and  H  irig, 
(A  souplt?  i  irle  she  was  and  Strang) 
And  how    Tiim  stooil,  like  uiie  bewitch 'd, 
Knd  thought  his  Very  een  enricli'd  • 


Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidg'd  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  maia  . 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anitl.er. 
Tarn  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither. 
And  roars  out.  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sara  ! 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark  ; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maagie  rallied, 
Wh.en  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  hizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke, 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke  ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes, 
When,  pop  !   she  starts  before  their  nose  ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market  crowd. 
When  "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud  ( 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  r.ionie  an  eldritch  screech  and  hollovr. 

Ah,  Tarn'   Ah,  Tarn!  thon'll  get  thy  fa'ri* 
In  hell  tl'.ey'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ; 
In  vain  thy  Kdte  awaits  thy  comin  ! 
Ktite  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman  ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  *  of  the  brig  , 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  crass. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 
The  fient  a  tale  she  had  to  shake  ' 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at   T(un  wi'  furious  ettle  , 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle^ 
Ae  spring  brousjlit  aff  her  master  hale. 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail  : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scaice  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son  take  heed  : 
Whene'er  to  diink  you  are  inclin'd. 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind, 
Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear. 
Remember   Tain  o'  S/iantcrs  mare. 


ON  SEEING  A  WOUNDED 
HARE  LIMP  BY  ME, 

WHICH   A    FELLOW    HAD   J  U.ST  SHOT  AT. 

Inhuman  man  !  curse  on  thy  barb'rous  ait. 
And  blasted  be  thy  murdi'i-ainiing  eye  : 
IMay  never  pity  soothe  thee  with  a  sigh. 

Nor  ever  pleasure  glad  thy  cruel  heart  ! 

Go  live,  poiM-  wanilerer  of  the  wood  and  field. 
The  bitter  little  that  of  hfe  remains  : 


•  It  is  a  •ell  known  fact,  that  witches,  or  any  evi" 
pri<'its,  h.wv  no  power  f()  fnlhuv  a  poor  »^'iRht  aiiv  fir 
thcr  than  tl\e  nii.lille  of  the  next  ruMiiliiij  stream. — It 
may  l)e  proper  likewise  in  menlinn  to  the  heiiiRhlcd 
traveller,  that  wliin  he  tails  in  with  l'iii.'/f<,  wl  4tivei 
danijer  may  li  •  in  his  (joiiii;  torwatd,  tiiere  is  nm;:S 
more  hazard  in  tuniiii)^  Ijack. 


POEMS. 


5a 


No   more  tlie  tliickcniiig  lir.ikes  and  verumt 
plains. 
To  tLce  sliall  home,  or  food,  or  p  i-tinie  yield. 

Seek,  inanglod  u-rotcli,  s:)nie  place  of  wonted 
rc'<t, 

No  nuire  of  rest,  lint  now  tliy  rlyins;  bed  ! 

The  slu'lteiing  rnslu's  whistliMg  oVr  thy  head, 
The  cold  i-ai  th  with  thy  hlooily  bosom  prest. 

Oft  a>i  by  winding  Nllh,  1   mnsinsr  wait 
T!r'  sober  eve,  or  h  lil  the  elu'erf'ul  d.nvn, 
I'll  miss  tliee  sjiiiitinir  o'er  the  dewy  l.iwn, 

And  curse  the  ruffiiu's  aim,  and  inuuni  thy 
hapless  fate. 


ON  A  NOISY  POLEMIC. 

Dki.ow  thir  stanes  lie  Jamie's  b.mes  : 

O  Death,  its  my  opinion, 
Thmi  ne'er  took  ^.UL•h  a  bletli'rin  bitch 

Into  thy  dark  doiuinioa  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SHADE 
OF  THOMSON, 

ON   CROWNINT.    HIS    B'JST  AT    F.llSAM,    ROX- 
BUKGUSHIILE,    WITH    BAVS. 

While  virgin  Spring,  by  Eden's  (lood, 
Unfolds  iier  tenlei-  mintle  green, 

Or  pranks  the  sod  in  frolic  m"od. 
Or  tuues  Eohiin  strains  between  : 

\Vliile  Summer,  witli  a  matron  grace. 
Retreats  to  Drylui.  gli's  cooling  shade, 

Yet  (,ft,  (ielighred.  sfops  to  trace 
Tiie  progress  of  the  spiky  blade  ; 

While  Autumn,  I)enefactor  kind, 

By  Tweed  erects  his  aged  head, 
And  sees,  with  self-approving  mind, 

liach  creature  on  his  bounty  feed: 

While  maniac  \Vin;>r  rises  o'er 

The  bills  whence  classii-  Yarrow  flows, 

Rousing  the  turbid  torrent's  roar. 

Or  sweeping,  wild,  a  waste  of  snows  : 

&•)  long,  sweet  Poet  of  the  year. 

Shall  bloom  that  wreath  thon  well  hast  won  ; 
While  Scotia,  wirli  exulting  t.-ar, 

Proclaims  that  Thomson  was  her  son. 


EPITAPHS. 

ON  A  CELEBRATED  RULING 
ELDER. 

Here  sok'er  John  iti  death  does  icep ; 

To  hi-:l,  if  he's  ij.iiie  thither, 
8atin,  ^le  him  thy  '^lar  to  keep, 

He'll  baud  it  weel  thegitjer. 


ON  WEE  JOHNNY. 

Uicjacet  wee  Johnny, 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  O  re-nler,  know. 
That  death  has  murder'd  Johnny  ! 

An'  here  his  bi.dij  lies  fu'  low 

For  saul,  he  ne'er  had  ony. 


FOR  THE  AUTHOR  S  FATHER 

O  YE  whose  cheek  the  tear  of  pitv  stains, 
Draw  near  with  pious  rev'rence  and  attend  ! 

Here  lie  the  loving  husband's  dear  remains. 
The  tender  father  and  the  gen'rous  friend. 

The  pitying  heart  that  felt  for  human  woe  ; 
The   dauntless   heart  that  fear'd  no  human 
pride  ; 
The  friend  of  man,  to  vice  ahine  a  foe  ; 

"  For   ev'n   his   failings    leaned    to    virtue'* 
side."* 


FOR  R.  A.  Esq. 

Know  thou,  O  stranger  to  the  fame 
Of  this  much  lov'd,  much  honjur'd  nxxrn 
(For  none  that  knew  him  need  he  to'd) 
A  warmer  heait  death  ne'er  made  cold. 


FOR  G.  H.  Esq. 

The  ])oor  man  we?ps — heie  G n  slcep«, 

W)om  canting  wretches  blam'd  : 

But  witli  audi  lis  he,  where'er  he  be, 
May  I  be  saved  or  / d  f 


A  BARD'S  EPITAPH. 

Is  tliere  a  whim-inspired  fool, 
Owie  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  ru'e, 
Owj  e  blate  to  seek,  owre  jiroud  to  snool, 

Let  him  diaw  near  ; 
And  owre  this  grasgy  heap  sing  dool, 

And  drap  a  tear. 

Is  there  a  barti  of  rustic  song. 
Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowcFs  among, 


•  Goldsmith. 


56 


BURNS'  WORIvS. 


Tbat  weekly  this  area  throng, 

O,  pass  not  by  ! 

But,  with  a  fratei-feeliiig  strong, 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

la  there  a  man,  whose  jurlgment  clear, 
Cm  nthers  teai-h  the  couise  to  steer, 
Yet  runs,  himself,  life's  mad  career, 

Vild  as  the  wave  ; 
litre  pause — and,  through  the  starting  tear, 
Survey  this  grave. 

Tlie  poor  inhabitant  below. 
Was  <)iiiik  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 
And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow, 

^nd  nofter  fume, 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low. 

And  stain'd  his  name  ! 

Reader,  attend — whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pule, 
Or  darkling  gru!)S  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious,  self-control. 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


ON   THE    LATE 

CAPTAIN  GROSE'a 

PEREGRINATIONS     THKO'UOH     SCOTLAND,     COL- 
LECTING THE  ANTIUL'ITIES  OF  THAT  K1NGU0.-.L 

Heau,  Land  o'  Cakes,  and  brither  Siots, 
Fiae  Maidenkiik  to  Johnny  Groat's  ; 
If  there's  a  hole  in  a'  your  coats, 

I  rede  you  tent  it : 
A  chield's  amang  you,  taking  note*. 

And,  faith,  he'll  prent  it. 

If  in  vnur  biunds  ye  chance  to  light 
Upon  a  fine,  fat,  fodgel  wight, 
O'  stature  short,  but  genius  bright. 

That's  he,  mark  weel — 
And  wow  !   he  has  an  unco  slight 

O'  cauk  ami  keel. 

Bv  some  aiild,  houlet-haunted  biggin," 
Or  kirk,  dLsertnl  by  its  liggin. 
It's  ten  to  ane  ye'll  liiid  Inm   snug  in 

Some  eldritch  part, 
Wi'  deils,  they  say,  L— d  safe's  !   colleaguin' 

At  some  black  art. — 

Ilk  ghaist  that  haunts  auld  hi*  or  chamer, 
Ye  gip-ey-gang  tluit  deal  in  glamor. 
And  you  die[i -read  in  hell's  black  grammar, 

W'.iilocks  and  witcbcs  ; 
Ye'll  qiia];e  at  his  conjuiing  hammer, 

Ye  mlcliiight  bitches. 

It's  tauid  h.c  was  a  siidgpr  bred. 
And  ane  w,id  rather  fa'ii  than  fleil  ; 


But  now  be'*  quat  the  sjiurtle  blada, 

And  ilog-skin  wall**, 

And  ta'en  the — Afiti'i'inrian  trade, 

I  think  they  call  it. 

He  has  a  fouth  o'  auM  nick  nackets : 
Rusty  airn  caps  and  jinglin'  jackets,* 
Wdd  had  the  Lothians  three  in  ta.kets, 

A  towmont  guiil  : 
And  parritch  pats,  and  auld  sjut-ba.-keta, 
Before  the  Flood. 

Of  Eve's  first  fire  he  has  a  cinder  ; 
Auld  Tubal  Cain's  tire->hool  and  fender  ; 
That  which  distinguished  the  gender 

C  Halaiui's  ass  ; 
A  broom-stick  o'  the  witch  of  Endor, 

Weel  shod  wi"  brass. 

Forbye,  he'll  shape  you  aff,  fu'  gleg, 
The  cut  of  Adam's  pliililn-g  ; 
The  knife  that  uicket  Abel's  craig. 

He'll  prove  you  fully, 
It  was  a  faulding  jocteleg. 

Or  lang-kail  gullie.— 

But  wad  ye  see  him  in  his  glee, 
For  meikle  glee  and  fun  has  he, 
Then  set  him  down,  and  twa  or  three 

Guid  fellows  wi'  hjin  , 
And  port,   O  port  !   Shine  thou  a  wee. 

And  then  ye'll  see  him  j 

Now,  by  the  pow'rs  o'  verse  and  prose  ! 
Thou  art  a  dainty  chiel,  O  (Jiose  . — 
Whae'er  o'  thee  shall  ill  su])pose. 

They  salt  misca'  thee; 
I'd  take  the  rascal  bv  the  nose, 

'Wad  sav,  Shame  fa'  thee  ! 


•  ViJc  his  Anlin  lilies  of  Scoiliiid. 


TO  MISS  CRUIKSHANKS, 

A  VJUV  YOUNG  LADY,  WUITTHNON  THE  BlANl 
LEAF  OK  A  BOOK,  l-KEsENTZl)  lO  HER  Bl 
THE   AUTHOR. 

Beauttous  rose-bud,  young  and  gay, 

lilooming  on  thy  early  .May, 

Never  may'st  thou,  lovely  flow'r, 

Cliilly  shrink  in  sleety  show'r  : 

Never  Boreas*  hoary  patli, 

Never  Euru-.'  pois'nou>  breath, 

Never  baleful  stellar  li;;ht->. 

Taint  thee  with  untimely  blights! 

Never,  never  reptde  thiet 

Riot  on  thy  virgin  leaf! 

Nor  even  Sol  too  fiercely  view 

Thy  bosuin  blushing  still  with  dew  ' 

May'st  thou  long,  sweet  crimson  gera, 
Richly  deck  thy  native  stem  ; 


•  ViJo  his  treatise  on  Ancient  Armour  and  Weapon* 


POEBIS. 


6-? 


rill  •'ome  ev'ninsr    siilior,  csim, 
|)Tii]iliiiii;  (li'u-^,  .uni  oiciitliiiii;  balm, 
W'liilo  all  aiiHiml  till'  wiiocll, 111(1  lings, 
Ami  t'v'iy  l:iiil  thy  I'Mjiiiriii  sings; 
Tlioii,  iiiitiil  tile  (lii'^t'tiil  sound, 
Slicd  tliy  ilyini;  hutiDiirs  rotiiHl, 
Anil  ifsiilii  ti)  |)an'iit  eaitli 
'1  lit'  lovfliot  foiiii  she  u'lt  gave  birth. 


ON   RKAIUNO    IN  A    N  KUSPA  PKR,  THE   DEATH   OF 

JOHN  M'LEOD,  Esq. 

BKOTIIr.ll  TO   A    VOIINO    I.AnV,   A   PAKTICULAK 
KRIK.M)   OKTUl':   AUTHOtt's. 

Sad  tliv  talc,  tliiui  idle  page, 

And  iiii'I'id  tliy  aianns  : 
Death  tears  the  liiotiier  of  her  love 

From  Isabella's  arms. 

Sivcelly  deek'd  with  pearly  dew 

The  moriiiii;;  rii^e  iniy  liKnv  ; 
Diit,  cdlil  siieecsvive  nunntide  blasts 

M.iy  lay  its  beauties  low. 

Fiiir  Oil  Isabel 'a's  morn 

The  sun  propitious  siiiliM  ; 
But,  hmg  ere  nnoti,  succeeding  clouds 

Suceeeiling  hupes  beguil'd. 

Fate  oft  tears  the  bosom  i-hords 

That  nature  Hnest  sirunjr : 
So  Isabella's  heai  t  was  fonu'd, 

And  bO  that  heart  was  rung. 

Dread  Oinnipotenee,  alone, 

Can  heal  the  Wdiirid  he  gave  ; 
Can  [Point  the  biinitiil  grief-worn  eyes 

To  scenes  beyond  the  grave. 

Virtuous  blossoms  there  shall  blow. 

And  fear  no  withering  blast  ; 
There  Isabella's  spotless  worth 

Shall  liappy  be  at  last. 


THE  HUMBLE  PETITION  OF 
BliUAR-WATER.* 

TO  THE  NOLLE  DUKE  OF  ATHOLE. 

Mr  Lord,  I  kriov>'  ycmr  noble  ear 

^^oe  ne'er  a-sai|s  in  vain  ; 
Endiuhlen'd  thus.  I  beg  you'll  hear 

Your  humble  slave  complain, 
ilow  saiicy  I'hu'biis'  sciirchitig  beams, 

III  f.aming  suniiner-pride, 


•  nniar  Falls,  iy  Athole,  arecxcerilingly  picturesque 
snd  tjcautii'iil ;  bi.i  ihcir  elU-ci.  isinuch  mi|iaire(l  by  lIio 
wuit  of  trees  auii  shrubs. 


Dry-withering,  waste  niy  foaiTiing  s^rcanil. 
Anil  drink  my  crystal  tide 

The  lightly-jumpin  glowrin  trouts, 

That  thro'  my  waters  play. 
If,  in   their  random,  w.intoii  spouts. 

They  near  the  margin  stray  ; 
If,  hapless  chance  !    tli.'y  linger  lang, 

I'm  scorching  up  so  shallow, 
They  le  left  the  whitening  staiies  amixtg. 

In  gasping  death  to  walow. 

Last  day  I  grat,  wi'  spite  and  teen, 

As  poet  B came  by, 

That,  to  a  bard  I  should  be  seen, 

Wi'  half  my  channel  dry  : 
A  jianegyric  rhyme,  I  ween. 

Even  as  I  was  he  slu'i'd  me: 
But  had  I  in  my  glory  been, 

He,  kneeling,  wad  ador'd  me. 

Ilcro,  foaming  down  the  slulvy  rocks, 

In  twisting  strength  I  rio  ; 
There,  high  my  boiling  tin  rent  smokee, 

Wdd-roaring  o'er  a  linn  : 
Enjoying  large  each  spring  and  well 

As  nature  gave  them  me, 
I  am,  although  I  say't  mysel. 

Worth  gaun  a  mile  to  see. 

Would  then  my  noble  master  please 

To  grant  my  highest  wis!;es. 
He'll  shade  my  banks  wi'  fow'ring  trees 

And  boni-.ie  spieadiiig  bushes  ; 
Delighted  doubly  then,  mv  Lord, 

\'ou'll  wander  on  my  banks, 
And  listen  mony  a  gratel'nl  bird 

Return  you  tuneful  thanks. 

Tiie  sober  laverock,  waibling  wild, 

Shall  to  the  skies  aspire  ; 
The  gowdspink,  music's  gayest  child. 

Shall  sweetly  join  the  choir  : 
The  blackbird  strong,  the  lintv,'hite  clear. 

The  mavis  wild  and  mellow  ; 
The  robin  pensive  autumn  cheer, 

In  all  her  locks  of  jellow. 

This  too,  a  covert  shall  ensure, 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm  ; 
And  coward  niaukin  sleep  secure. 

Low  in  her  gras-^y  form. 
Here  shall  the  shepheid  make  his  seat, 

To  weave  his  crown  of  (lowers  ; 
Or  find  a  shelt'iing  sale  retreat, 

From  prone  descending  showers. 

And  here,  by  sweet  endearing  stealth, 

Shall  meet  the  lovitig  pair, 
Despising  worlds  with  all  their  wealth 

As  empty  idle  care  : 
The  flow'rs  shall  vie  in  all  their  charmi 

The  hour  of  heav'n  to  grace, 
And  birks  extend  their  fru^r:int  arms 

To  screen  the  dear  embrace. 


ja 


J 


»8 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Here,  haply  ton,  at  vernal  d.iwn. 

Some  musiag  bird  may  stray. 
And  eye  the  sm()king,'dewy  lawn, 

And  misty  mduiit.ila,  grey  ; 
Or,  l)y  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 

Mild  fhequeririj;  through  the  trees, 
Rave  to  my  d  irkly  dashing  stream, 

Hoarse-swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool, 

My  lowly  banks  oVrspread, 
And  view,  deep-bending  in  the  pool, 

Their  sh;idows'  watery  bed  ! 
Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbines  drest, 

Mv  craggy  cliffs  adorn  ; 
And,  for  the  little  simgster's  nest, 

The  close  embow'ring  thorn. 

So  may  old  Scotia's  darling  Lope, 

Your  little  angel  band. 
Spring,  like  their  fithers,  up  to  prop 

Their  hnnour'd  native  land  ! 
So  may  thru'  Aliiion's  farthest  ken, 

To  social-Hciwuig  glasses. 
The  grace  i)e — ■'  Athole's  honest  men, 

And  Athole's  bonnie  lasses  !" 


ON  SCARING  SOME  WATER- 
FOWL, 

IN  LOCH-TUKIT  ; 

A  WILD  SCENE    AMONG  THE  HILLS   OF 
OCHTEKTVRE. 

Why,  ye  tenints  of  the  lake. 
For  me  your  waturv  haunt  forsake? 
Tell  me,  fi'llow-cre.ituies,  why 
At  my  presence  thus  you  fly  ? 
Why  disturb  your  social  joys. 
Parent,  filial,  kindred  ties  i~— 
Common  fri..'nd  to  you  and  me, 
Nature's  gifrs  to  ail  are  free  : 
Peaceful  keep  your  dimpling  wave, 
Busy  feed,  or  wanton  I  ive  ; 
Or,  beneath  the  slu-lt.  ring  rock, 
Cide  the  surging  bilio.v's  shock. 

Conscious,  blushing  for  our  race, 
Soon,  too  soon,  your  fears  I  trace. 
Man,  your  prou'l  usurping  foe, 
Would  be  lord  of  all  below  ; 
Plumes  himst'if  lu  Freedom's  prlJe, 
Tyrant  st<'rn  to  all  In-side. 

The  eagle,  from  the  cliflfy  lirow, 
Ikfarking  you  his  prey  below, 
In  his  breast  no  pit)  dwells, 
Strong  neces-itv  ciiiii]iels. 
liut  man.  I<>  vi  houi  a'ooe  is  giv'a 
A  ray  direct  fi^'m  |iit\'ni;  heav'n, 
3I0110UH  in  his  litM?t  liuuiane — 
nd  creatures  for  iiiit  pleasure  slain> 


In  these  savage,  liquid  plains. 
Only  known  to  wand'ring  swiins, 
Wiere  the  mossy  riv'let  strays  ; 
Far  from  human  haunts  and  ways ; 
All  on  nacure  you  depend. 
And  life's  poor  season  peaeefu]  ^pend. 

Or,  if  man's  superior  might. 
Dare  invade  your  native  rijht, 
On  the  lofty  ether  borne, 
Man  with  all  his  pow'rs  you  scorn: 
Swiftly  seek,  on  clanging  wings. 
Other  lakes  and  other  springs; 
And  the  foe  you  cannot  brave. 
Scorn  at  least  to  be  his  slave. 


^VRITTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL 

jveh  the  chimney-piece  ix  the  parloub 
of  the  inn  at  kenmoue,  taymouth, 

Admiring  Nature  in  her  wildest  grace, 
These  nojthern  scenes  with  weary  feet  I  trace  ; 
O'er  many  a  winding  da'e  and  painful  steep, 
Th'  abodes  of  covey'd  grouse  and  timid  sheep. 
My  savage  journey,  curious,  I  pursue. 
Till  fam'd  Breadalbane  ojjens  to  my  view — 
The  meeting  clifs  each  deep-sunk  glen  divides, 
The  woods,   wild-scatter'd,   clothe  their  ample 

sides ; 
Th'  outstretching  lake,   einbosom'd  'mong   the 

hills. 
The  eye  with  wonder  and  amazement  fills ; 
The  Tay  meand'ring  sweet  in  infant  pride. 
The  palace  rising  on  his  verdant  side. 
The  lawns  wood-fringed  in  Natures  native  taste; 
The  hillocks  diopt  in  Nature's  careless  haste  ! 
The  arches  striding  o'er  the  new-born  stream 
The  village,  glittering  in  the  moontide  beam- 
Poetic  ardours  in  my  bosom  swell, 
Lone  wandering  by  the  hermit's  mossy  cell  : 
The  sweeping  theatre  of  hanging  woods  ; 
The     incessant     roar     of     headlong     tumbling 

floods — 


Here  Poesy  might  wake  her  heav'n-taught  lyre, 
And  look  through  nature  with  crejtive  fire; 
Here,  to  the  wrongs  of  fite  half  lecoricil'd, 
Misfortune'f     lighten'd     steps     might     wandel 

wild  ; 
And  di-appoiufment,  in  'hese  lonely  bounds, 
Find  balm  to  soothe  her  bitter  rankling  wounds 
Here   heart-struck    Grief    might    heaven-ware 

stretch  her  scan. 
And  injur'd  worth  forget  ar-'  nardon  man. 


FORMS. 
^KITTEN  WITH  A  PENCIL, 

STANDING    UV  THE    FAI.l.  OF   KVEKS,    N  KA  11 
LOCll-NESS. 


59 


Among  tlie  heatiiy  hills  ami  raijgeJ  woods 
The  roiiring  Fytrs  pmirs  his  m()>sy  flouds  ; 
Fdl  t'lill  he  ilaslies  on  the  rocky  mounds, 
Where,   thro'  a    shapeless    breach,    his  stream 
resounds. 

As  hii;li  in  air  the  bursting  torrents  flow, 
As  deep  recoiling  surges  fuam  below, 
Prone  down  the   rock   the  whitening  sheet  de- 
scends, 
And  viewless  echo's  ear,  astonish'd,  rends. 
Dim-seen,   through  rising  niisti    and  ceaseless 

showers, 
The  hoary  cavern,  wide-surrounding  lowers, 
Stil.  rnro   toe  gap  tlie  strug^liiiij  river  toils. 
Anil  still  below,  the  horrid  caldron  boils — 


ox  THE    PIUTI!   OF  A 

POSTHUMOUS  CHILD, 

BOKN    IN    PECUI.IAIl   CIRCUJISTANCES   OF 
FAJULY    DISTRESS. 

Sweet  Flow'ret,  pledge  o'  meikle  love, 

And  ward  o'  nioiiy  a  prayer, 
What  heart  o'  stane  wad  thou  na  move, 

Sae  lielj)less,  sweet,  and  fair  ! 

November  hirples  o'er  the  lea, 

Chill  on  thy  lovely  iorni  ; 
And  gme,  alas!    the  >helt"i'ing  tree, 

Should  shield  thee  trae  the  storm. 

May  He  who  gives  the  rain  to  pour. 

And  wings  the  blast  to  blaw, 
Protect  thee  frae  the  driving  shower^ 

The  bitter  frost  and  suaw  ! 

May  IIe,  the  friend  of  woe  and  want, 
AVho  heals  life's  varioiis  stounds. 

Protect  and  guaril  the  imither  plant, 
And  heal  her  cruel  wounds  ! 

But  late  she  flourish'd,  rooted  fast. 

Fair  on  the  summer  morn  : 
Now  feebly  bends  she  in  the  blast, 

UDshelter'd  and  foilorn. 

Blest  be  thy  bloom,  thou  lovely  gaci, 

Unscath'd  liy  ruffian  hand! 
And  from  thee  many  a  parent  stem 

Arise  to  deck  our  land  ! 


THE  WHISTLE 

A   BALLAD. 


As  tlic  authentic  ;)rn.tc  history  of  tlic  Whistle  Is  CB- 
tioiis,  I  shall  here  Rive  it. — In  tlie  train  nf  \  iiic  o( 
Dcnniark,  when  she  viw.e  to  Scotl.inil  wicli  oiir  J:inip« 
the  •'ixlh,  tluie  came  over  also  a  Danish  ^eiulcmaii  of 
pipantu'  stature  and  great  prowess,  and  a  inatchUvis 
ihanipion  of  Haii'hus.  lie  had  a  little  elxiiiy  Whi-iie 
whuh  at  the  CDininenceincnt  of  the  orjji  s  he  laid  on 
the  table,  aiut  whoever  was  last  able  to  blow  It,  every 
body  else  beiiip;  ilisaliled  by  the  luitency  of  the  bniilc, 
was  to  carry  nfl'  ihe  Whistle  as  a  trojibv  of  viciory. 
The  Dane  produeid  crt'deiitials  of  his  victories  withoul 
a  siii;;le  <lrfeat,  at  the  courts  of  Oipcnhaijeii,  Sioi'k- 
holm,  Moscow,  Warsaw,  and  several  <if  the  petty 
courts  in  Germany;  and  ehnllcnj;cd  ihe  Scots  I5i;ciha- 
naliaiis  to  the  aUcnialive  of  trying  his  prowess,  or  el>c 
of  aeUnowlcilijinij  their  infeiiority.  After  in.iiiy  over- 
throws on  the  part  of  the  Scots,  ilic  n.aiie  was  eiiei>im- 
tered  by  Sir  Robert  Lawrie  of  Si  ixwcUon,  ancestor  of 
tlx"  present  worthy  baronet  of  tli.it  name;  r.ho,  jifter 
tliree  days  and  three  iiichts'  h.ird  contest,  left  the 
Scandinavian  under  the  table. 

And  bten  on  the  }yhisltf  hit  requiem  thrill. 

Sir  Walter,  son  to  Sir  Robert  before  mon'ioned,  af. 
tcrwards  lost  the  Whistle  to  Waller  Riddel,  of  Clin, 
riddel,  who  had  iiirirried  a  sister  of  ."sir  U  a.'i  r's. — Oi 
Friday,  the  lC:h  of  October  I7;*l).  at  Kriars-Carse,  the 
Whittle  vvas  once  more  eontemled  for,  as  relaiid  in  the 
ballad,  by  the  present  Sir  Itobert  I.awrie  of  M.ixwil. 
ton;  Robert  Ridilel,  Ksq.  of  ('ilenriildel,  liacal  de- 
seciidant  ami  representative  of  W.ilter  Riddel,  who 
won  the  Whistle,  and  ill  whose  family  it  h.id  eonii- 
iiiied  ;  and  .•\lexaiidcr  Kergusoii,  Ksi].  of  t'raiudMrroeh, 
likewise  descended  of  the  great  Sir  Ro'xTt;  vvhie'i  ;.asl 
gentleman  carried  oft' the  hard- won  .'lonmirsof  me  field. 


I  SING  of  a  \Vhistle,  a  H'histl'  of  worth, 
I  sing  of  a  Whistle,  the  uride  of  the  Norfli, 
Was  brought  to  tlie  court  of  our  good  t^cottisb 

king, 
And  loUjj;  with  this  Whistle  a'l   Scotland   shal. 

ring. 

Old  Loda,*  still  rueing  the  arm  of  Fing.i], 
The   god    of  the   bottle   sends   down    from    his 

hall— 
"  This   Whistle's   your  challenge,   to   Scotland 

get  o'er, 
And  drink  them  to  hell.  Sir  '  or  ne'er  see  roe 

more  !" 

Old  poets  have  sung,   and  old  chroniclei  tell 
What    champions    veutur'd,    whit    champions 

fell  ; 
The  son  of  great  Loda  was  comnieior  still, 
And  blew  on  the  Wlii.stle  his  reijuiem  shrill. 

Till  Robert,  the  lord  of  the  Caitn  and  tlu 
SiMur, 
I'nmatch'd  at  the  bottle,  imconqner'd  in  war, 
He  drank  his  poor  god-ship  as  deep  as  the  sea. 
No  tide  of  the  Baltic  e'er  drunker  than  1  e. 

Thus    Robert,    victorious,    the    trophy   Lai 
gain'd  ; 
Which  now  in  his  house  has  lir  ages  remain'd 


60 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Till  three  noWc  chieftains,  and  all  of  his  blood, 
The  jovial  contest  again  have  lenew'd. 

Three  ioyous  good  fellows,  with  hearts  clear 

of  fi.wv  ; 
Craigdanoch,   bo   famous  for  wit,   worth,   and 

law  ; 
4nd  trusty  Glenriddel,  so  skill'd  in  old  coins  ; 
\nii  gallant  Sir  Robert,  deep  read  in  old  wines. 

Craigdarroch  began,  with  a  tongue  smooth 
as  oil, 
Desiring  Glenriddel  to  yield  up  the  spoil  ; 
Or  el>e  he  would  muster  the  heads  of  the  clan. 
And  once  more,  in  claret,  try  which  was  the 
man. 

"  By  the  gods  of  the  ancients,"   Glenriddel 

rejiHes, 
"  Before  I  surrender  so  glorious  a  prize, 
I'll  ccinjure  the  ghost  of  the  great  Roiie  More,' 
And  bun. per  his  horn  with  him  twenty  tmies 

o  er. 

Sir  Robert,  a  soldier,  ao  speech  would  pre- 
tend, 

But  he  ne'er  turn'd  his  back  on  his  foe — or  his 
friend. 

Said,  Toss  down  the  \^Tiistle,  the  prize  of  the 
field. 

And  knee-deep  in  claret,  he'd  die  or  lie'd  yield. 

To  the  board  of  Glenriddel  our  heroes  repair, 
So  noted  for  drowning  of  sorrow  and  care  ; 
But  for  \vU\f  and  for  welcome  not  more  know:i 

to  fame, 
Than  the  sertse,  wit,  and  taste,  of  a  sweet  lovelv 

dunie. 

A  bard  was  -elected  to  witness  the  fray, 
And  tell  future  ages  the  feats  of  tlie  day  ; 
A  bard  who  detested  all  sadness  and  spleen, 
And    wish'd    that    Parnassus   a   vineyard    hail 
been. 

The  dinner  being  over,  the  claret  they  jdy. 
And  every  new  cork  is  a  new  spring  ot  joy  ; 
In  the  bands  of  old  friendship  and   kindred   sc 

set. 
And  the  bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they 
weie  wet. 

Gay  pleasure  ran  riot  as  bumpers  ran  o'er  ; 
Bright  I'hu'lms  ne'er  witness'd  so  joyous  a  core, 
And  vowed    that  to  leave    them    he  was  quiti 

forlorn. 
Till  Cynthia  liinteil  he'd  sec  them  next  morn. 

Six   bottles   a-piece   had  well  wore  out    tli. 
ni^ht, 
WTjen  gallant  Sir  Robert,  to  finish  the  fight, 


•  See  Johnsou'i  Tout  to  llie  Hebrides. 


Turn'd  o'er  in  one  bumper  a  battle  of  red, 
And  swore  'twas  the  way  that  their  ancestor* 
did. 

Then   worthy   GlenrldJel,   so    cautious   and 
sage, 
No  longer  the  warfare,  ungodly,  would  wage  ; 
A  high-rulinr  JJder  to  wallow  in  wine  I 
He  left  the  foul  business  to  folks  less  divine. 

The  gallant  Sir  Robert  fought  hard  to  the 
end  ; 

But  who  can  with  fate  and  quart  bumpers  con- 
tend ? 

Though  fate  said— a  hero  should  perish  in  light ; 

So  uprose  blight  Phttbus — and  down  fell  the 
knight. 

Next    uprose   our  bard,    like    a  prophet  in 
drink  :  — 
"  Craigdarroch,     thou'It    soar  when   creation 

shall  sink  ; 
But  if  thou  would  flourish  immort<il  in  rhyme, 
Come — one  bottle  more — and  have  at  the  sub- 
lime ! 

"  Thy  line,  that  have  struggled  for  Freedom 
with  Bruce, 
.shall  heroes  and  patriots  ever  produce  ; 
So  thine  be  the  laurel,  and  mine  be  the  bay  ; 
The  field  thou  luust  won,   by  yon  bright  god  of 

day  I" 


SECOND  EPISTLE  TO  DAVIE, 

A   BROTHER   rOET.  f 
A'.ir.n   NEFBOR, 

I'm  three  times  doubly  o'er  your  debtor, 
l^ir  your  auld-far  rent,  frien'ly  letter  ; 
I'ho'  I  maun  say't,  I  doubt  ye  Hatter, 

Ye  speak  so  fair  : 
For  my  puir,  silly,  rhymm'  clatter. 

Some  less  maun  sair. 

Hale  be  your  heart,  hile  be  your  fidiUe  ; 
Lang  may  your  elbuck  jink  and  diddle, 
Co  cheer  you  through  the  weary  widdle 

O'  war'ly  cares, 
rill  bairns'  bairns  kindly  ciuldlc 

Your  auld  grey  hairs. 

But  Davie,  lad,  I'm  red  ye'ie  glaikit ; 
I'm  taulfl  the  Muse  ye  bae  uei!;leckit ; 
An'  gif  it's  sae,  ye  sod  lie  lickit 

Until  ye  fyke ; 
Sic  bans  as  you  sud  ne'er  be  faikit. 

Be  hain't  wha  like. 


t  lliis  is  jirofixeil  to  llic  poems  of  David  Sillar,  pu> 
lishcil  at  Kiliiiariiofk,  1  .S|),  and  lias  U(  t  l<clore  apiieir 
ud  ui  our  author's  pnuted  poems. 


r-'T.^s 


m 


/■'■■■ 


V  >.,  I 


POEMS. 


61 


Pii  me,    'm  on  Parnassus  brink, 

Rivin'  tr  ;  worils  to  £:;ar  tlu'iii  clJiik  ; 

Wlivlc^i  il  ic7.'t  vvi'  love,  wtiyli's  dacz't  wi'  I'link 

M'i'  j  ids  or  masons  ; 
All'  wliyles,  hut  aye  ovvie  late,  I  think, 

Braw  sober  lessons. 

'K"a'  the  fhou!;litles<i  sons  o'  man, 
(.'onimen'  me  to  the  bardic  clan; 
Except  It  be  some  idle  plan 

O'  rhymin'  clink. 
The  devil-haet,  that  I  siui  ban, 

They  ever  think. 

Nae  thought,  nae  view,  nae  scheme  of  livin' ; 
^iaj  cares  to  gie  us  joy  or  jjrieviu'  : 
But  just  the  pouchie  put  the  nievc  in. 

An'  while  ought's  ther?, 
Then,  hihie,  skiltie,  we  gae  scrievin'. 

An'  fash  nae  niair. 

Lvt-ze  me  on  rhyme  !  it's  aye  a  treasure, 
My  chief,  amaist  my  oidy  pleasure, 
At  hame,  a-fiel',  at  waik  or  leisure. 

The  Muse,  poor  hizzie! 
Tho'  rough  an'  raploch  be  her  measure, 

She's  seldom  lazy. 

Hau.l  to  tlie  Mus.;,  my  dainty  Davie  : 
'I'he  war!'  may  play  you  mony  a  shavie  ; 
But  for  the  Muse,  she'll  never  leave  ye, 

Tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 
Na,  even  tho'  limpin'  wi'  the  sjjuvie 

Frae  door  tac  Goor. 


ON  MY  EARLY  DAYS. 
I. 

I  MIND  it  wcel  in  early  date. 

When  I  was  beardless,  young,  and  blate, 

An'  first  could  thresh  the  barn. 
Or  hand  a  y(]kin  o'  the  pleugh. 
An'  tho'  furfnughten  sair  eneugh, 

Yet  unco  proud  to  learn — 
Wh^n  first  amang  the  yellow  corn 

A  man  I  reikon'd  was. 
And  wi'  the  lave  ilk  merry  ir.crn 
Could  rank  my  rig  and  lass- 
Still  shearing,  and  clearing 
The  tither  stooked  raw, 
Wi'  claivers,  an'  haivers, 
Wearing  the  day  awa. 

II. 

E'en  then  a  wish,  I  mind  its  pow'r, 
A  wish  that  to  my  latest  hour 

Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast, 
Th?  ■  I  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake. 
Some  usefu'  plan  or  book  could  make, 

Or  sing  a  sang,  at  least. 
The  rough  burr-thistle,  spreading  vi'J* 

Amaiv^  the  beardnl  bear. 


I  tiirn'd  the  woi'rhr  vlips  it-side, 
An'  spirrd  the  syinhul  dear; 
So  nation,  no  stafion. 

My  envy  e'er  could  raisei 
A  Scot  still,  but  blot  still, 
1  knew  nae  higher  praise. 

III. 

Rut  still  the  elements  o'  sung 

In  formless  jumble,  right  an'  rang, 

Wild  floated  in  mv  brain  : 
'Till  on  that  har'bt  I  said  before, 
-My  partner  in  the  merry  core, 

She  lous'd  the  forming  strain  • 
I  see  her  yet,  the  sonsie  (juean. 

That  lighted  up  l;er  jingle. 
Her  witching  smile,  her  jiauky  e'en 
Tl;  It  g  II  t  my  heart-strings  tingle  » 
I  filed,  inspiied, 

.'\t  every  kindling  keck, 
But  bashing,  and  dashing, 
I  feared  aye  to  sj)e,ik.* 


ON   THE   DE.\TH   OK 

SIR  JAMES  HUNTER  BLAIR 

The  lamp  of  day,  with  ill-presaging  glare. 
Dim,  cloudy,  sunk  beneath  the  western  wave, 

Th'  ii'.constaut  blast  howl'd  thro'  the  darkeuing 
air. 
And  hullow  whistled  in  the  rocky  cave. 

Lo'it  as  I  wander'd  by  each  cliflfand  dell, 

OiiCe    the    loved    haunts    of    Scotia's    royal 
train;! 
Or  mused  where  limpid  streams  once  hallow'd 
well.t 
Or  mould'ring  ruins  mark  the  sacred  fane.  § 

Th*  increasing   blast  roar'd  round  the  beetling 
rocks. 
The  clouds,  swift-wing'd,  flew  o'er  the  starry 
sky. 
The  groaning  trees  untimely  shed  their  locks. 
And  shooting  meteors  caught  thii  startled  eye- 

The  paly  moon  rose  in  the  livid  east. 

And  'mong  the  cliffs  disclosed  a  stately  fjrnx. 

In  weeds  of  woe  that  frantic  beat  her  breast. 
And    mix'd   her   wailings  with    the    raving 
storm. 

Wild  to  my  heart  the  filial  pulses  glow, 

Twas  Caledonia's  tiophicd  shield  I  view'il  * 
Her  form  majestic  droo;)'d  in  pensive  woe. 
The  lightning  of  her  eye  in  tears  imbued. 


•  'Itie  reader  will  find  some  explanation  of  tlii* 
poem  in  p.  viii. 

t  Tlic  Kinij's  F'ark  at  Ilolyrood-houje. 
±  St.  Anthony's  Well. 
I  St.  Aniiioiiv's  Cliaiiul. 


62 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Reversed  that  spear,  redoubtable  in  war, 

Reelii:ed  tliat  binner,  erst  in  fields  iinfurl'd, 

That  like  a  deatliful  meU'or  gleam'd  afar, 

And    braved    the    mighty   raonarchs    of   the 
world. — 

"  My  pitriot  son  fills  an  untimely  grave  !'* 

With  accents  wild  and  lifted  arms  she  cried  ; 
"  Low  lies  the  hand  that  oft  was  stretch'd  to 
save, 
Low  lies  the  heart  that   swell'd  with  honest 
pride  ! 

*   A  weeping  country  joins  a  widow's  tear. 
The  helpless  poor  mix  with  theoi-phan's  cry  ; 

The  drooping  arts  around  their  patron's  bier, 
And  grateful  science  heaves  the  heartfelt  sigh. 

"  I  saw  my  sons  resume  their  ancient  fire  ; 

I  saw  fair  Freedom's  blossoms  richly  blow  ! 
But,  ah  !    how  hope  is  born  hut  to  e.xpirc  ! 

Relentless  fate  has  lai^  the  guardian  low 

"  IVIy  patriot  fails,  but  shall  he  lie  unsung, 
Wh'.le    empty    greatness    saves    a    worthless 
name ! 

No  ;  every  Muse  shall  join  her  tuneful  tongue, 
And  future  ages  hear  bis  growing  fame. 

"  And  I  will  join  a  mother's  tender  cares, 
Thro'  future  times  to  make  his  virtues  ]:t«t, 

That  distant  years  may  boast  of  other  Blairs" 

She  said,   and  vanish'd  with  the  sweeping 
blast. 


WRITTEN 

ON  THE  BLANK  LEAF  OF  A  COPY  OF  THE  POEMS, 
fRESENTED  TO  AN  OLD  SWEETHEART,  THEN 
SIAttRIEB.* 

Once  Tondly  lov'd,  and  still  remeraber'd  dear, 
Sweet  early  object  of  my  youthful  vows, 

Accept  this  mark  of  fi  iendship,  warm,  sincere. 
Friendship  !    'tis  all  cold  duty  aow  allows. — 

And  when  you  read  the  sim])!e  artless  rhymes, 
Ooe  friendly  sigh  for  him,  he  asks  no  more. 

Who  flistant  burns  in  flaming  torrid  climes, 
C.<  haiily  lies  beneath  th'  Atlantic  roar. 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGARS: 

A  CANTATA. 


HECITATIVO. 


VViiEN  lyart  leaves  bestrew  the  yird. 

Or  wavering  like  the  Bauckie-bird.f 

liedini  cauld  Borexs*  blast  ; 


Thcpirl  mentioned  in  the  letter  to  Dr.  Moore, 
i  The  old  .ScotcJ  iiunie  lor  tlic  3at. 


Wien  hailstaiies  d.ive  wi'  bitter  skytCt 
And  infant  frosts  begin  to  bite. 
In  boat y  crarueuch  drest ; 
Ae  night  at  e'en  a  merry  core, 
O'  randie,  gangrel  bodies. 
In  Poosie-Niuisie's  held  the  splore, 
To  diink  their  orra  duddies  : 
Wi'  quaffing  and  laughing, 

They  ranted  and  they  sing  ; 
Wr  jiunping  and  thumpiug, 
The  very  girdle  rang. 

First,  niest  the  fire,  in  aidd  red  rags, 
Ane  sat,  weel  brac'd  wi'  mealy  bags, 

And  knapsack  a'  in  order; 
Ris  doxy  lay  within  his  asm, 
Wi'  usquebae  an'  blankets  warm- 
She  blinket  on  her  sodser  : 
An   aye  he  gies  the  tousie  drab 

The  tither  skelpin'  kiss. 
While  she  held  up  her  greedy  gab 
Just  like  an  a'mmis  dish. 
Ilk  smack  did  crack  still, 

Just  like  a  cadger's  whip, 
Then  staggering  and  swaggerJEg 
He  roar'd  this  ditty  up — 

AlK. 

Tunc— "  Soldiefi  Joj.  ' 

I. 

I  AM  a  son  of  Mars  who  have  been  in 


mscf 


And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I  come  ; 
This  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that  other  in  a 

trench. 
When  welcoming  the  French   at  the  sound  of 

the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle.  Sec. 

IT. 
My    'prenticeship    I    past    where    my   leader 

breath'd  his  last, 
Wl-.en  the  bloody  die  v.-as  cast  on  the  heights  of 

Abram  ; 
I  served  out  my  trade  when  the  gallant  game 

was  play'd. 
And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the 

drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

III. 

I  lastly  was  with   Curtis,   among  the  floating 

batt'ries, 
And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a  limb  : 
Yet  let  my  countiy   need   me,   with    Elliot  to 

head  me, 
Fd  clatter  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 
Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

IV, 

And  now  tho'  I  must  beg  «-ith  a  wooden  aria 

and  leg. 
And  many  a  tatter'd  rag  hanging  over  my  bun 


POEMS. 


63 


Tm  u  happy  with  iry  wallet,   my  i  ottlo  and 

my  cdUot, 
K*  when  I  usM  in  scarlot  to  follow  a  drum. 
Lai  cle  daud.e,  &c. 


Vl.at  tho'  with  hnaiy  lucks,   I  must  stand   the 

Winter  shocks, 
beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  often  times  for  a 

home, 
Wicu   the    totlipr    bag  I  sell,  and  the  tother 

hottle  tL'll, 
1  tould  meet  a  trsop  of  hell,  at  the  soimd  of 

the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudlc,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

He  ended  ;  and  the  kebars  sheuk, 

Aboon  the  chorus  roar  ; 
■While  frighted  rattans  backward  leuk,  f 

Ami  seek  the  benmost  bore  ; 
A  fiiry  fiddler  frae  the  neuk, 

He  skirl'd  out  encore  ! 
But  up  arose  the  martial  chuck, 

And  laid  the  loud  uproar, 

AIR. 

Tunt—"  Soldier  Laddie." 

I  ONCE  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  cannot  tell  when, 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men  ; 
Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my  daddie, 
No  wonder  I'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lai  de  lal,  &c. 

n. 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering  blade, 
To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  traile  ; 
His  leg  was  so   tight,   and  his  cheek  was  so 

ruddy, 
1  ransporttd  1  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

in. 

Rut  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the  Vnrch, 
The  sword  I  forsook  for  the  sake  of  the  church, 
He  venttir'd  the  >:onl,  and  I  risked  the  botli/, 
TwMs  then  1  prov'd  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 

IV. 

Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot, 
Tiie  regiment  at  large  for  a  husband  I  got  ; 
Fro:n   tlie   gilded  spontooii   to   the    fife    I    was 

ready. 
^  asked  r.o  uKjre  but  a  sodger  laddie. 

Sinsr,  Lal  de  lal,  &c. 


V. 

H^!t  the  peice  it  ri-duc'd  me  to  l)eg  in  despair, 
T\\\  I  met  iin'  uiii  l).)v  at  Cunningham  fair  ; 


His  rdii  reffi menial  they  flntter'd  so  gaudy, 
?ily  heart  it  rejoic'd  at  my  sodger  l.iddie. 
-         ■    ■    •    lal,  &c. 


Sing,  Lal  lie 


VI. 

And  now  I  havt  liv'n — I  know  not  liow  long. 

Anil  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  or  a  snng  ; 

Ihit  whilst  with  both  hands  I  can  hold  the  glisc 

steady. 
Here's  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  &c 

KECITATIVO. 

Then  niest  outspak  a  raucle  carlin, 
\Mia  kent  sae  weel  to  cleek  the  sterling 
For  monie  a  pur&ie  she  had  hooked. 
And  had  in  mony  a  well  been  ducked. 
Her  dove  had  been  a  Highland  laddie, 
I?ut  weary  fa'  the  waefu'  woodic  ! 
Wi'  sighs  and  sobs  she  thus  began 
To  wail  her  bruw  John  Highlandraaa. 

A I  It. 

T^jie "  O  an'  ye  were  dead,  GudeauB." 

I, 

A  HIGH  I.  AND  lad  my  love  was  born. 

The  Lalland  laws  he  held  in  scorn  ;  ^ 

liut  he  still  was  faithfu*  to  his  clan, 

IVIy  gallant  braw  John  Highlaudmaa. 

CHORUS. 

Sing,  hey  my  braw  John  Highlandmaa  I 
Sing,  ho  my  braw  John  Highlandman! 
There's  not  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Vas  match  for  my  John  Highlandmaa. 

n. 

With  his  philibeg  an*  tartan  plaid. 
An'  gude  claymore  down  by  liis  side, 
The  ladies  hearts  he  did  trepan. 
My  galla'-t  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  kc. 

in. 

We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
An'  liv'd  like  lords  and  ladies  gay  ; 
F(U-  a  Lalland  face  he  feared  none, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandmaa. 
Sing,  hey,  kc. 

IV. 

They  banish'd  him  beyond  the  sea. 
Hut  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran. 
Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 
Sing    hty,  &c. 

V. 

B'lt,  oh  !    they  fatch'd  him  at  the  last, 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast  ; 


64 


BURNS    WORKS. 


TMy  ?ur8e  tipon  them  eveiy  one, 
rhey've  liaug'J  my  hnnv  John  Iliglandnian. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

VI, 

And  now  a  widnw,  T  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  return  ; 
No  comfort  but  a  Iie.irty  c.in. 
When  I  think  on  John  Mighlandman, 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 


RECITATIVO. 

*  pigmy  scraper,  wi'  his  fiddle, 

Wha  us'd  at  trysts  atid  fairs  to  driddle, 

Her  strappiu  hnib  and  gaiisy  middle 

lie  reach'd  uae  higher, 
^aCl  hoi'd  his  heartie  hke  a  riddle. 

An'  blawn't  on  fire. 

Wi'  hand  on  haunch,  an'  upward  e'e. 
He  croon'd  his  gamut,  one,  two,  three. 
Then  in  an  Arioso  key, 

Tl;e  wee  Apollo 
Set  off  wi'  Allegretto  glee 

His  giga  solo. 


Air 


IVn#— "  Whist!   owre  the  lave  o't," 

I. 

Let  me  ryke  up  to  d!i;lit  that  tear, 
An'  go  wi  me  to  be  my  dear, 
An'  then  your  every  cire  and  fear 
Way  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

CHORUS. 

I  am  a  fiddler  to  my  trade, 
An'  a'  the  tunes  that  e'er  I  pliy'd. 
The  sweetest  still  to  wife  or  maid, 
Was  whittle  owre  the  lave  o't. 

H. 

At  kirns  and  weddings  we'se  be  there, 
An'  0  !  sae  nicelj's  we  will  fare; 
We'll    bouse  about  till  Daddie  Care 
Sings  wliistle  owie  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  he, 

HI. 

Sae  merrily  the  banes  we'll  pyke, 
An'  sun  oursels  about  the  dyke, 
An'  at  our  leisure,  when  we  like, 
We'll  wliistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
1  am,  &c. 

IV. 
But  bless  me  wi'  your  heaven  o'  charms 
And  while  I  kittle  hair  on  thairms, 
Hunger,  cauld,  an  a  sick  harms, 
May  whistle  owre  the  lave  o't. 
I  am,  &:c. 


RECITATIVO. 

Her  charms  had  struck  a  iiturd)  Cair^ 

As  wcel  as  poor  Guts>.raper  i 
He  taku  the  fid<ller  by  the  beard, 

And  draws  a  rusty  rapier — 
He  swoor  by  a'  was  swearing  worth> 

To  speet  him  like  a  pliver, 
Unless  he  would  from  that  time  forth. 

Relinquish  her  for  ever. 

Wi'  ghastly  e'e,  poor  twccdle  dee 

Upon  his  hunkers  bend;»d, 
And  pray'd  for  grace  wi'  r.iefu'  face. 

And  sae  the  quarrel  end.-d. 
But  though  his  littl;  hea:t  dici  grl&ve, 

When  round  the  tinkler  jirest  her, 
He  feign'd  to  snirtle  in  his  sleeve. 

When  thus  the  caird  address'd  her 


Tunt—"  Clout  the  Caldron." 

I, 

iMv  bnnnie  lass,  I  work  in  brass, 

A  tinkler  is  mv  station  ; 
I've  traveli'd  round  all  Christian  groucd 

In  this  my  occupation. 
I've  ta'eu  the  gold,  I've  been  enroll'J 

In  many  a  noble  squadron  : 
But  vain  they  search'd,  when  off  I  march'fc 

To  go  and  clout  the  cauldron. 

I've  ta'ec  the  gold,  &>•, 

II. 
D.^spise  that  shrimp,  ti'.at  wither'd  imp, 

Wi'  a  his  noise  an'  ca])rin', 
An'  tak'  a  share  wi'  those  that  bear 

The  budget  an'  the  ajinnt. 
An'  li!/  that  stowp,  my  faith  and  houp, 

An'  b>/  that  dear  Keilbagie,* 
If  e'er  ye  want,  or  meet  wi'  scant, 

]\lay  I  ne'er  weet  my  craigie. 

An'  by  thai  stowp    fee 

RECITATIVO. 

The  caird  prevail'd — the  unblushing  fair 

In  his  embraces  sunk, 
Partly  wi'  love  o'ercome  sae  sair, 

An'  partly  she  was  druuk. 
Sir  Violino,  with  an  air 

Th  it  show'd  a  man  of  spunk, 
Wish'd  tniison  between  the  pair, 

Aa'  made  the  bottle  clunk 

To  their  health  that  nigit 

But  hurchin  Cupid  shot  a  shaft 

That  play'd  a  dame  a  shavie. 
The  fiddler  rak'd  her  fore  an  aft, 

Behint  the  chicken  cavie. 
Her  lord,  a  wight  o'  Hornet's  *  firaft, 

Tho'  limping  with  the  spavie, 

•  A  jipailiarsort  of  whisky  so  called,  agrcat  favour- 
ite with  I'oosicNancic's  iliibs. 

*  Homer  U  allowed  to  be  the  oldest  balled-singer uB 
recurU. 


" 

6:, 

ni  hirpl'd  »]),  and  1 1|)  WU:  ditt, 

They  toom'd  their  pock-*,  an'  pawn'd  t'u;."''  dudi. 

An*  sUor'd  thcin  D.iiiitie  D.ivie 

They  scarcely  left  »o  uo'er  their  fuds, 

0  boot  that  night. 

To  quench  tneir  lowan  diouth. 

He  \v,is  a  carc-dtfying  I)laile 

Then  nwre  again,  tlie  jovial  thrang. 

As  I'ViT  Hai'ctuis  listed, 

The  poet  (lid  reipiest, 

Tliouyli  Foitutic  siir  ii|M)n  liim  laid, 

To  loose  his  pack  an'  wale  a  sang, 

His  heart  she  ever  inis^M  it. 

A  1)  iHad  o'  the  best : 

He  l\ail  III)  wlsli  but — tn  be  glad, 

He  rising,  it'ioicing. 

Niir  want  but — when  lie  thirsted  ; 

Between  his  twa  Dvhornlit, 

He  hated  nmip;ht  but — to  be  sad, 

Looks  round  bin.,  an'  found  thein 

And  thus  the  JMuse  siig,'ested. 

Impatient  for  the  chorus. 

His  sung  that  night. 

AlK. 

AIR. 

Tune—"  Jolly  Mortals  fill  your  GlaM*. 

Tune—"  For  »'  that,  an'  a'  that." 

I 

See  !   the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 

I. 

I  AM  a  baid  of  no  rejjaid. 

Mark  our  jovial  ragged  ring  ! 

Wi'  {•etitle  fdllis,  an'  a'  tliat  ; 

Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 
And  in  raptures  let  us  sing. 

But  Hmiur-like,  tlie  gliuvian  byke. 

Frae  town  to  town  1  liiaw  that. 

CHORUS. 

CHORUS. 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected' 

For  a'  that,  an'  a  that  ; 

Liberty's  a  glorious  least  ! 

An'  twice  as  nieikle's  a'  that ; 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected, 

I've  lost  luit  ane,  I've  t'.va  hehia", 

Cbundies  built  to  please  the  priest 

I've  wife  enoujrh  for  a'  that. 

O 

IL 

II. 

What  is  title  ?  what  is  treasure  ? 

I  never  drank  the  Muse's  stank. 

What  is  reputation's  care  ? 

Cavtalia's  burn,  an'  a'  that  ; 

If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure. 

But  tliere  it  streams,  and  richly  reams, 

'Tis  no  matter  how  or  where  ! 

Wy  Hdicon  I  ca'  that. 

A  fig,  &c. 

Tor  a'  that,  fee. 

in. 

III. 

With  the  ready  trick  and  fable, 

Great  love  I  bear  to  a'  the  fair. 

Round  we  wander  all  the  day  ; 

Tlieir  humble  slave,  an'  a'  that  ; 

And  at  night,  in  barn  or  srable. 

Hut  lordly  will,  I  ho!d  it  still 

Hug  our  doxies  on  the  hay. 

.\  mortal  sin  to  thraw  that. 

A  fig,  &c. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

IV. 

IV. 

Does  the  train-attended  carriage 

In  raptures  sweet,  this  lionr  we  meet, 

Through  the  country  lighter  rove  ? 

Wi'  mutual  love  an'  a'  that  ; 

Does  the  sober  bed  of  marriage 

But  for  how  lang  the  Jfie  ma^  stang. 

Witness  brighter  scenes  of  love  ? 

Let  inclination  law  that. 

A  fig.  &c. 

For  a'  that,  &c. 

V. 

V. 

Life  is  all  a  variorum, 

Their  tricks  and  craft  have  put  me  daft. 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes  ; 

They've  ta'en  me  in,  an'  a'  that ; 

Let  them  cant  about  decorum 

But  clear  your  decks,  ar.ii  here's  the  sex  1 

Who  have  characteis  to  lose. 

I  like  the  jads  I'or  a*  that. 

A  fig,  &c. 

"  For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

VI. 

•  An"  twice  a<  nieikle's  a'  that; 

Here's  to  the  bmlgets,  bags,  and  waJIets* 

My  dearest  bluid,  to  do  them  guid, 

Here's  to  all  the  wandering  train  ! 

They're  welcome  till't  for  a'  that. 

Here's  our  ragged  hrals  and  culltts  1 
One  and  all  cry  out.  Amen  ! 

RECITATIVa 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  ! 

So  sung  the  bard — and  Nansie's  wa's 

Libei  .y's  a  glorious  feist ' 

Shook  with  a  thunder  of  applause, 

Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 

Re-echo'd  from  each  mouth  ; 

Churches  built  to  please  the  p''<«t. 

6b  BURNS'  WORKS. 

THE  KIRK'S  ALARM:* 


A   SATIRE. 

Ortiioiiox,    orthodox,    wlia    believe    in    Julin 
Knox, 
Let  me  sound  an  alarm  to  your  conscience  ; 
There's  a  heretic  h'ast  lias  been  blawn  in  the 
wasf, 
That  what  is  no  sense  must  be  nonsense. 

Dr.  Mac,  f  Dr.  Mac,  you  siiould  stretch  on  a 
rack, 

To  strike  evil  doers  wi'  terror  ; 
To  jiiin  faith  and  scn-^e  upon  ony  pretence, 

Is  heretic,  daninaljje  en  or. 

Town  of  Ayr,   town  of  Ayr,   it  was  mad,   I  de- 
clare, 

To  meddle  wl'  mischief  a-brcwing  ; 
Prov()^t  John  is  still  deaf  to  the  church's  relief. 

And  orator  Dob  \  is  its  ruin. 

D'rymjde    mild,  §    D'ryniple    mild,    tho*    your 
heart's  like  a  child, 
And  your  life  like  the  new  driven  snaw, 
Y<:t  that  wlnna  save  ye,  auld   Satan  must  have 
ye, 
For  preaching  that  three's  ane  an'  twa. 

Rumble  John,^   Rumble  John,  mount  the  steps 
wi'  a  groan, 
Crv  the  book  is  wi'  heresy  cramm'd  ; 
Then   hi,"  out  vour  ladl-*,   deal    brimstone  like 
adle, 
And  roar  every  note  of  the  damn'd. 

Sim])er  James,  ||    Simper  James,   leave  the  fair 
Killie  danu-s. 
There's  a  holier  chace  in  your  view  ; 
I'll  lav  on  vour  head,   that  the  pack  ye'll   sooa 
lead, 
For  puppies  like  you  there's  but  few. 

Singct  Sawney,*'  Singet  Sawney,  are  ye  herd- 
ing the  ])cnny, 

IIncon>icious  what  evils  await ; 
Wi'  a  juiii]),  yi'li,  and  liowl,  alarm  every  soul. 

For  the  foul  thief  is  just  at  your  gate. 

Daddy  Aulil.f  f    Daddy   Auld,   there's  a  tod  in 
the  fluid, 
A  tod  melkle  waur  th  in  the  clerk  ; 
Tho'  ye  can  do  little  .rkaith,   ye'll  be  in  at  tlic 

death. 
And  if  ve  canna  bite  vc  mav  bark. 


•  This  ivicm  w.ns  written  a  short  time  after  the  piib- 
iczlton  of  Mr.  M'dill  i  E!is;iy. 

\  M..  M' U.  1  l( 1  A n. 

f  Dr.  I)    -     e.  •!  Mr.  R- 11. 

i(  .Ml.  M- V.  ••  Mr.  M y. 

i|  Mr.  A d. 


Davie  Bluster,'   Davie  Bluster,  if  for  a  Mint 
ye  do  muster, 
The  corps  is  no  nice  of  recruits  ; 
Yet  to  worth  lets  be  just,  royal  blood  ye  mighj 
boast. 
If  the  ass  was  the  king  of  the  brutes. 

Jamie  Goose,-}-  Jamie  Goose,  ye  ha'e  made  but 
toom  roose, 
In  hunting  the  wicked  lieutenant  ; 
But  the   Doctor's   your  mark,    for  the  L — d'» 
haly  ark  ; 
He  has  cooper'd  and  cav.-d  a  wrang  pin  in  t. 

Poet  Willie,  \   Poet  Willie,   gie    the  Doctor  » 
volley, 

Wi'  your  liberty's  chain  and  your  wit ; 
O'er  Pegasus'  side  ye  ne'er  laid  a  stride, 

Ye  but  smelt,  man,  the  place  where  he  sh-t. 

Andro  Gouk,  *i    Andro  Gouk,  ye  may  slander 

the  book. 

And  the  book  not  the  waur  let  me  tell  ye  ; 

Ye  are  rich,    and  look  big,    but  lay  by  hat  and 

wig. 

And  ye'll  hae  a  calf's  head  o'  snia'  value. 

Barr  Steenie,  ||    Barr  Steenie,   what  mean  ye  ? 
what  mean  ye  ? 

If  ye'll  meddle  nae  inair  wi'  the  matter. 
Ye  may  ha'e  some  pretence  to  bavins  and  sense, 

AVi'  people  wlia  ken  ye  nae  better. 

Irvine  side,'*  Irvine  side,  wi'  your  turkey-cock 
pride. 
Of  niiinliood  but  sma'  is  your  share  ; 
Ye've  the  figure,    'tis  true,   even  your  faes  wiB 
allow, 
And   your  friends   they  dare  grant  you   nae 
niair. 

Muirland  Jock, -j-f   IMuirland   Jock,   when   the 
L — d  makes  a  rock 

To  crush  Common  Sense  for  her  sins. 
If  ill  manners  were  wit,  there's  no  mortal  so  fit 

'i'o  confound  the  poor  Doctor  at  aiice. 

Hi>ly  Will,  \\   Holy  Will,  there  was  wit  i'  you." 
skull. 
When  ye  pilfer'd  tlie  alms  o'  the  poor  ; 
The   timmer   is  scant,  when   ye're   ta'eii    for   J 
saint, 
M'ha  should  swing  in  a  rape  for  an  hour. 

Calvin's  sons,  Calvin's  sons,   seize  your  sp'ritual 
guns. 
Ammunition  yc  never  can  need  ; 
Your    hearts   are   the   stuff,    will    be  jiowther 
enough, 
And  your  skulls  are  storehouses  o'  lead. 


•  >Tr.  O ,  O c.  \  Mr.  V R,  C K. 

J  Mr.  I' s,  :\-r.  H  Dr.  .\.  M 11. 

II  Mr.  .'' S' ,  U— r.  ••Mr,  S li,  t; n. 

ft  Mr.  b il.  -  - 


POEMS. 


6^ 


Poet  BitmH,  Pi'Pt  Burns,  vn'  yciir  pricst-sla'!])- 
iiig  turns, 

Why  ilfsiTt  VL'  yiiiir  ,■  ulj  native  shire  ; 
Ymir  must'  is  a  gipsie,  e'en  tho' she  were  tip-io, 

She  coulJ  ea'  us  luio  waur  thiin  we  are. 


'JHE  TWA  HERDS.* 

0  a'  ye  pious  godly  flocks, 
Weci  fed  on  pasture's  oitliodox, 
Wha  now  will  keep  you  iVae  the  fox, 

Or  wotryiiiir  tykes, 
Or  wlia  will  tent  the  wail's  aiul  cnieks, 

About  tiie  dykes  ? 

The  twa  best  Iierds  in  a'  the  wast, 
Tiiat  e'er  ga'e  g:o^pel  horn  a  blast. 
These  five-and-tweiitv  sinimei-s  past, 

6  !   noul  to  tell, 
Ha'e  had  a  bitter  blaek  out-cast 

Atweeu  themsel. 

O,  M y,  man,  and  worthy  R 11, 

How  could  you  raise  so  vile  a  bustle, 
Ye'll  see  how  new-light  herds  will  whistle, 

An'  think  it  fine  ! 
The  Lord's  cause  ne'er  gat  sic  a  twistle, 

Sin'  I  ha'e  min'. 

O,  Sirs  !   whae'er  wad  hae  expeckit, 

Your  duty  ye  wad  sae  negletkit. 

Ye  wha  \Yt:ie  ne'er  by  laird  respeckit, 

To  wear  the  plaid, 
Dut  by  the  'unites  themselves  eleckit. 

To  be  their  guide. 

What  flock  wi"  M y's  flock  could  rank, 

Sae  hale  and  hearty  every  shank, 
Nae  poisun'd  soor  Arminian  stank. 

He  let  them  taste, 
Frae  Calvin's  well,  aye  clear  they  drank, 

O  sic  a  feast  ! 

The  thummart,  wil'-cat,  lirock,  and  tod, 
Weel  kend  his  voice  tliio'  a    the  wood. 
He  smelt  their  ilka  hole  and  road, 

Baith  out  and  in. 
And  weel  he  lik'd  to  shed  their  bluid. 

And  sell  their  skin. 

WTiat  herd  like  R 11  tell'd  his  t^Je, 

His  voice  was  heard  thro'  muir  and  dale. 
He  keud  the  Lord's  sheep,  ilka  tail, 

O'er  a'  the  height, 
And  saw  gin  they  were  sick  or  hale. 

At  the  first  sight. 

He  fine  a  mangy  sheep  could  scrub, 
Or  nobly  fling  the  gospel  club. 


Thi«  piece  was  among  the  first  of  our  Author's  pro- 
ductions which  he  subiniitod  lo  the  |iubiic;  and  was 
oc(-nsionc<l  by  a  dispute  between  two  eerfivmen,  near 
»ulma«nock. 


Aad  new-light  herds  cowlil  nicely  drub. 
Or  pay  their  skin; 

Could  shake  them  o'er  the  burning  dub, 
Or  heave  them  ia. 

Sic  twa — O  !   do  I  live  to  see't, 
Sic  famous  twa  should  disagreet, 
An'  names,  like  villain,  hy|)ocrite. 

Ilk  ither  gl'en, 
VHiile  new-light  herds  wi'  lau!;liin'  spice, 

Siy  neither's  lieiw' ! 

A'  ye  wha  tent  the  gos[)el  faiiUi, 

There's  D n,  deep,  and  P s,  shauly 

But  chiefly  thou,  ajxistle  A — d 

Vv'e  trust  in  thee. 

That  thou  wilt  work  them,  hot  and  cauld, 
Till  they  agieiw 

Consider,  Sirs,  how  we're  beset, 
There's  siaree  a  new  herd  that  we  get, 
But  comes  frae  'mang  that  cursed  set, 

I  wiiina  name, 
I  hope  frae  heav'n  to  see  them  yet 

In  liery  flame. 

D e  has  been  lansj  our  fae, 

M' II  has  wr.iught  us  meikle  wae. 

And  that  curs'd  rascal  ca'd  M' e. 

And  baith  the  S B, 

That  aft  ha'e  made  us  black  and  blae, 

Wi'  veugefu'  paws. 

Aul.l  W w  lang  has  hatch'd  mischief. 

We  thou;;ht  aye  death  wad    hring  relief. 
But  he  ho-s  gotten,  to  our  grief, 

Ane  to  succeed  hira, 
A  chield  wha'll  soundly  buif  our  beef; 

I  meikle  dread  hini. 

And  mony  a  ane  that  I  could  tell, 
Wha  fain  would  openly  rebel, 
Forby  turn-coats  amang  oursel. 

There  S — h  for  anCi 
I  djubt  he's  but  a  grey  nick  quill. 

And  that  ye'il  fin'. 

O  !   a'  ye  flocks  o'er  a'  tho  hills. 

By  mosses,  me  allows,  moors,  and  fells. 

Come  join  your  counsel  and  your  skills. 

To  cow  the  lairds. 
And  get  the  brutes  the  power  themsels. 

To  choose  their  lierd» 

Then  Orthodoxy  yet  may  prance, 

And  leari>ing  in  a  woody  dance, 

And  that  fell  cur  ca'd  Common  Sense, 

That  Ijites  sae  sair, 
Be  banbh'd  o'er  the  sea  to  France  : 

Let  liiin  bark  t'ticre. 

Then  Shaw's  and  Doliymple's  eloquence, 
i^P U's  close  nervous  excellence. 


68 

JI'Q — e's  pathetic  manly  sense, 

And  guid  iSI'- 


BURNS    WORKS. 


-h, 


Wi   S — th,  wta  iLro'  the  lieait  can  glance, 
JNIay  a'  pack  ait 


THE   HENPECK'D   HUSBAND. 

Cuks'd  be  the  man,  the  poorest  wretch  in  life, 
The  crouching  vii.'^sal  to  the  tyrant  wife, 
Who  has  no  w  ill  but  by  her  high  permission  ; 
"Who  has  not  sixpence  but  in  her  possession  ; 
Who  must  to  her  his  dear  friend's  secret  tell  ; 
Who  dreads  a  curtain  lecture  worse  than  hell. 
Were  such  the  wife  had  fallen  to  my  part, 
I'd  break  her  spirit,  or  I'd  break  her  heart ; 
I'd  charm  her  with  the  magic  of  a  switch, 
I'd  kiss  her  maids,  and  kick  the  perverse  b — h 


ELEGY  ON  THE  YEAR  1788, 

For  lords  or  kings  I  dinna  mourn, 

E'en  let  them  die — for  th.it  they're  born  ! 

But,  (di,  prodigious  to  reflect, 

A   Tvwiiiont,  Sirs,  is  gane  to  wreck  ! 

O  Ei(iltt7j-ei'j)it.  in  thy  sma*  space 

What  dire  events  ha'e  taken  place  ! 

Of  what  enjovments  thou  hast  reft  us  .' 

In  what  a  pickle  tliou  hasf  lett  us  ! 

The  Spanish  empire's  tint  uhead. 
An'  my  auld  teetldcss  Bawtle's  dead  ; 
The  to'olzie's  teugh  'tween  Pitt  an'  Fox, 
An'  our  guiihvift's  wee  birdy  cocks  ; 
The  taiie  is  game,  a  bhiidy  devil. 
But  to  the  hen-Lirfls  unco  civd  ; 
The  tither's  dour,  has  nae  sic  breedin', 
But  better  stuff  ne'er  claw'd  a  midden  ! 

Ye  ministers,  come  mount  the  pulpit, 
An'  cry  till  ye  be  heaise  an'  rupit  ; 
For  E'KjIity-iujht  he  wish'd  you  weel. 
An'  gied  you  a'  baith  gear  an'  meal  ; 
E'en  mony  a  plack,  an'  mimy  a  peck, 
Ye  ken  yoursels,  for  l.ttle  feck  ! 

Ye  bonnie  lasses  dight  your  een, 
For  some  o'  you  hae  tint  a  fiien'  : 
In  Eliihty-dylit,  ye  ken,  was  ta'en 
\\'hat  ye'll  ne'er  hae  to  gi'e  again. 

0')servc  the  very  nowt  an'  sheep. 
How  dowtf  an'  dowie  now  tliey  creep  t 
Nay,  even  the  yirth  itsel'  does  cry. 
For  Einbio'  wells  are  grutten  dry. 

O  Eiyhfij-uine  thou's  but  a  liairn. 
An'  no  owre  auld,  1  hope,  to  leain  ! 
Tliou  beanlless  boy,  1  piuy  tak'  care. 
Thou  now  has  got  thv  daddy's  chair. 


Nae  hand-cuff'd,  mizzl'd,  haff-stackl'd  Regenti 
But,  like  himsel',  a  full  free  agent. 
Be  sure  ye  follow  out  the  plan 
Nae  waur  than  he  did,  honest  man  ' 
As  meikle  better  as  you  can. 
January  1,  1"S9. 


VERSES 

WRITTEN  ON  A  WINnOW  OF   THE  INN  AT 
CARRON. 

We  cam  na  here  to  view  your  warks 

In  hopes  to  be  mair  wise, 
But  oidy,  lest  we  gang  to  hell, 

It  may  be  nae  surprise  : 
But  when  we  tirl'd  at  your  door, 

Your  porter  dought  na  hear  us  ; 
Sae  may,  should  we  to  hell's  yetts  come, 

Your  billy  Satan  sair  us  ! 


LINES  WRITTEN  BY  BURNS, 

WHILE   ON   HIS   DEATH-BED,  TO  J N  R K N 

AYRSHIRE,  AND   FORWARDED  TO  HIM  IMME- 
riATELV  AFTER  THE   POEt's    DEATH. 

IIe  who  of  R — k — n  sang,  lies  stiff  and  dead, 
And  a  green  grassy  hillock  hides  his  head  ; 
Alas  !  alas  !  a  devilish  change  indeed  ! 


At  a  meeting  of  the  Dumfriesshire  Volunteers. 
held  to  commemorate  the  anniversary  of  Rodney's 
victory.  April  l.th  17>i2,  Bcrns  was  called  upon 
for  a  Song,  instead  of  which  he  delivered  tlie  follow, 
ing  Lines: 

Instead  of  a  song,  boys,  I'll  give  you  a  toast. 
Here's  the  memory  of  those  on  the  twelfth  that 

we  lost ; — 
That  we  lost,  did  I  say,  nay,  by  heiv'n  !  that  we 

found. 
For  their  fame  it  shall  last  while  the  world  goes 

round. 
The  next  in  succession,   I'll  give  you  the  King, 
Whoe'er  would  betray  him  im  high  may  he  swing 
And   here's   the  grand   fabric,   our  free  Consti- 
tution, 
As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Revolution ; 
And  longer  with  P.ditics  not  to  i)e  cramm'd, 
lie  Anarchy  cursM,  and  be  Tyranny  damn'd  ; 
Anil  who  would  to  Liiierty  e'er  ))rove  disloyal. 
May  his  son  be  a  hangman,  and  he  Lis  firtt  trial 


1 

POEMS.                                                     69 

STRATHALLAN'S  LAMENT. 

The  stream  adown  its  hazelly  path, 
Was  iu>hiiig  by  the  riiin'd  w  I's, 

Viii:kest  niglit  o'cihangs  my  duelling  ! 

Hasting  to  join  the    sweeping  Nith,* 

Ilinvling  tenipests  o'er  ine  rave  ! 

Whase  distant  roaring  swells  and  fa's. 

Turbid  torrents,  wintry  s\vellin£j, 

Still  siirrouud  my  lonely  cave  ! 

The  cauhl  blue  north  was  streaming  forth 
Her  lights,  wi'  hissing  eerie  din  ; 

Crystal  streamlets  fjently  flowing, 

Athort  the  lilt  they  start  and  shift, 
Like  fortune's  favours,  tint  as  win. 

Hu-v  haunts  of  ba-^e  mankind. 

VVestern  breezes,  softly  bbwing, 

Suit  not  my  di>tracted  mind. 

By  heedless  ehirire  I  tnrn'd  mine  eves,-!" 
And,  by  the  moon-beam,  shook,  to  MK 

In  the  cause  of  right  engaged, 

A  stern  and  stalwart  ghaist  arise, 

Wrongs  injurious  to  redress, 

Attir'd  as  minstrels  wont  to  be. 

Honour's  war  we  strongly  waged. 

But  the  heavens  deny'd  success. 

Had  I  a  statue  been  0'  st;ine, 

His  darin  look  had  daunted  me  ; 

Ruin's  wheel  has  driven  o'er  us, 

And  on  his  bonnet  grav'd  was  plain, 

Not  a  hope  that  dare  attend, 

The  sacred  posie — Liberty  ! 

The  wide  world  is  all  before  us— 

But  a  world  without  a  friend  !• 

And  frae  his  harp  sic  strains  did  flew. 

Might  roused  the  slumb'ring  dead  to  hear) 

But  oh,  it  was  a  tale  of  woe, 
As  ever  met  a  Briton's    ear  ! 

CLARINUA. 

He  sang  wi*  joy  his  former  day, 

He  weeping  wail'd  his  latter  times ; 

Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul. 

But  what  he  said  it  was  nae  play, 

The  measur'd  time  is  run  ! 

I  winna  ventur't  in  my  rhymes.^ 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole, 

So  marks  his  latest  sua. 
To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 

Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie  ; 

COPY  OF  A  POETICAL  ADDRESS 

Depriv'd  of  thte,  his  life  and  light. 

The  sun  of  all  his  joy. 

TO 

We  part, — but  by  these  precious  drops, 

MR.  WILLIAM  TYTLER, 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes  ! 

No  oiher  light  shall  guide  my  steps, 

WITH  THE   PKKSENT  OF  THE    BARd's   PICTURE. 

Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

Revered  defender  of  beauteous  .^Itiiart, 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex, 

Of  Stuart,  a  name  once  respected, 

His  blest  my  gloi  ious  day  : 

A  name,  which  to  love  was  the  mark  of  a  tru» 

And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 

heart. 

My  worship  to  its  ray  ? 

But  now  'tis  despised  and  neglected  : 

•  f^iriatinn.     To  join  yon  river  on  the  Strath. 

f  Variation,     Now  lonl<ini;  over  firth  ami  fauld. 

A  VISION. 

Her  horn  the  pale-faced  Cvnthia  rcar'd; 
When,  lo,  in  furm  of  minstrel  atild, 
A  stern  and  stalwart  phaist  appcarM. 

As  I  stood  by  yon  roofless  tower, 

i  Thi'i  poem,  an  imiierfeet  eopy  of  whieh  was  print 

Where  the  wa' -flower  scents  the  dewy  air. 

e<i  in  Johnson's  Museum,  is  here  civen  from  the  poet'j 
M.S.  with  h's  last  eorrcetiiois.     The  scenery  so  tinclv 

Wliere  th'  howlet  mourns  in  her  ivy  bower, 

de.seribed  is  taken  from  nature.    The  piwt  is  siipposcil 

And  tells  the  midnight  moon  her  care. 

to  be  musinc  by  niijht  on  the  banks  of  the  river  Clu. 

den,  and  by  the  ruins  of  LiniKiden-Aobey,  founded  in 
the  tweiftli  century,   in   the  rci^n  of  Maleoin  IV  01 

The  winds  were  laid,  the  air  was  still, 

whose  present  situation  the  reader  may  find   some  ac- 

The stars  they  shot  alang  the  sky  ; 
The  fox  was  howling  on  the  hill, 

count  in  Pennant's  Tour  n  .Scotland,  or  Orose's  Anti- 
qnities  c  f  that  division  of  the  island.    Such  a  time  and 

sueh  a  place  aie  well  fiticd  for  holding  converse  with 

And  the  distant  echoing  glens  reply. 

aerial  being's.     Though  this  poem  has  a  political  bias, 

yet  it  mav  be  prcsiiin d  that  no  rca<KT  ot  taste,   what- 
ever his  opinions  may  be,  would  forgive  it  Ix'iiig  omit. 

•  Strathall.in,  it  U  presumed,  was  one  of  the  follow- 

ted.    Our  poet's  prudrnce  suppressed  the  song  of  Li- 

ers  of  the  ycniiig  Clievalier,  aii.l  !■*  siip|ii>seil  to  Ik-  lyi'K 

hertij,  perhaps  fortunately  for  his  repatation.     It  may 

eoiieealfil  in  some  eaie  of  ihe  Higlihincl«,  after  tlie 

be  (picstioncd  wliether,  even   in  the  resources  of  hii 

biittlc  of  t'uUoJen      This  song  was  written  before  the 

genius,  a  str.iiii  of  poetry  (■.■ii!,|  h;   e  been  found  A-or- 

war  173s 

thy  Oi'  the  grandeur  and  stleinn/*"  of  this  pre      atioa 

•) 

70                                             BURN'S"  WORKS. 

Tho'  somi'tliing  7ike  moisture  conglobea   in  my 

To  ken  what  French  mistjiief  was  brewm  , 

eye, 

Or  what  the  diumlie  Dutch  were  rioia'  ; 

Let  no  one  misilcem  me  disloyal  ; 

That  vile  doup  skelper,  Emperor  Joseph, 

A  poor  friendless  wand'rer  may  well  claim  a 

If  Venus  yet  had  got  his  n:ise  off; 

sigh, 

Or  how  the  collies-hankie  works 

Still  more,  if  that  wand'rer  v/ere  ro\  al. 

Atvi  een  the  Russian  and  the  Tuiks  ; 

Or  if  the  Swede,  before  he  halt. 

My  fathers,  that  nnme  have  rever'd  on  a  throne  ; 

Would  play  anither  Charles  the  Twalt  ! 

My  fathers  have  fallen  to  right  it ; 

If  Denmark,  ony  body  spak  o't ; 

Those  fathers  would  spurn  tlieir  degenerate  son, 

Or  Poland,  wna  had  now  the  tack  o't  ; 

That  name  should  he  scoffingly  slight  it. 

How  cut-throat  Prussian  blades  wtte  hlngia 

How  libbet  Italy  was  singin  ; 

Still  in  prayers  for  King  George  I  most  heartily 

If  Spaniard,  Portuguese,  or  Swiss, 

join, 

Were  saying  or  takin  ought  amiss: 

The  Queen  and  the  rest  of  the  gentry, 

Or  how  our  merry  lads  at  hame. 

Be   they  wise,   be  they  foolish,  is  nothing  of 

In  Britain's  court  kept  up  the  game  ; 

mine  ; 

How  royal  George,  the  Lord  leuk  o'er  lisa' 

Their  title's  avow'd  by  the  country. 

Was  managing  St.  Stejihen's  quorum  ; 

If  sleekit  Chatham  Will  was  livm. 

But  why  of  that  epochi  make  such  a  fuss, 

Or  glaikit  Charlie  got  his  nieve  in  ; 

How  daddie  Burke  the  plea  was  cookin. 

If  Warren  Hastings'  neck  was  yeukin  ; 

Hov.'  cesses,  stents,  and  fees  were  raxed. 

Or  if  bare  a —  yet  were  taxed  ; 

But  loyalty,  truce  !   we're  on  dangerous  groimd, 

The  news  o'  princes,  duics,  and  earls. 

Who  knows  how  the  fasliions  may  alter, 

Pimps,  sharpers,  bawds,  and  npera-glris. 

The  doctrine,  to-day,  that  is  loyalty  sound, 

If  that  daft  Buckie,  Geordie  Wales, 

To-morrow  may  bring  u«  a  halter. 

M'as  threshin  still  at  hizzies'  tails. 

Or  if  he  was  growin  o\ightlins  douser. 

I  send  you  a  trifle,  a  head  of  a  bard, 

And  no  a  perfect  kintra  cooser 

A  tride  scarce  worthy  your  care  ; 

A'  this  and  mair  I  never  heard  of; 

But  accept  it,  good  Sir,  as  a  mark  of  regard. 

And,  but  for  you,  1  might  despair'd  of. 

Sincere  .is  a  saint's  dying  prayer. 

So  giatefu',  back  your  news  I  send  you, 

And  pray,  a'  guid  things  may  attend  you  I 

Now   life's  cliilly  evening   dim   shadas  on  your 
eye, 

Ellisland,  Monday  Morning,  1730. 

And  ushers  the  long  dreary  night  : 

But  you,  like  the  star  that  athwart  gilds  the  sky. 
Your  course  to  the  latest  is  blight. 

My  muse  jilted  me  here,  and  turned  a  cor- 

POEM. 

ner  on  me,   and   I  have  not  got   again  into  her 

good  graces.      Do  me  the  justice  to  believe  me 

ON  pastorai,  poetry. 

sincere  in  my  grateful  remembrance  of  the  many 

civilities  you   have  honoured   me  v.  ith   since   I 

Hail  Poesie  !   thou  nymph  reserved  ! 

came  to  Ediiibur>;h,   and  in  assuring  you  that  I 

have  the  honour  to  be. 

In  chase  o'  thee,  what  crowds  hae  swerved 

Revered  Sir, 

Frae  common  sense,  or  sunk  enerved 

Your  obliged  and  very  humble  Servant, 

11.  BURNS. 

'>Iang  heaps  o'  clavers^ 

And  och  !   o'er  aft  thy  joes  hae  starved. 

EUINBURGH,   1787. 

'Mid  a'  thy  favours  ! 

Say,  Lassie,  why  thy  train  amang. 
While  li^l  the  trump's  heroic  dang, 

And  sock  or  buskin  skelp  aling 

THE  FOLLOWING  POEM 

To  death  or  marriage ; 

Scarce  ane  has  tried  the  shepherd-sang 

WAS    WIUTTEN    TO    A    CKNTt-EMAN    WHO    HAD 

But  wi'  miscarriage' 

SEMT  HIM    A    NF.WSPArEll,    AN»  01'K£H.E0 

TO  CONTINUR   IT   IRKE   OF   EXPENSE. 

fn  Homer's  craft  Jo(  k  .Milton  thrives  ; 

Esihylus'  pen  Wdl  Sluikc-ipeire  drives; 

Kind  sir,  I've  read  your  paper  through, 

Wee  Pope,  the  kuuilin,  'till  him  rives 

And  faitl'.,  to  nie,  'twas  reallv  new  ! 

Hiirati  in  fame ; 

I!,fiw  gocKsid  ye.  sir,  what  iniisr  I  wanted? 

In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 

This  mony  a  <iay  I've  f;raiii'd  and  gauutcil 

Even  Sappho's  flam* 

^                         J 

POEMh. 


n 


Hilt  t)\n,  TMcocntiis.  wha  matches? 
TIci'y're  no  IutiI's  li.ill.its.  Miro's  cati-lies ; 
Siiiiiii-  PojR'  liiit  bii'<k-i  his  •^kiiilm  patfhcs 

(V  heatluTi  tatters  ; 
I  pass  liy  luiiulers,  nairieless  wretclu-s, 

That  aja-  their  betters. 

In  this  braw  ap;o  o'  wit  an  lear. 

Will  naiie  the  Shepherd's  whistle  mair 

!J.'aw  sweetly  in  its  native  air 

And  niial  E^race  ; 
And  wi'  tiie  far-famed  Greeian  share 


A  rival 


place 


•  ? 


Yes  !  there  is  ane  ;  a  Scottish  callan  ! 
There's  ane  ;   coine  forrit,  hune.-t  Allan  ! 
Tliou  need  na  jouk  hehint  the  hallaii, 

A  ehiel  so  eiever  ; 
Tiie  teeth  o'  time  may  gnaw  T.initailan, 

But  tluiii's  for  ever. 

Thou  paints  ati1d  nature  to  the  nines, 

In  thy  sweet  Caledonian  lines  ; 

Nae  gowden  stream  thro'  myrtles  twines. 

Where  i'hilomel, 
While  nightly  breezes  sweep  the  vines, 

Her  griefs  will  tell  ! 

In  j^owany  glens  thy  burnie  stravs. 
Where  bonnie  lassies  bleach  their  claes  ; 
Or  trot'j  by  hazelly  shaws  or  braes, 

Wi"  hauthiirns  grav. 
Where  blackbirds  join  the  shepheid's  lays 

At  close  o'  day. 

Thy  rural  loves  are  nature's  sel ; 

Nae  bombast  spates  o'  nonsense  swell  ; 

Nae  snap  conceits,  but  that  sweet  sjiell 

O*  witchiu'  love. 
That  charm  tliat  can  the  strongest  quell, 

The  sternest  move. 


SKETCH. 

NEW  YEAR'S  DAY. 

TO  MRS.  DL'NLOP. 

This  day,  Time  winds  th'  exhausted  chain. 
To  run  the  twelvemonths'  length  again  , 
I  see  the  old  bald-pated  fellow. 
With  ardent  eyes,  com|)lexion  sallow, 
Adjust  the  uninipair'd  machine. 
To  wheel  the  equal,  dull  routine. 

The  absent  lover,  minor  heir. 

In  vain  assail  him  with  their  jirayer. 

Deaf  as  my  friend  he  sees  them  press, 

N<ir  makes  the  K'Uir  one  inonient  less. 

Wdl  you  (the  Major's  with  the  hounds. 

The  happy  tenants  share  his  rouniis  ; 

Coila's  fair  Rachel's  care  to-day,* 

And  blijoining  Keith's  engaged  with  Gray); 

*  T!iis  yoens  '•t'V  was  drawing  a  picture  of  Coila 
fi'ini  ihe  V:M()n.  see  iwge  fi9. 


Vvnn  housewife  caiosa  tT..niitc  borraw— . 

— That  grandchild's  cap  will  do  to-nHiir,»  r- 

And  join  with  me  a  nioraiiziri',^. 

This  day's  ])ropitioiis  to  be  wise  in. 

First,  what  dill  yesternight  deliver  ; 

"  Another  year  is  gone  for  e\er." 

And  what  is  this  day's  strong  sng,'cstion  ? 

"  'Ihe  passi'n;  moment's  all  we  rest  on  !" 

Rest  an — for  what  !      What  do  we  here? 

Or  why  rcgiid  the  passing  year? 

Wdl  tiniu,  amiis'd  with  proverb'il  lore, 

A<ld  to  our  date  one  minute  more  ? 

A  few  days  may — a  few  years  must — 

Repose  us  in  the  silent  du^t. 

Tlien,  is  it  wise  to  damp  m  r  bliss  ! 

Yes,  all  such  reasonings  arc  anuss  ! 

The  voice  of  nature  loudly  cries, 

And  many  a  message  from  the  skies, 

That  something  in  us  never  dies  : 

That  on  this  frail,  uncertain  state, 

H.mg  matters  of  eternal  weight  ; 

That  future-life  in  woi  ids  unknowr. 

Must  tike  its  hue  from  tliis  alone  : 

Whether  as  heaverdy  glory  bright, 

Or  dark  as  misery's  woeful  night — 

Since  then,  my  hononr'd  fiist  of  friendo, 

On  this  poor  being  all  depends  : 

Let  us  th'  important  now  emplov, 

And  live  as  those  who  never  die. 

Tho'  you,  with  days  and  honours  crown'd, 

Witness  that  filial  circle  round, 

(A  sight  life's  sorrows  to  repulse, 

A  sight  ])ale  envy  to  convulse) 

Others  now  claim  your  chief  regard— 

Yourself,  you  wait  your  bright  reward. 


EXTEMPORE, 

ON   TIIE   LATE 

MR.  WILLIAM  S.MELLIE,* 

/.  I'TIIOR  OF  THK  rilll.OSOPIIY  OF  NATUIi  At  HI* 
TilKV,  AM)  MEMUF.R  OF  THE  ANTlCiJARIAk 
AND   KUVaL  societies   OF   EDlNllUKGH. 

To  Crochallan  came 
riie  old  cock'd  hat,  tlie  grey  surtout,  the  same : 
His  bristling  beard  just  rising  in  its  might, 
'Twas    four   long   nights   and   days   to  slaving 

night, 
His     uncombed     grizzly    locks     «ild  -  staring, 

thatch'd, 
A    head   for   thought  profound   and  clear,    ua- 

niatch  <1 ; 
Yet,  tho'  his  caustic  wit  was  biting,  rude. 
His  heart  was  warm,  benevolent  and  good. 


»  Mr.  Smellic,  and  our  poet,  were  boili  mcniljorsoj 
f.  elubin  Edinburgh,  under  the  name  of  CrucliallaP 
i'cnciblei. 


72 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


POETICAL  INSCRIPTION 

FOP. 

AN  ALTAR  TO  IXDEPENDENCE, 

AT  KERROUCIITRy,   THE  SEAT  OF  MR.  HERON- 
WIUTTEN    IN    SU.M.MER,    1795. 

TiTou  of  an  inilependent  mind. 

With  soul  resolved,  with  soul  resigned  ; 

Prepared  power's  proudest  frown  to  bravet 

Wiio  wilt  not  1)6,  nor  hive  a  slave  ; 

Virtue  alone  wlio  dost  revere, 

Thy  own  reproach  a!one  dost  fear, 

Approach  this  siirine,  and  worship  here. 


SONNET, 


ON 


THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  RIDDEL. 

No  more,  yi  warhiers  of  the  wood,  no  more, 
Nor  pou)  your  descant  grating  on  my  ear: 
Thou  yoiiniT-eyed  Spring  thy  charms  I  can- 
not bear  ; 
More  welcome  were  to  me  grim  Winter's  wild- 
est roar. 

How  can   ve  please,  ye  flowers,   with  all  your 
ilies  . 
Ye  blosv  upon  "he  sod  that  wraps  my  fiiend  : 
How  can  I  to  fhe  tuneful  strain  attend  ? 
That    strain    pours    round    th'    untimely  tomb 
where  Uidiiel  lies.* 

Yes,  pour,  ye  warblers,  pour  the  notes  of  woe, 
Auil  soothe  the  Virtues  weeping  im  this  bier  ; 
The  .Man  of  Worth,  and  has  not  left  his  peer, 

Is  in  his  '  nairow  house'  for  ever  darkly  low 

Tliee,  Sprinr;.  aj^-ain  with  joy  shall  others  greet  ; 
We,  uiem'ry  of  uiy  loss  will  oidy  meet. 


MONODY 


A  LADY  FAMED  FOU  HER  CAPRICE. 

How  cold  is  that  bosom  which  folly  once  fir'd. 
How  pale  is  that  check  where  the  rouge  late- 
ly glisfeii'd  ; 
How   silent   that  t(Migue  which  the  echoes  oft 
tired. 
How   (lull    is   that   ear   which   to  flattery  so 
listened. 


If  sorrow  and  anguish  their  exit  await. 

From    friendship    ami     dearest    atftctioa    re 
moved  ; 

How  doubly  severer,  Eliza,  thy  fate. 

Thou  diedst  unwept,  as  tli"u  livedst  unlcvad 

Loves,  graces,  and  virtues.  I  call  not  on  you  ; 

So  shy,    grave,   and    distant,   ye   slied   not  I 
tear  : 
But  come,  all  ye  (iffspring  of  follv  so  true. 

And  flowers  let  us  cull  for  Eliza's  ce.i  bier. 

We'll  search  tlirough  the  garden  for  each  silly 
flower, 
We'll   roam   througli   the  forest  for  each  idle 
weed  ; 
But  chiefly  the  nettle,  so  typical,  shower. 

For   none   e'er  approach'd   her  but  rued  the 
rash  deed. 

We'll  pculjjture  the  marble,   we'll  measure  the 
lay  ; 
Here  Vanity  strums  on  her  idiot  !\Te ; 
There  keen  iniiiguation  shall  dart  on  her  prey. 
Which  sjiiirning   contempt  shall  redeem  from 
his  ire. 


THE  EPITAPH. 

Here  lies,  now  a  prey  to  insulting  neglivt. 
What    once    was    a    butterfly    gay    in    life! 
beam  : 

Want  only  of  wisdom  denied  her  respect. 
Want  only  of  goodness  denied  her  esteem. 


ANSWER  TO  A  MANDATE 

SENT     BV     THE     SIMIVEVOR     OK    THE     WINDOWS, 

CARKIAGES,   &C.  TO  EACH    KAR.MER,   OKIIER- 

ING     HI.M     TO    SEND  A     SIC.NEU     LIST    OF     HIS 

HORSES,   SERVANTS,  WH  E.E1.-CA  RRl  AGKS,  &C. 

AND   WHETHER     HE  WAS    A     MAKHIEJ)     MAN 

OR      A      BACHEl.Oa,  AND      WHAT     CHlLUKSk 
THEV    HAD. 

Sir,  as  your  mamlate  illd  request, 

1  send  you  here  a  fajihfu'  li^t, 

My  horses,  servants,  carts,  aiul  graith. 

To  which  I'm  free  to  tak  my  aith. 

Imjjrimis,  then,  for  carri  lu'e  cattle, 

I  hae  four  brutes  o"  gall  int  mettle, 

As  ever  drew  before  a  pettle. 

i\Iy  luuid-iif  re,'  a  guid  auld  has  been, 

And  wight  aiid  wiU'u'  a'  his  d.iys  seen  ; 

My  h(i>id-ii-liin,\  a  guiil  brown  filly, 

Wha  art  has  borne  me  safe  frae  Killie  •,\ 


•  RoIktI  Hiildol,  K«|.  of  Friar's  C'arsc.  a  very  wor.  I 
fh>  eharaciiT,  riid  unc  to  whom  our  bard  tnoujjhtj 
bunself  uiiJ'.-r  many  ubli^atioiLs.  j 


•  The  fore-tiorse  mi  the  lori.h:m(t,  in  tlie  ploui?^ 
t  Tlir  liiniliiiost  on  lliu  lell-h.ui>l,  ni  Uie  plough. 
i  Kilnuunoeiv. 


POEMS. 


73 


kni  vntir  aiilil  lini-oiijjh  mony  a  tirnei 
In  d;iv>  wlii'u  I idiiiif  wis  ii;ie  crime  : 
^]v  fur-a-/iin,'  a  ;;iiiil,  l^i'i-y  IkmsI, 
As  fV-r  ill  tiisj  or  U>\v  «ms  tiMcciI  : 
TIr' fi) mil,  a  Ili^'liliinl  D.iMilil  hasty, 
A  rl-iim'il  rfii-wiid,  KiltmiiiiL'  hlastlt, 
Fiir-i  y  a  cciHti',  nt'  cmvlos  ilie  \i".lle, 
As  I'vcr  r,m  lieron-  a  tail  ; 
All*  he  l>f  s[i:ucil  to  he  a  lieast, 
Ile'l.  draw  me  lil'teeii  puiid  at  least. 

Wiieel  carriages  I  hae  Imt  few, 
Three  carts,  and  twa  are  feckly  new, 
An  atild  wh;el-l)arii)w,  iiiair  for  token, 
4e  U'jj  and  b.iith  the  trams  are  broken  J 
(  made  a  |)(iker  o'  the  spindh-, 
\nd  my  aiiM  mither  hriint  the  trundle. 
F<ir  men,  I've  three  iriisidiievous  boys, 
Riin-deiK  for  raiitin  and  for  noise; 
\  ijadsman  atie,  a  tiire^her  t'other, 
Wee  D.ivoc  hands  the  nowt  in  fother. 
{  ride  their,  as  I  oni^lit,  discreetly, 
ir.d  often    ahonr  them  compl-'tely, 
Vnd  aye  on  Sundays  duly  nightly, 
\  on  the  (|uestioii>  taiifje  them  tightly, 
'Till,  fiith  ;   wee  Davoc's  grown  sae  gleg, 
(Tho'  >c:irccly  laiiijer  than  mv  leg) 
He'll  screed  yni  ,M  iffntnul  cutting, 
As  fast  as  ony  in  the  dwalling. 

I've  pane  in  female  servant  station. 
Lord  keej)  me  aje  fiae  a'  temptation  ! 
I  lue  nae  wife,  and  that  my  bliss  is, 
And  ye  hae  laid  nae  tax  on  misses  ; 
Flit  wtMiis  I'm  inair  thin  weel  contented, 
ll'jiVen  sent  me  aiie  mair  than  I  wanted  : 
My  sonsie,  siiiirkiiii;,  dear-bought  Bess, 
She  St. ires  the  dad. lie  ui  her  face, 
Enough  of  ought  ye  like  but  grace, 
liut  hei ,  mv  biiiiny.  sweet,  wee  lady, 
I've  said  enough  for  her  already. 
And  i(  ye  t.ix  her  i;r  her  mither, 
IJy  the  L — d  )e'.-e  get  them  a'  ihcgither  ! 

And  nnw,  remember,  ]\Ir.  Aiken, 

N.ie  kind  of  license  out   Tin  taking. 

Thro'  diit  ami  club  fur  life  I'll  paidle, 

Eix-  I  sae  dear  jiay  f  u-  a  saddle  ; 

I'vt  sturdy  stiiiii|)s.  the  Lord  be  thankit  ! 

And  a'  my  gates  on  h>iit  I'll  shank  it. 

This  list  wi'  my  ain  hand  I've  wrote  it, 
riie  d  ly  anil  date   i»  under  nntet  ; 
Then  km  'V  all  ye  whom  it  concerns, 
Subscripsi  liuic, 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


•  'jilt  hindmist  on  the  right-.'iand,  in  the  plough. 


IMPROMPTU^ 


ON    MUS 


S    lilllTII-DAY, 


•1th  November,  I79.X 

Oi.n  Winter  with  his  frosty  beard. 
Thus  once  to  Jove  his  prayer  preferr'd  ; 
"  What  have  I  done  of  all  the  vear. 
To  bear  this  h  ited  doom  severe  ? 
My  cheerless  sons  no  jiJcisiiie  know; 
Xiglit's  hoi  rid  car  ilra;;-.    ibeirv,  slinv  : 
My  dismal  month-,  no  joys  are  crowning, 
But  sjileeny  English  hanging,  drowning. 

Now,  Jove,  for  once  be  mighty  civil ; 

To  counterbal  ince  all  this  evil  ; 

Give  me,  and  I've  no  more  to  say. 

Give  me  Maria's  n.ital  day  ! 

That  brilliant  gift  will  so  enrich  nic. 

Spring,  Summer,  Autumn  cannot  iii.itrh  me  :* 

"  'Tis  done  !"  says  Jnve  ;   so  ends  my  story. 

And  Winter  oace  itjoiced  in  glory. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  LADY. 

Oh  wert  thou  in  the  caiiM  bl.ist, 

On  yimder  lea,  on  voniler  lea, 
.My  plaidie  to  the  ani^ry  alrt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,   I'd  shelter  thee; 
Or  did  misfortunes  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  biaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom. 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 


and  bare. 


Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  s,n;  Id  u  k 
The  desert  were  a  paradise. 

If  thou  wert  tiiere.  if  tluMi  wert  tiiere. 
Or  were  1  -nonarch  o'  the  globe, 

M'i'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign  ; 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  ijueen,  wad  be  my  queen 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 


MISS   JESSV    L- 


,   OF    DUMFUIES  ; 

WITH  BOOKS  WHICH  THE  llAlll;  PKESENIED  HKI. 

Thine  be  the  volumes.  Jessy  fair, 
And  with  them  take  the  poet's  prayer  ; 
That  fate  may  in  her  f.iirest  p'^e, 
With  every  kindliist,  best  presage 
Of  future  bliss,  enrol  tby  name  : 
With  native  worth,  and  sputJess  fame, 
And  wakeful  caution,  still  aware 
Of  ill — but  chief,  man's  felnn  snare; 
All  blameless  joys  on  earth  we  find. 

And  all  the  treasures  of  the  mind 

These  be  thy  giiaidian  ,ind  irwaid  , 
So  prays  thy  faithf al  friend,  tha  bxrd. 


u 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


SONNET, 

WRITTEN  OS  IHE  25tH  JANUARY,  179.3  THE 
illUTH-DAY  OK  THE  AUTHOR,  ON  HEARING  A 
THU'ISH   SING   IN   A   JIORNING   WALK. 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  Lough, 
Sing  on,  su'tet  biril,  I  listen  to  thy  strain, 
See  agetl  Winter  'mid  his  surly  reign, 

At  thy  blythe  carol  clears  his  furrowed  brow. 

60  in  lone  poverty's  dominion  drear, 

Sits  meek  content  with  light  unanxious  heart. 
Welcomes  the  rapid  moments,  bids  them  part, 

Nor  asks  if  tlicy  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 

I  thank  thee.  Author  of  this  opening  day  ! 

Tliou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  von  orient 
skies  ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys, 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away  ! 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care. 
The  mite  high  heaven  bestowed,  that  mite  with 
thee  I'll  share. 


EXTEMPORE, 

TO  MR.  S E; 

OK  KETUSING  TO  DINE  WITH  HIM,  AFTER  HAV- 
ING BEEN  PROMISED  THE  FIEST  OF  COM- 
PANY, AMI  THE  KIRST  OF  COOKERY,  17th 
DECEMBER,    1795. 

No  more  of  your  guests,  be  they  titled  or  not, 
And  cookery  tiie  tiist  in  the  nation  ; 

Who  is  proof  to  thy  personal  converse  and  wit. 
Is  proof  to  all  other  temptation. 


TO  MR.  S— E. 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OF  A  HOZEN  OF  PORTER. 

O  HAD  the  malt  thy  strength  of  mind^ 

Or  iiops  the  (l.ivoui  of  tliy  wit  ; 
Twere  ihiiik  for  first  of  human  kind, 
A  gift  that  e'en  for  S — e  were  fit. 

ifssusAi.niii  Tavern,  Dumfries. 


I,  modestly,  fu'  fain  wad  nint  it, 
That  one  pound  one,  I  sairly  want  it; 
If  wi'  the  hizzie  down  ye  send  it. 

It  would  be  kind  ; 
And  while  my  heart  wi'  life-blood  dunted 

I'd  bcar't  in  mind. 

So  may  the  auld  year  gang  out  moaning 
To  see  the  new  come  laden,  groaning, 
Wi'  double  plenty  o'er  the  loaning 

To  thee  and  thine  ; 
Domestic  peace  and  comforts  crowning 

The  hail  desiirn. 

o 

POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've  heard  this  while  how  I've  been  licket 
And  by  fell  death  was  nearly  nicket  : 
Grim  loon  !   he  gat  me  by  the  fecket. 

And  sair  me  sheuk  ; 
But,  by  guid  luck,  I  Ij))  a  wicket, 

And  turn'd  a  neuk. 

But  by  that  health,  I've  got  a  share  o't, 
And  by  that  life  I'm  promised  mair  o't, 
My  hale  and  weel  I'll  tak'  a  care  o't 

A  tentier  way  : 
Then  farewell  folly,  hide  and  hair  o't, 

For  ance  and  aye. 


SENT  TO  A  GENTLEMAN  WIIOJI  HE  HAD 
OFFENDED. 

Thp.  friend  whom  wild  from  wisdom's  way, 
The  fumes  of  wine  infui  iate  send  ; 

(Not  moony  madness  more  astray) 

Who  but  deplores  that  hapless  friend  ? 

Wine  was  th'  insensate  frenzieil  part, 
Ah  why  should  I  such  scenes  outlive! 

Scenes  so  abhorrent  to  my  heart ! 
'Tis  thine  to  pity  and  forgive. 


POEM, 

audhessed  TO  MIX.  MiTCHii.r,,  roLLECTOK.  01 

EXCISE,    DUMFRIES,    1796. 

ruiEND  of  the  iJO>t,  tried  and  leal, 
Wha,  wantii.g  thee,  n.iglit  bi>g  or  steal ; 
Alake,  alakc,  the  meilJi'  dell, 

^\'I'  a'  liis  witches 
4re  at  h,  skelpin'  !   ji.;  and  nel, 

In  mv  pool  pouches. 


POEM  ON  LIFE, 

ADDRESSED  TO   COLONEL   DE   PETSIK*, 
DUMFRIES,    IyOG. 

My  honoured  colonvl,  deep  I  feel 

Your  iatrrest  in  the  poet's  weal  ; 

I  All  !   how  sma'  heart  Lie  J  to  specl 

The  steep  Parnassut, 
Surrounded  thus  by  IkiIus  pill, 

And  potion  glasses. 

O  what  a  canty  world  were  it, 

Woulil  p.un  and  cue,  aucl  sickness  spare  it  t 

And  fortune,  fav(jur,  worth,  and  merit, 

As  thi-y  di  sei  ve  ; 
(And  aye  a*  rowth,  roa-t  bee  and  claret  ; 

Syne  wha  would  sta'^e); 


POEMS. 


U 


Dame  life,  tho'  fiction  out  may  trick  lier, 
Anil  in  piste  pein-;  anil  fiippeiy  deck  her; 
Oh  !   flickering,  feel)le,  ami  unsicker 

I've  fimnd  her  still, 
Ave  \vaverii}g  like  tlie  willow  wicker, 

'Tween  good  and  ill. 

Then  that  curst  oarmasjnole,  auld  Satan, 
Watclies  like  baudrcins  by  a  rattan, 
Our  siiifu'  saul  to  get  a  cl.uit  on 

Wi'  felon  ire  ; 
Syne,  whip !  bis  tail  ye'U  ne'er  cast  saut  on, 

He's  aif  like  fire. 

Ah  Nick  !  ah  Nick,  it  is  na  fair, 
Fir^t  showing  us  the  tempting  ware, 
Bright  wines  auu  honnie  l.isses  rare. 
To  put  us  d.ift  ; 
Syne  weave  unseen  thy  s))idir's  snare 

0  hell  s  danin'd  waft. 

Poor  man,  the  flie,  aft  hizzes  hy. 
And  uft  as  chance  he  conies  thee  nigh. 
Thy  aiild  danin'd  elbow  yenks  wi'  joy. 

An  I  hellish  pleasure  ; 
Already  in  thy  fancy's  eye. 

Thy  sicker  treasure. 

Soon  heels  o'er  gowdie  !   in  he  gangs, 
And  like  a  slieep-4iead  on  a  tan;js, 
Tliy  girning  laugh  enjoys  his  pings 

And  iiiiiiiiering  wrestle, 
As  dangling  in  the  wind  he  hangs 

A  gibbet's  tassel 

But  lest  you  think  I  am  uncivil. 

To  plague  you  with  this  drauiiting  drivel, 

Abjuring  a'  inteatiims  evil, 

1  ipiat  my  pen  ; 
The  Lord  preserve  us  Irae  the  devil  ! 

Amen  !   amen  ! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  TOOTH-ACHE. 

Mr  curse  upon  your  venom'd  stang, 
That  shoots  niv  tortur'd  gums  alang  ; 
And  thru'  my  lugs  gifs  muny  a  twang, 

Wi'  gnawing  vengeance; 
Tearing  my  nerves  wi'  bitter  pang, 

Like  racking  engines  ! 

When  fevers  burn,  or  ague  freezes, 
Rheumatics  gnaw,  or  chnlic  s()ueezes  ; 
Our  neighbour's  sympathy  m  ly  ease  us, 

\Vi'  pitying  moan  ; 
But  thee — thou  hell  o'  a"  diseases, 

Aye  mocks  our  groan  ! 

Adown  my  beard  the  slavers  trickle ; 
I  throw  the  wee  stools  o'er  the  meikle, 
.\3  round  the  fire  the  giglets  keckle, 

To  see  me  loup  ; 
While  raving  mad,  1  wi-h  a  heckle 

Were  in  their  doup. 


O'  a'  the  num'rous  hjman  dools, 

111  har'sts,  daft  bargains,  cutty  stooh. 

Or  worthy  friends  raked  i'  the  mools, 

S.id  sight  to  sec ! 
The  tricks  o'  knaves  or  fash  o*  fouls. 

Thou  bear'st  the  gre«. 

Where'er  that  place  be,  priests  ca*  hell, 
Wlience  a*  the  tones  o'  mis'ry  yell, 
And  ranked  plagues  their  numbers  tell, 

In  dreadfii'  raw. 
Thou,  TooTii-ACllE,  surely  bear'st  the  hcH, 

Amang  them  a'  ! 

O  thou  grim  mischief-making  chiel. 
That  gars  the  notes  o'  discord  Kijneel, 
'Till  daft  mankind  aft  dance  a  reel 

In  gore  a  shoe-thick  ;— 
Gie  a'  the  faes  o'  Scori.ASD's  wecl 

A  towmond's  Tooth- Aciia 


TO  ROBERT  GRAHAM,  Esu 

OF   IINTIIV, 
ON   IlECLIVING   A    FAVOUR. 

I  CALi,  no  goddess  to  inspire  my  strains, 
A  fabled  Mu^e  may  suit  a  bard  th  it  feigns  ; 
P'riend  of  my  life  !    my  ardent  spirit  bunig. 
And  all  the  tribute  of  my  heart  returns. 
For  boons  accorded,  goodness  ever  new, 
The  gift  still  deader  as  the  giver  you. 

Thou  orb  of  day  !    thou  other  ])aler  light ! 
And  all  ye  many  sparkling  stars  of  night  ; 
If  anght  that  giver  fniin  my  mind  efface  j 
If  I  that  giver's  bounty  e'er  disgrace  ; 
Tl^n  roll  to  me,  along  your  wandering  sphereSk 
Only  to  number  out  a  villain's  years! 


EPITAPH  ON  A  FPJEND. 

An  honest  man  here  lies  at  rest, 
As  e'er  God  with  his  image  blest, 
The  friend  of  man,  the  friend  of  truth  ; 
The  friend  of  age,  and  guide  of  yuutli  : 
Few  hearts  like  his,  with  virtue  warm 'J, 
Vi:\v  heads  with  kmiwltdge  s.>  inform'd  : 
If  there's  another  world,  he  lives  in  bliss; 
If  there  is  nunc,  he  made  the  best  of  this. 


A  GRACE  BEFORE  DINNER 

O  Tnoii,  who  kindly  dost  ]irovide 

For  ev'ry  creature's  want ! 
We  bUs>  tlico,  God  of  nature  w'de. 

For  ail  thy  goodness  leut  ; 


76 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  if  it  please  tliee,  heavenly  guide, 
Miiy  nc'VLT  worse  be  sent ; 

But  A'hether  granted,  or  denied, 
Lord  bless  us  with  content  ! 
Amen  ! 


TO  MY  DEAR  AKl)  MUCH   HONOURED   FRIEND, 

MRS.  DUNLOP,  OF  DUNLOP, 

ON  SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility  liow  charming, 

Thau,  my  friend^  canst  truly  tell  ; 

But  distress,  with  horrors  arminj^. 
Thou  hast  also  known  too  well ! 

Fairest  flower,  beliold  the  lily, 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray  ; 
Let  the  blast  sweep  o'er  the  valley. 

See  it  prostrate  ou  the  clay. 


Hear  the  wood-lark  charm  the  f'lil^ 
Telling  o'er  his  little  joys  : 

Ha|)less  bira  !   a  prey  the  sure»5, 
To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure, 
Finer  feelings  can  bestow  ; 

Chiirds  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasujyj, 
Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe. 


A  VERSE, 


COMPOSED  AND  REPEAtEia  BY  BURNS,  TO  THB 
MAST2R  OF  THE  HOUSE,  ON  TAKING  LEATl 
AT  A  PLACE  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS  VVHERK  UK 
HAD  BEEN   HOSPITABLY  ENTERTAINED. 

When  death's  dark  stream  1  ferry  o'l 

A  time  that  surely  shall  come  ; 
In  heaven  itself,  I'll  ask  no  more. 

Than  just  a  Highland  welcome. 


er; 


ADDITIONAL  PIECES  OF  POETRY, 

From  the  Reliques,  Published  in  1808, 

BY  MR.  CRO.AIEK. 

The  contributions  were  poured  so  copiously  upon  Dr.  Currie  that  sele-'tion  became  a  duty,  and  ai 
])ut  aside  several  interesting  pieces  both  in  prose  and  verse,  which  would  have  done  honour  to 
the  Poet  8  memory  :  But  besides  these  there  were  other  pieces  extant,  which  did  not  come 
under  the  Doctoi's  notice:  All  of  them,  both  of  the  rejected  and  iTiscuvered  description,  have 
since  been  collected  and  published  by  Mr.  Cromck,  whose  personal  devotion  to  the  Poet,  and 
generally  to  the  poetry  of  his  country,  rendered  him  a  most  assiduous  collector.  The  additiona] 
pieces  of  iioutry  so  collected  and  published  by  Cromek,  are  given  here.  The  additional  songs 
and  correspondence,  tiken  from  the  Reliques  and  his  more  recent  publication,  "  Select  Scot- 
tish Songs,"  will  each  appear  in  the  proper  place.] 


ELEGY 

OK 

MR.  "WILLIAM  CREECH, 

BOOKSELLER,  EDINBURGH. 
I. 

Ari.D  chuekie  Reekie's  •  sair  distrest, 
Down  droojis  her  ance  weel  burnish't  crest, 
Kae  joy  her  bonie  bii»kit  nest 

Can  yirld  .iva, 
Her  dirling  bird  that  bhe  lue's  best, 

Willie's  dwa  ! 

•  Edintiureh. 


IL 

O  Willie  was  a  wittv  wight. 

And  had  o'  things  an  unco'  slight; 

Auld  Reekie  ay  he  kee;)it  tight. 

And  trig  an*  braw; 
But  now  they'll  busk  her  like  a  fright, 
Willie's  awa ' 


in. 

The  stlffest  o'  them  a'  he  bow'd. 
The  bauldest  o'  thtMU  a'  hecow'd  ; 
They  durst  nae  nialr  than  he  allow'd, 
That  was  a  law  : 
We've  lost  »  biikie  wecl  woi'h  gowd, 
Willie's  awa ' 


POEMS. 


77 


IV. 

Now  gawlxic'S,  taw  pies,  gowks  and  fuols, 
Frao  r(i!l<'i;;os  and  Ixj.inlinc;  .-I'lmols, 
May  sprout  like  simmer  piuldoi-k- stools 

In  glen  or  shaw  ; 
He  wha  cimld  brush  them  flown  to  mools 
Willie's  awa  ! 


The  hrefli'ren  o'  the  Coinmerce-Chaumer  * 
May  muiiin  their  lo'^s  wi"  doolfu*  clamjur  ; 
He  was  adictionar  and  grammar 

Amatig  tliem  a'  ; 
I  fear  they'll  now  mak  mony  a  st  immer 
Willie's  awa  ! 

VI. 

Nae  niair  we  see  his  levee  door 
Pliilos,)j)lieis  and  Poets  poiir,f 
And  toothy  critics  by  the  score 

In  bloody  raw  ! 
The  adjutant  o'  a'  tlie  core 

Willie's  awa  ' 


Now  worthy  G— 

T r's  and  G- 

M'K e,  S  — 


VII. 

-y's  latin  face, 

's  m<i<lest  grace  ; 


-t,  such  a  brace 
As  Rome  ne'er  saw  ; 
They  a'  maun  meet  some  ither  place, 
Willie's  awa  ! 

VIII. 

Poor  Burns — e'en  Scotch  drink  canna  quicken, 
He  cheeps  like  some  bewildered  chicken, 
Scar'd  frae  it's  miunie  and  the  deckia 
By  hoodie-craw  ; 
Criers  gicn  his  heart  aa  unco  kickin', 
Willie's  awa  ! 

IX. 

Now  ev'ry  sour-mou'<l  grinin'  blellum. 
And  Calvin's  fock,  are  fit  to  fell  him  ; 
And  self-conceited  critic  skellum 

His  quill  m-iy  draw  ; 
He  wha  could  brawlie  ward  their  helium 
Willie's  awa  ! 


Up  wimpling  stately  Tweed  I've  sped. 
And  Eden  scenes  on  crystal  Jed, 
And  Ettrick  banks  now  roaring  red 

While  tempests  blaw ; 
Rut  every  joy  and  pleasure's  fled 

Willie's  awa  ! 

XL 
May  I  be  slander's  common  speech  ; 
A  text  for  infamy  to  preach  ; 


And  lastly,  streekit  out  to  bleach 

In  winter  snaw  ; 
WI.ou  I  f„iget  tiiee  I    V.'ii.i.i/i  Cukkoh, 
Tho'  far  awa ' 

XII. 

I\Iay  never  wicked  fortune  touzle  him  ! 
May  never  wicked  men  1)  nnlHiozle  him  ' 
Untd  a  ])ow  as  auld's  iMetliusalem  ! 

He  canty  claw  ! 
Then  to  the  blessed,  New  Joiusalem 

Fleet  wing  awal 


ELEG\ 

OS 

PEG  NICHOLSON.* 

Pkg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bav  mare. 
As  ever  trode  on  airn  ; 
But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 
And  past  the  iNIouth  o'  Cairn. 

Peg  Nicholson  wa^  a  good  b;iy  mare, 
And  rode  thro'  thick  and  thin  ; 
But  now  she's  lloating  down  tlie  Nitb, 
And  wanting  even  the  skin. 

Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  bay  mare, 
And  anoe  she  bore  :i  priest  ; 
But  now  she's  floating  down  the  Nith, 
For  Sol  way  lish  a  feast. 

Peg  NichoNon  was  a  good  bay  mare, 
Anil  the  priest  he  rode  her  sair  : 
And  much  op|)ressed  and  bruised  she  waa  i 
—As  priest-rid  cattle  are,  &c.  Sec. 


ODE  TO  LIBERTY. 

(Imperfict). 

[In  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Dwnlop,  the  poet  s.iys:— The  sutv 
jcct  is  iiuKiti  V  :  Vou  know,  my  hoiioiirt-il  fr  enii 
how  dear  the  iheme  is  to  me.  1  ilcsi^i)  it  an  iiieiiii 
lar  Oiie  for  Ceneral  Washington's  biilli-day.  Auel 
having  mcntioneil  theilcijciieracy  of  other  kingdoms 
1  come  to  Scotland  thus]  : 

Thee,  Caledonia,  thy  w-ild  heaths  among, 
Thee,  famed  for  martial  deed  and  sacred  song, 

To  thee  I  turn  with  swimming  eyes  ; 
Where  is  that  soul  of  freedom  (led  ?' 
Immingled  with  the  mi:;lity  dead  ! 

Beneath  that  hallowed  turf  wnere  WaL«-ACK 
lies  ! 


•  Marporct  Nicholson,  flic  maniac,  whose  visitationi 
very  much  alarmed  fieorKC  the  Tliiril  for  his  life.     In 


•  The  Chamber  of  Commerce  of  Edinburgh  of  which 

Mr.  C.  was  Secretary  *i.ry  imicii  aiarmeu  i.eorKC  tlie   riiir<l  for  his  life.     In 

t  Many  literary  Rcntlemen  were  accustomed  to  meet  na-Jiig  their  steels,  ,he  ,,oet  and  his  friend  Nicol  sec  " 

at  Mr.  Creech's  house  at  breaknist.     Hums  often  met  to  have  had  a  ,.r  ference,  in  ihL-  w.,v  of  d,.in.'  lu  iioVr 

with  them  there,  when  he  c-vled.  and  hence  the  name  of  course,  for  the  worthies  who  hadused  freedom  witl-' 

a  Levee.  boih  jinest  ami  kum 


r8 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


H<;ar  it  not,  WAi.tAcr,  in  t>iy  hod  of  death  ! 

Ye  babblin'j  winds,  in  silence  sweep  ; 

Disriirl)  not  ye  the  hero's  sleep, 
Nor  i^'ive  the  coward  secret  bre;ith. — 

Is  this  the  power  in  freedom's  war 

That  wont  to  bid  the  battle  rage  ? 
Behold  that  eye  which  shot  immortal  hate. 

Crushing  the  despot's  proudest  bearing, 
That  arm  which,  nerved  with  thundering  fate, 

Biaved  ii>^urpation's  boldest  daring  ! 
One  quenched  in  dirkness  like  the  sinking  star, 
And  one  the  palsied  arm  of  tottering,  powerless 
aue. 


A  PRAYER— IN  DISTRESS. 

O  THOU  Great  Being  !   what  thou  art 

Surpasses  me  to  know  ; 
Yet  sure  I  *m,  that  known  to  thee 

Are  aJl  thy  works  below. 

Thv  creature  here  before  thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul 

Obey  thy  high  behest. 

Sure  Thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath  ; 
O,  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears. 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  ! 

But  if  I  must  afflicted  bo, 

To  suit  some  wise  design  ; 
riien  man  mv  soal  with  firm  resolves 

To  bear  and  not  rejjme ! 


A  PRAYER, 


Do  Thou,  AH  Good !  for  such  Thou  art 
In  shades  of  larkness  hide. 

Where  with  intention  I  ha^'e  err'd, 

No  other  plea  I  have, 
But,   Thou  art  good  ;  and  goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 


WHEN  FAINTING  KITS.  AND  OTIIEll  ALARMING 
SYMPTOMS  OF  A  I'LKUI'.ISY  OR  SOME  OTHER 
DANGEROITS  nlSORIM:!l,  WHICH  INDEED 
STII.I.  THREATENS  JIE,  FKiST  VUT  NATURE 
ON   THE  ALARM. 

O  THOU  unknown,  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  mv  hope  and  fear  ! 
In  v/liose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 

Perhaps  I  nmst  appear. 

If  I  hav<"  "-"ndcr'd  in  those  patlis 

Of  liie  I  oup:ht  to  shun  ; 
AS  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Remonstrates  1  have  dime  ; 

Thou  know'st  that  Thou  hast  formed  me 

M'iih  passions  wild  and  strong  ; 
And  list'ning  to  their  witching  voice 

Ii;is  often  led  ine  wrong. 

VtHioro  human  n-eiiimess  has  come  short, 
Or  fruilCg  stept  aside, 


DESPONDENCY: 

A  HYMN. 

Wiir  am  I  loth  to  leave  this  earthly  scene 

Have  1  so  found  it  full  ci  pleasing  charms  '. 
Some   drops    of  joy  with    draughts  of  ill   b*s 
tween  : 

Some    gleams    of    sunshine    'mid   renewing 
storms  : 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms? 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms ; 

1  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart      neatli  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say,  *  Forgive  my  foul  offence  !' 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey  ; 
But,  should  my  author  health  again  dispense, 

Again  I  mij.-ht  desert  fair  virtue's  way  ; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray  ; 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man  ; 
Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray, 

Whi  act  so  counter  heavenly  i.iercy's  plan  ? 
Wlio  sin  so  oft  have  mourn'd  yet  to  temptatioc 
ran  ? 

O  Thou,  great  governor  of  all  below  ! 

If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  Thee, 
Tliv  nod  can  make  the  tenijjest  cease  to  blow, 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea  ; 
With  that  controling  pow'r  assist  ev'n  me. 

Those  headlong  furious  passions  to  confine  ; 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  fiowers  to  be. 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  th'  allowed  line, 
O,  aid  me  with  thy  help.  Omnipotence  Divine  I 


LINES  ON  RELIGION. 

"  'Tis  this,  my  frienl,  that  streaks  our  morning 

bright ; 
'Tis  this,  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night  ! 
When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends   are 

few  ; 
When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes  ])ursue; 
'Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow,  or  stills  the  smart, 
Di'^anns  affliction,  or  repels  its  dart : 
Witipin  the  brent  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 
ni<ls  smiling    conscience   spread    her    cloudlcRS 

skies  " 


?OEMS. 


79 


EPISTLES  IN  VERSE 


TO  J.  LAPllAIK. 

Sept.  \:lth,  \7S:>. 

flvn  speed  an'  furrier  to  you  Joliny, 

fiuiil  liealtli,  hale  luiti's,  an'  weather  bony  ; 
Now  ivhen  ye" re  nickan  down  fii'  canny 

The  staff  o'  bread, 
May  ye  ne'er  want  a  stoup  o'  brany 

To  clear  your  head. 

May  TJoreas  never  thresh  your  rigs, 
Nor  kick  your  rickles  aff  their  legs, 
Seiulin'  the  stuff  o'er  niui:s  an'  haggs 

Like  drivin'  wrack  ; 
But  may  the  tapmast  grain  that  wags 

Come  to  the  sack. 

I'm  bizzie  too,  an'  skelpiri'  at  it. 

But  bitter,  daudin  showers  hue  wat  it, 

Sae  my  auld  stumpie  pen  I  gat  it 

Wi'  muekle  wark, 
An'  took  my  jocteleg  »  a:i'  whatt  it, 

Like  ony  claik. 

It's  now  twa  month  that  I'm  your  debtor, 
For  vour  braw,  nameless,  dateless  letter, 
Abusin'  me  for  harsh  ill  nature 

On  hiilv  men. 
While  deil  a  hair  yoursel  ye' re  better. 

But  mair  profane. 

But  let  the  kirk-folk  ring  their  beils, 
Let's  sing  about  our  noble  sels  ; 
We'll  cry  nae  jads  frae  heathen  hills 

To  help,  or  roose  us. 
But  browster  wives  f  an    whisky  stills, 

Thet/  are  the  muses. 

Ymir  friendship  Sir,  I  winna  quat  it. 

An'  if  ye  niak'  objections  at  it. 

Then  ban'  in  nieve  some  day  we'll  knot  it, 

An'  witness  take, 
An'  when  wi'  Usquabae  we've  wat  it 

It  wiuna  break. 

But  if  the  bca«t  and  branks  he  fpar'd 
Till  kve  be  gaun  without  the  herd, 
An'  a'  the  vittel  in  the  yard. 

An'  theekit  right, 
I  mean  your  ingle-side  to  guard 

Ae  winter  night. 

Then  mu«e-inspirin'  aqua-vita; 

Shall  make  u>  baith  sae  blythe  an'  witty, 

Till  ye  forget  ye" re  auld  an'  gatty. 

An'  be  as  canty 
A»  ye  were  nine  year  less  than  thretty, 

Sweet  ane-an'-twentv. 


But  stooks  are  cow()et  *  Tvi'  the  blast, 
Au'  now  the  sinn  keeks  vn  the  wot 
Then  1  maun  rin  amang  the  rest 

An'  quat  my  chanter; 
Sae  I  subscribe  mysel  in  haste, 

Your's,  Rab  the  Ranter. 


•  Jnctt!ec — a  knife. 
♦  B'owslfr  uives — Alehouse  wives. 


REV.  JOHN  M'-AIATH, 

INCLOSING  A   COPY  OF   HOLY   WII.LIK's  HI  A  VE  B. 
WHICH    Uli   HAD   llEUUESTEI). 

Sept.  Mth,  1785. 
WuiLE  at  the  stook  the  shearers  cow'r 
To  shun  the  bitter  blaudiu'  show'r. 
Or  in  gulravagef  rinnin  scow'r 

To  pass  the  time, 
To  you  I  dedicate  the  hour 

I.i  idle  rhyme. 

IMy  musie,  tir'd  wi'  mony  a  sonnet 

On  gown,  an'  ban',  an'  douse  black  bonnet. 

Is  grown  right  eerie  now  she's  done  it. 

Lest  they  shou'd  blame  her, 
An'  rouse  their  holy  thunder  on  it 

And  aiiathem  her. 

I  own  'tv.-as  rash,  an'  rather  hardy. 
That  I,  a  simple,  countra  bardie, 
Shou'd  meddle  wi'  a  pack  sae  sturdy, 

Wha,  if  'hey  ken  me. 
Can  easy,  wi'  a  single  wordie. 

Louse  h-11  upou  me. 

But  I  gae  mad  at  their  grimaces, 

Their  sighan,  cantan,  gra^e-proud  faces, 

Their  three-mile  prayers,  an  hauf-mile  graces, 

Their  raxan  conscience, 
Whaws  greed,  revenge,  an'  pride  disgraces 

Waur  nor  their  nonsense. 

There's  Guiin,  \  miska't  waur  than  a  beast, 
Wha  has  mair  honor  in  his  breast 
Than  mony  scores  as  guid's  the  pi  iest 

Wha  sae  abiis't  him. 
Aa'  may  a  bard  no  crack  his  je>t 

What  way  they've  use't  hini> 

See  him,  |i  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  an'  deed. 
An'  shall  his  fame  an'  honour  bleed 

By  worthless  skellunos. 
An'  not  a  muse  erect  her  l.»ad 

To  cowe  the  blellums  . 


•  Cmt'pet — Tuml)Iei1  over. 

t  Vn-'rcia^f  —  Iluniiinii  in  a  confused,  disorderly 
manner,  like  boys  when  leaving  school. 

t  r.avin  Hamilton,  Kscj. 

II  '(lie  )ioet  lias  iiitrotliiced  the  two  first  lines  of  thit 
stanza  inio  the  detlieaUon  of  tiis  woriis  to  Mr.  Haniil 
luiu 


80 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


O  Pope,  had  I  thy  satire's  darts 
To  g.e  the  rascals  their  deserts, 
I'd  rip  their  rotten,  huliow  iiearts, 

An'  tell  aloud 
Their  jugglin'  hocus  pocus  arts 

To  c'leat  the  crowd. 

God  knows,  I'm  no  the  thing  I  shnu'd  be, 
Nor  am  I  ev'n  the  thing  I  cou'd  i)e. 
But  twenty  times,  I  rather  wuu'd  be 

An  atheist  clean, 
Than  under  gospel  colours  hid  be 

Just  lor  a  screen. 

An  honest  man  may  like  a  glass, 
An  honest  man  ni..y  like  a  lass, 
But  mean  revenge,  an'  malice  fause 

He'll  still  disdain, 
An'  then  cry  zeal  for  gospel  laws, 

Like  some  we  ken. 

They  take  religion  in  their  mouth  ; 
They  talk  o'  mercy,  grace,  an'  truth. 
For  what  ?   to  gie  their  malace  skouth 

On  some  ]iuir  wight, 
An'  hunt  him  down,  o'er  right  an'  ruth, 

To  ruin  streight. 

All  hail,  religion  !   maid  divine! 
Pardon  a  muse  sae  mean  as  mine, 
Who  in  her  rough  imperfect  line 

Thus  daurs  to  name  thee  ; 
To  stigmatize  false  friends  of  thine 

Can  ne'er  defame  thee. 

Tho'  blotch't  an'  foul  wi'  monv  a  stain. 

An'  far  urnvortliy  of  thy  train. 

With  trembling  voice  I  tune  my  strain 

To  join  with  those, 
Who  boldly  dare  thy  cause  maintain 

In  spite  of  foes  : 

In  spite  o'  crowds,  in  spite  o'  mobs, 
In  spite  of  unciermining  jobs, 
In  spite  o'  dark  banditti  stabs 

At  woi  th  an'  merit, 
By  scoundrels,  even  wi'  holy  robes, 

But  hellish  spirit. 

O  Ayr,  my  dear,  my  native  ground, 
Within  thy  presbyterial  bound 
A  candid  liberal  band  is  found 

Of  public  teachers. 
As  men,  as  Christians  too  renown'd 

An*  manly  preachers. 

Sir,  in  that  circ'c  you  are  nam'd ; 
Sir,  in  that  circle  you  are  fain'd  ; 
An'  some,  by  whom  your  doctrine's  blam'd, 

(Which  gies  you  honor) 
Even  Sir,  by  them  your  heart's  esteem'd. 

An'  winuing-nianner. 

Pardon  this  freedom  I  have  ti'en, 
An'  if  inipertiucut  I've  been 


Impute  it  not,  good  Sir,  in  ane 

Wha^e  heart  ne'er  wrang'd  fn 
But  to  l»s  utmost  would  befriend 

Ought  that  belang'd  J  J. 


TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esa 

.MAt;CIll,lNfc. 

(recommending  a  buv). 

Moxgaville,  Matj  3,  I79G. 
I  HOLD  it.  Sir,  my  bounden  duty 
To  warn  you  how  that  Master  Tootie, 

Alias,  Laird  M'Gaun,* 
Was  hero  to  hire  yon  lad  away 
'Bout  whom  ye  spak  the  tithcr  day. 

An'  wad  hae  don't  aff  han' ' 
But  lest  he  learn  the  callan  tricks, 

As  faith  I  nnickle  doubt  him. 
Like  scrapin'  out  auld  Crummie's  nicks. 
An'  tellin'  lies  about  them  ; 
As  lieve  thcri  I'd  have  then, 

Your  clerkship  he  should  sair, 
If  sae  be,  ye  may  be 
Not  6ttud  otherwhere. 

Altlio'  I  say't,  he's  gleg  enough. 

An'  'bout  a  house  that's  rude  an'  rough. 

The  boy  inight  learn  to  $iceat 
But  then  wi'  j/oit,  he'll  be  sae  tauyht. 
An'  get  sic  fair  ejrnihjile  straught, 

I  hae  na  ony  fear, 
Ye'll  cateidiise  him  every  quiik, 

An'  shore  him  weel  wi'  hell ; 

An'  gar  him  follow  to  the  kirk 

— Ay  when  ye  gang  yoursel. 
If  ye  then,  maun  be  then 

Frae  hame  this  comin  Friday, 
Then  please  Sir,  to  lea'e  Sir, 
The  orders  wi'  your  lady. 

My  word  of  honour  I  hae  gien. 

In  Paisley  John's,  that  night  at  e'en, 

To  meet  the  WarldCs  wona  ; 
To  try  to  get  the  twa  to  gree. 
An'  name  the  airles  f  an'  the  fee. 

In  legal  mode  an'  form  : 
I  ken  he  weel  a  Snic/t  can  draw, 

When  simple  bodies  let  him  ; 
An'  if  a  Devil  be  at  a', 

In  faith  he's  sure  to  get  hilT^ 
To  ])hrase  you  an'  praise  you. 

Ye  ken  your  Laureat  scorns  : 
The  pray'r  still,  you  share  still, 
Of  grateful  iMinstkkl  Bukns. 


•  Master  Tootle  then  lived  in  Maucliliiie;  a  dealer 
In  Cows.  It  was  his  cDmiiiiin  iiraeliee  to  rut  the  oiekj 
or  markings  from  tin-  hums  uf  f.mle,  to  ili»i,niise  iheir 
aKC.  —  He  was  an  artful  iripk-eoiiirivuig  character; 
hence  he  is  called  a  S'i'uk-ilr,iurr.  In  the  iMX't'i 
*■  Address  to  th.'  Ihil^'  lie  styles tliat  august  persouagt 
an  anid,  suick-drdwiii);  do^j ! 

t    The  Airles — luirnest  niouev. 


POEMS 

TO    MR.    IM'ADAiVI,  My  goose-qulU  too  mdi' is  t o  tt-ll  al]  your  good- 


or  C 11 A  K".  K  X-O I  I.LA  N, 

IN    ANSWKIl   TO   AN   OIlI.IC  I  NO    LETTEIl    HE   StNT 
IN  THE   CO.MJlENCt.MEST  OF  >IY    POETIC 

C  AliKEll. 

■SlR;  e'er  a  pill  I  g.it  yoiir  cinl, 

I  trow  it  luado  me  |>i<iu(l  ; 
See  «  iia  tiks  ti(iti<'e  o'  tlii.'  biird  ! 

I  lap  and  cry'd  fu'  loud. 

Now  dcil-nia  care  about  tbeir  jaw, 

The  senseless,  pawky  iiiillion  ; 
I'll  cock  my  nose  ahoi.u  thcin  a', 

I'm  roos'd  by  Craigen-Gillan  ! 

'Twas  noble,  Sir,   'twas  like  yoursel, 

To  graut  youi  lii;;li  protection  : 
A  great  man's  smile,  ye  ken  In'  well, 

Is  ay  a  blest  iufectiou. 

Thu',  by  bis  o  Iwnes  wlia  in  a  tub 

Match'd  Macedonian  Sandy  ! 
On  my  uin  1l'l;s  tliro'  dirt  and  dub, 

I  indepenilent  stand  ay 

And  wlien  those  legs  to  gud;,  warm  kailj 

Wi'  welcome  canna  bear  me  ; 
A  Ice  dvke-side,  a  sybmv-tail, 

And  barley-scone  shall  cheer  me. 

Heaven  spare  you  lang  to  kiss  tlic  breath 

O'  inony  flow'ry  simmers  ! 
And  bless  your  bonie  la>s-es  baith, 

I'm  tald  they're  loosome  kimmers  ! 

And  God  h\e:-?  young  Dunaskin's  laird, 

The  blossoiii  of  our  gentry  ! 
And  may  he  wear  an  auld  man's  beard, 

A  credit  to  his  countiy. 


TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL, 

GLENRlllDhL, 
(extempore    LINES  ON    RETURING  A 

newspaper). 

EUhlaiid,  Monday  Evening. 
Your  news  and  review.  Sir,   I've  read  tlirough 
and  through,  Sir, 
With  little  admiring  or  blaming  : 
Tlie  papers  are  barren  of  home-news  or  foreign, 
^^o  murders  or  rapes  worth  the  naming. 

Oir  friends  the  reviewers,  those  chippcrs  and 
hewers, 

Are  judges  of  mortar  and  storie.  Sir  ; 
But  of  meet,  or  unniett,  in  a.  fabric  comphfe^ 

I'll  boldly  pronounce  they  are  none,  Sir. 


IJestowed  on  your  servant,  the  Poet  ; 
Would  to  Ciod  I  had  one  like  a  beam  of  the  8un, 
And  then  all  the  worM,  Sir,  should  know  itl 


TO  TERRAUGIITY,* 

ON    HIS    BIRTM-DAV. 

Hkai.tm  to  the  Maxwells'  vet'ran  Chief! 
Health,  ay  unsour'd  by  can?  or  grief; 
Insj)ir'd,  1  turn'd  Tate's  sybil  leaf, 

'lljis  natal  morn, 
I  see  thy  life  is  stuff  o'  priet. 

Scarce  ijuite  lialf  wc  0.-« 

This  day  thou  metes  threescore  eleven. 
And  1  can  tell  that  bouiitemis  llcavea 
(The  second  sight,  ye  ken,  is  piven 

To  ilka  Poet) 
Oa  thee  a  tack  o'  seven  times  seven 

Will  )et  bestow  it. 

If  envious  buckles  view  wi'  sorrow 

Thy  Itngthen'd  days  on  this  l>le~t  morro'je, 

ftiay  desolation's  laiig-teuth'd  harrow, 

Nine  mdes  an  hour, 
Rake  them,  like  Sodom  and  (joinuirali, 

In  brunstane  st'iure— 

But  for  thy  friends,  and  they  are  inony, 
H.iith  honest  men  and  lasses  biinie, 
i\Iay  couthie  fortune,  kind  and  cannie, 

In  social  glee, 
Wi'  mornings  biytlie  and  c'euings  funny 

Bless  them  aiid  thee. 

Farweel,  auld  liirkie  !   Lord  be  near  ye, 
And  then  the  Deii  he  daurna  steer  ye 
Your  friends  ay  love,  your  faes  ay  fear  ye. 

For  me,  shame  fa'  mc, 
If  neist  my  heart  I  dinna  wear  ye 

While  Burns  they  ca  m« 


•  Diogenps. 


THE  VOWELS: 

A  TALE. 

'TwAS  where  the  birch  and  sounding   thong 
are  ply'd. 
The  noisy  (hiniicile  of  pe<lant  pride  ; 
Where  ignorance  her  darkening  vapour  throws, 
.\nd  crueltv  directs  the  tlnckening  blows; 


•  Mr.  Maxwell,  of  TcrrauRhty,  near  Dionfrie* 
This  is  the  J.  I*,  who,  at  the  Kxeiso  Coiirts,  e.illfd  Ibi 
Burns'*  reports  :  tliey  »heiviil  thai  Ac,  «hile  he  aete4 
U|)  to  the  law,  cimlil  remiii'ilc  his  duly  »:lh  liiillUiUlt 
tv-  '  Aitho'  an  fclxi'iseinaii  he  hail  a  liearl.' 
tv  ^ 


82 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Upon  a  time,  Sir  Ahecf  ilie  great, 

In  all  his  ])c'ila?o>;ic  powers  elate, 

His  awAil  cl'.air  of  state  re>olvcs  to  mount, 

And  call  the  trtuihling  vowels  to  account. — 

First  cnterM  A,  a  2:raYC,  broad,  solemn  wight, 
But  ah  !   defi  rniM,  dishonest  to  the  sii;ht ! 
iiis  twisted  head  look'd  backward  on  his  way. 
And  flagrant  fioiii  the  scourge  he  grunted  ai  I 

Reluctant,  E  stalk'd  in  ;  with  piteous  race 
The  justling  tears  ran  down  his  honest  face  ! 
That  name,   that  well-worn   came,   and  all  his 

own. 
Pale  he  suuenders  at  the  tyrant's  throne.' 
The  pcdact  stifles  keen  the  Roman  sound, 
Not  all  his  monjrel  diphthongs  can  compound  ; 
And  next  the  title  following  close  behind, 
Ut  to  the  nameless,  ghastly  wretch  assign'd. 

The  cobweb'd  gothic  dome  rosnurdcd,  Y  ! 
In  sullen  vengeance,  I,  disdain'd  reply  : 
The  jiedant  swung  his  felon  cudgel  round. 
And  kuock'd  the  groaning  vowel  to  the  ground  ! 

In  rueful  apprehension  cnter'd  O, 
Tne  wailing  minstrel  of  despairing  woe; 
Th'  Inquisitor  of  Sjiain,  the  most  expert. 
Might  there  have  learnt  new  my-teries  of  hi«  art: 
So  grim,  deforni'd,  with  horrors  entering  U, 
His  dearest  friend  and  biother  scarcely  knew  ! 

As  trembling  U  stood  staring  all  aghast. 
The  pedant  in  hi*  left  hand  clutchM  him  fist, 
In  heljiless  infants'  tears  he  dipp'd  his  right, 
Baptiz'd  him  ew,  and  kick'd  bim  from  his  sight. 


Is  it  some  blast  that  gathers  in  the  north, 
Threat'ning  to  nip  the  verdure  of  thy  bow'r' 

Is  it,  sad  owl,  that  autumn  strips  the  shade, 
And  leaves  thee  h.ere,  unshclterM  and  forlorn  ? 

Or  fear  that  winter  will  thy  nest  Invade  ? 
Or  friendless  melancholy  bids  thee  mouiu  r 

Shut  out,  lone  bird,  from  all  the  feather'd  tra'.o, 
To  tell  thy  sorrows  to  th'  unheeding  gloom 

No  friend  to  pity  when  thou  dost  complain. 
Grief  all  thy  thought,  and  solitude  thy  home 


Sins 


ad  mourner  !   I  will  bless  thy  strain, 


A  SKETCH. 

A  LlTTl.E,  upright,  pert,  tirt,  tripping  wight, 
And  still  his  precious  self  his  dear  delight  . 
Who  loves  his  own  smart  shadow  in  the  streets, 
Better  than  e'er  the  fairest  she  he  meets. 
.A  man  of  fashion  too,  he  made  his  tour, 
Learn'd  rice  la  brii/nitHe,  ct  vivc  V  aminir  ; 
So  travell'd  nionkics  their  grimace  improve, 
Polish  their  grin,  nay  sigh  for  ladies'  love. 
>Juch  specious  lore  but  little  understood  ; 
Finceriiig  oft  outshlucs  the  solid  wood  : 
His  solid  sen.-ie — liy  inches  you  must  t»ll, 
But  mete  his  cunning  by  the  old  Scots  ell; 
His  meddling  vanity,  a  busy  fiend. 
Still  making  work  his  selfish  craft  must  mend. 


TO  THE  OWL: 

BY  JOHN  m'CIIEDDIE, 

Sao  bird  of  night,  wh.it  sorrow  calU  thee  forth. 
To    vent  thy   plaints   thus    in    the   midnight 
hour  •■ 


And  pleas'd  in  sorrow  listen  m  thy  song 
Sing  on  sad  mourner  !   to  the  night  complain, 
While  the  lone  echo  wafts  thy  notes  along. 

Is  beauty  less,  when  down  the  glowing  chf-elt 
Sad,  piteous  tears  in  native  sorrows  fall  ? 

Less  kind  the  heart  when  anguish  bids  it  break.' 
Less  hajipy  he  who  lists  to  pity's  call  ? 

Ah  no,  sad  owl  '   nor  is  thy  voice  less  sweet. 
That  sadness  tunes  it,  and  that  grief  is  there; 

That  spring's  gay  notes,  unskill'd,   thou  canst 
repeat ; 
That  sorrow  bids  thee  to  the  gloom  repair : 

Nor  that  the  treble  songsters  of  the  day. 

Are  quite  estranged,  sad  bird  of  night !   from 
thee  ; 

Nor  that  the  thrush  deserts  the  evening  spray. 
When  darkness  calls  thee  from  thy  reverie.— 

From  some  old  tow'r,  thy  melanc'nnly  dome, 
While  the  gray  walls  and  desalt  solitudes 

Return  each  note,  responsive  to  ine  gloom 
Of  ivied  coverts  and  surrounding  woods  ; 

There  hooting;  I  will  list  more  pleas'd  to  the«, 
Than  ever  lover  to  the  nightingale  ; 

Or  drooping  wretch,  oppress'd  with  misery, 
Lending  his  ear  to  some  condoling  tale. 


EXTEMPORE, 

IK  THE  COURT  OF  SESSlOtf. 

TufW — "  Gillicrankie." 

Lord  Advocate,  Robert  Dunda>. 

He  clench'd  his  pamphlets  in  his  fist. 

He  quoted  and  he  hinted, 
Till  in  a  declamation-mis% 

His  argument  he  tint  it : 
He  ga];c(l  for't,  he  graped  for't, 

He  faiid  it  was  awa,  man  ; 
But  what  his  common  sense  came  short* 

He  eked  out  wi'  law,  man. 


£OEMS. 


V.R.  riKNIlY  ErsKINK. 

CoIli'Cti'd  riariy  stood  auve, 

Then  (ipen'd  out  liis  arm,  man  ; 
His  lordship  sat  \vi'  niefu'  c'e, 

And  cy'd  the  £;atherin<r  storm,  mam 
Liko  wind-driv'n  hail  it  did  assail. 

Or  torrents  owre  a  lia,  man  ; 
The  nenc/i  sae  wise  lift  uj)  their  eyes, 

Ilulf-wauken'd  wi"  the  din,  man. 


BS 


Then  let  us  fi<jht  about,  Dumourier ; 

Then  let  us  fij^ht  about,  Dumourier; 

Then  let  us  fi^rl,t  al,„„t, 

'Till  freedom's  spark  is  out, 

Then  we'll  be  d-mned  no  doubt — Dumouner  • 


ON  HEARING  THAT  THERE  WAS  FALSEHOOD  IN 
THE  REV.  DR.    B 's   VERV   LOOKS. 

That  there  is  falsehood  in  his  looks 

I  must  and  will  deny  : 
They  say  their  master  is  a  knave ■ 

And  sure  they  do  not  lie. 


ADDRESS 

TO  GENERAL  DUMOURIER. 

(a  PARODY  ON  ROBIN  ADAIIl). 

Vou're  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier  ; 

You're  welcome  to  Despots,  Dumourier 

How  does  Danipiere  do  ? 
Aye,  and  Bournonville  too? 
Why  did   they  not  come  along  with  you,  Du- 
mourier? 

I  will  fiirlit  France  with  you,  Dumourier, 

I  will  fight  France  with  you,  Dumourier  : 

I  will  fight  France  with  you, 
1  will  take  my  chance  with  you  ; 
Bj  my  soul  I'll  dance  a  dauce  with  you,  Dumou- 
r      . 


EXTEMPORE  EFFUSIONS. 

[The  Poet  paid  a  visit  on  horseback  to  Cnrlislo:  whi. 
lie  was  at  table  hn  steed  was  turned  out  to  Rraze  in 
nil  enelosiire,  but  wandeved,  probably  in  iiiiest  oj 
better  pasture,  into  an  adJDiiiin;;  one:  it  was  Im. 
pounded  by  order  of  the  Mayor— whose  tern  of  of- 
fiec  expired  next  day  :_rhe  Muse  thus  delivered 
licrselt  on  the  oceasion]  : 

Was  e'er  puir  poet  sae  befitted, 
The  m;:;*^  fbuiik — the  horse  committed  ; 
Puir  harmless  beas,  ;    takf  thei  naj  care, 
Thou'it  he  a  horse,  when  he's  nae  mair-(mayoi'^ 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

%V1TH   A    POUND  OF  SNUFF. 

O  could  I  give  thee  India's  wealth, 

As  I  this  trifle  send  ; 
Wliy  then  the  joy  of  both  would  be, 

To  share  it  with  ^  friend. 

But  golden  sands  ne'er  yet  have  graced 

The  Heliconian  stream  ; 
Then  take  what  gold  can  never  buy, 

An  honest  Baid's  esteem. 


«  It  is  almost  needless  to  observe  that  the  Rem.  of 
H:^in  Ail.it  \  begins  thus  :—  ' 

Vou're  welcome  to  Paxton,  Robin  Adair; 

\  oil  re  welcome  to  I'axton,  Robin  Aaair 

How  does  J,.bnnv  Mackerel!  do? 
Aye,  and  Luke  Gardener  too? 
V\  hy  did  tb»y  not  come  along  with  vow    «tobin 
Adaiv? 


f^ 


ESSAY 

UPON 

SCOTTISH  POETRY, 

INCLUDING  THE  POETRY  OF  BURNS, 

BY  DR.   CURRIE 


9 


That  Burns  hiM  not  the  advanta^^es  of  a  d.is- 
sieal  educatinn,  or  of  any  ilfgree  of  acijuaiiitance 
with  the  Gieek  or  Roman  writers  in  thfir  oii- 
l^inal  dress,  has  appeared  in  the  history  of  liis 
life.  He  acquired  itideeil  some  knowledjje  of  the 
Freiieli  lanfruacje,  hut  it  does  not  appear  that  he 
was  ever  much  conversant  in  French  literature, 
nnr  is  there  any  evidence  of  his  having;  deriveil 
any  of  his  poetical  stories  from  that  source. 
With  the  English  classics  he  became  well  ac- 
quainted in  the  course  of  his  life,  and  the  eff^'cts 
of  this  acquaintance  are  ohservalJe  in  his  latter 
prodnctioos  ;  liut  the  character  ami  stv'e  of  his 
poetry  were  formed  very  early,  and  the  moilel 
which  he  followed,  in  as  far  as  he  can  lie  said  to 
have  had  one,  is  to  be  sought  for  in  the  works 
of  the  poets  who  have  written  in  the  Sc{)ttish 
dialect — in  the  works  of  such  of  them  more  es- 
pecially, as  are  familiar  to  the  peasantrv  of  Scot- 
land. Some  obseivations  on  these  may  form  a 
proper  iutniduction  to  a  more  ])artlcular  exami- 
nation of  the  poetry  of  Burns.  Tlie  studies  of 
the  editor  in  this  direction  are  indeed  verv  re- 
cent and  very  imperfect.  It  woulil  have  i)een 
imprudent  for  him  to  have  entered  on  this  sub- 
ject at  all,  but  for  the  kinilness  of  Rlr.  Uamsav 
of  Ochtertyre,  whose  assistance  he  is  proud  to 
acknowledge,  and  to  whom  the  reailcr  must  as- 
<rribe  whatever  is  of  any  value  in  the  folluv.'iiig 
im|)ertect  sketch  of  literary  coinpusitijiis  in  the 
Scottish  idiom. 

It  is  a  circumstance  not  a  little  curious,  ami 
which  does  not  seem  to  be  satisfactorily  explain- 
ed, that  in  the  thirteenth  century  the  laiiyuag:' 
of  the  two  British  nations,  if  at  all  different, 
differed  only  in  dialect,  the  Gaelic  in  the  one, 
like  the  Welch  and  Armoric  in  the  ether,  being 
conlineil  to  the  moimtainotis  districts.*  The 
English  under  the  Edwards,  and  the  Scots  under 
Wallace  and  Kruce.  sjioke  the  same  language. 
We  may  observe  also,  that  in  Scotland  the  his- 
tory ascends  to  a  jieriod  nearly  as  remote  as  in 
England.  Barbour  and  Blind  Harry,  James  the 
First,  Dunbar,  Douglas,  and  Lindsay,  who  liv- 


•  HUto'-ical  Esuys  on  Scottish  Son^,  p.  "0,  by  .Mr. 
Ritson. 


ed  in  the  fourteenth,  fifteenth,  and  sisteewth  c«a- 
tiiries,  were  coeval  with  the  fathers  of  poetry  il 
England  ;  and  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Wharton, 
not  inferior  to  them  in  genius  or  in  composition. 
Tlough  the  language  of  the  two  countries  gra- 
dually deviated  from  each  other  during  this  pe- 
riod, yet  the  difference  on  the  whole  was  not 
considerable  ;  nor  perhaps  greater  than  between 
the  different  dialects  of  the  different  parts  oi 
England  in  our  own  time. 

At  the  death  of  James  the  Fifth,  in  15 i2,  the 
language  of  Scotliml  was  in  a  flourishing  condi- 
tion, wanting  only  writers  in  prose  equal  to  thoji' 
in  verse.  Two  circumstances,  propitious  on  the 
whole,  operated  to  prevent  this.  The  first  was 
tlie  passion  of  t!;e  Scots  for  composition  in  Li- 
lin  ;  and  the  second,  the  accession  of  James  the 
Sixth  to  the  Eiislish  throne.  It  may  easily  b« 
imagined,  that  if  Buchanan  had  devoted  his  ad- 
mirable talents,  even  in  |)art,  to  the  cultivation  of 
his  native  tongue,  aa  was  done  by  the  revivers  of 
letters  in  Italy,  he  would  have  left  compositions 
in  that  langu  iL;e  which  might  have  exciteil  other 
men  of  genius  to  have  foili.wed  lus  example.f 
and  give  dui.itinn  to  the  l.uiguage  itself.  The 
union  of  the  two  crowns  in  the  person  of  James, 
overthrew  all  reasonable  exjiectation  of  this  kind. 
That  monarch,  seated  on  the  English  throne, 
would  mi  h)i«er  be  addressed  in  the  rude  dia- 
lect in  whi.  h  the  Scotti-h  <leigy  had  so  often 
insulted  his  dignity.  He  encouraged  Latin  or 
Eiigl.sh  iiiily,  both  of  which  be  prided  himself 
cm  wr.ting  with  purity,  though  he  himself  never 
could  acquire  the  English  pronunciation,  but 
spoke  with  a  Scottish  idiom  and  intonation  to 
the  last.  Scotsmen  of  talents  declineil  writing  ia 
their  native  language,  which  they  knew  was  not 
accejitible  to  their  learned  and  pedantic  mo- 
naich  ;  and  at  a  time  whe'i  national  prejudic* 
and  enmity  prevailed  to  a  great  degree,  they  dis- 
d. lined  to  study  the  nicities  oi'tlie  Engliih  tongue, 
though  of  so  much  easier  acquisition  than  a 
dead  language.  Lord  Stirling  and  DrummonJ 
of  llawthornden,  the  only  Scotsmen  who  wiota 


t  '■  C-  The  -^uthurseTtUc  Vflicice  I'oelarum  Scuta 
rum.  Ac. 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


85 


pootrv  in  tliose  times,  were  exceptions.  Tlioy 
jtiidli'il  tl.c  lanjjiia^'e  nf  En;,'l.inil,  ami  i-oinixifiiMl 
in  it  with  pri'i-iNion  ami  elejj.ince,  Tlu'V  \v«ie 
liinvevfr  the  last  <if  lliiir  countrymen  w!io  de- 
soi-vcil  ti)  he  c'onsiiieied  as  pnets  in  th  it  century. 
The  muses  of  Scotlai;(l  sunk  iito  silonre,  anil 
dill  not  asjiiin  raise  thoir  voices  tor  a  p'-riotl  of 
fif;lity  years. 

To  what  causes  arc  wc  to  attribute  this  ex- 
treme depression  amonjj  a  people  comparatively 
»?arneii,  enter]. rising,  and  ingenious?  Shall 
sre  impute  it  ti  the  fanatiei^ni  of  the  covenan- 
tors, vf  to  the  ivranny  of  the  house  of  Stuart 
after  their  restoration  to  the  throne  ?  Doubt- 
U*9  these  causes  o|'eratcd,  hut  they  seem  un- 
fqiial  tn  account  fi;i  tlie  effect.  In  England  si- 
milar distractions  and  oppressions  took  place,  yet 
poetrv  flourished  there  in  a  remarkable  degree. 
During  this  period,  Cowley,  and  Waller,  and 
Dryden  sung,  and  Milton  raised  his  strain  of  un- 
paralleled grandeur.  To  the  causes  already 
mentioned,  another  must  be  added,  in  account- 
ing fur  the  torpor  of  Scottish  literature — the 
want  of  a  proper  vehicle  for  men  of  genius  to 
emidoy.  The  civil  wars  had  frightened  away 
the  Latin  muses,  and  no  standard  had  been  es- 
tablished of  the  Scottish  tongue,  whieh  was  de- 
viating still  farther  from  the  pure  English  idiom. 

The  revival  of  literature  in  Scotland  may  be 
dated  from  the  establishment  of  the  union,  or 
rather  from  the  extinction  of  the  rebellion  in 
171.5.  The  nations  being  finally  incorporated, 
it  was  cleajly  seen  that  their  tongues  must  in 
the  end  incorporate  aJso  ;  or  rather  indeed  that 
the  Scottish  language  must  degenerate  iuto  a 
provincial  idiom,  to  be  avoided  by  tliose  who 
would  aim  at  distinction  in  letters,  or  rise  to 
eminence  in  the  united  legislature.* 

Soon  after  this,  a  band  of  men  of  genius  ap- 
peared, who  studied  the  English  classics,  and 
imitated  their  beauties  in  the  same  manner  as 
they  studied  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome. 
They  had  admirable  models  of  com|)ijsition  late- 
ly presented  to  them  by  the  writers  of  the  reign 
uf  Queen  Anne  ;  particularly  in  the  periodical 
papers  published  by  Steele,  Ad  lison,  and  their 
associated  friends,  which  circulated  widely 
through  Scotland,  and  diffused  every  where  a 
taste  for  |)urity  of  style  and  sentiment,  and  for 
r"itical  disquisition.  At  length,  the  Scottish 
ivritt-rs  succeeded  in  English  composition,  anil  a 
Ui;ioii  was  formed  of  the  literary  talents,  as  well 
83  of  the  legi-<Iatures  of  the  two  nations.  On 
thii  occasion  the  poets  took  the  lead.  While 
Henry  Home,'  Dr.  Wallace,  and  their  learned 
a.'isociates,  were  only  laying  in  their  intellectual 
ttores.  and  studying  to  'dear  themselves  of  their 
Scottish  iihoms,  Thomson,  Mallet,  and  Haniil- 
lon  of  Bangour,  hail  made  their  appearance  be- 
fore the  public,  and  been  enrolled  on  the  list  of 
English  poets.  The  writers  in  prose  followed 
— a  numtrous  and  powerful  band,  and  poured 
their  ample  stores  into  the  genera!  stream  of  Bri- 

•  I»rrt  Kaim« 


tish  iiteritinc.  Scotland  possessed  her  fon.'  unu 
veisities  before  the  aceessitin  of  James  to  the 
English  tlinnie.  In.mediately  before  the  union, 
she  ncnuiied  her  |)aniehial  s<  hools.  These  e»- 
tabHshmeiits  combining  happily  together,  made 
the  elements  of  knowledge  of  easy  acipiisition 
and  presented  a  direct  path,  by  which  the  ar- 
dent student  might  be  carrieil  along  into  the  re- 
cesses of  science  or  Icarniiuj.  As  civil  broils 
ceased,  and  faction  and  jnejiidice  gradually  died 
away,  a  wider  field  was  opeiieil  to  literary  ambi- 
tion, and  the  iiiiluence  of  the  Scottish  institu 
tions  for  instruction,  on  the  pi'odiiclions  of  the 
press,  became  mote  and  more  apparent. 

It  seems  indeed  piobable,  that  the  establish- 
ment of  the  par-ochial  schools  produced  effectn 
on  the  rural  muse  of  Scotlanil  also,  which  have 
not  hitherto  been  suspected,  and  which,  though 
less  s])lendid  in  trieir  nature,  arc  not  however 
to  be  iTgarded  as  trivial,  whether  we  consider 
the  happiness  or  the  morals  of  the  peopA;. 

There  is  some  reason  to  believe,  that  the 
original  inhabitants  of  the  British  isles  posses^itl 
a  peculiar  and  interesting  species  of  music, 
which  being  banished  from  the  plains  by  the 
successive  invasions  of  the  Saxons,  D  ines,  and 
Normans,  was  preserved  with  the  native  race, 
in  the  wilds  of  Iiel.md  and  in  the  mountains  of 
Scotland  and  Wales.  The  Iri>h,  the  Scottish, 
and  the  Welsh  music,  differ  indeed  from  each 
other,  but  the  ililference  in  iv  be  considered  as 
in  dialect  only,  and  ])ro!)ilily  produced  by  th.e 
influence  of  time,  like  the  difl"crent  dialects  of 
their  common  language.  If  this  coi.jecture  be 
true,  the  Scottish  music  must  be  more  imme- 
diately of  a  Highland  origin,  and  the  Lowland 
tunes,  though  now  of  a  character  somewhat  dis- 
tinct, must  have  descended  from  the  mountains 
in  remote  ages.  Whatever  credit  may  be  given 
to  conjectures,  evidently  involved  in  great  nn- 
certainty,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  Scot- 
tish peasantry  have  been  long  in  posses-ion  of  a 
nuinber  of  songs  and  ballads  composed  in  their 
native  dialect,  and  sung  to  their  native  music. 
The  subjects  of  these  compositions  were  such  as 
most  interested  the  simple  inhabitants,  and  in 
the  succession  of  time  varied  probably  as  the 
condition  of  society  varied.  During  the  sepa- 
ration and  the  hosti.ity  of  tiie  two  nations,  these 
songs  and  ballads,  as  far  as  our  impert'ect  docu- 
ments enable  us  to  judge,  were  chiefly  warlike  ; 
such  as  the  Ilutitis  of  Clieviut,  and  the  liutlle 
nf  Harlaw.  After  the  union  of  the  two  crowns 
when  a  certain  degree  of  peace  and  tranquillity 
took  place,  the  lural  muse  of  Scotland  breathed 
in  softer  accents.  "  In  the  want  of  real  evi- 
dence respecting  the  history  of  our  songs,"  says 
Ramsay  of  Ochtertyre,  "  recourse  may  be  had 
to  conjecture.  One  woiilil  be  dis])osed  to  think, 
that  the  most  beautiful  of  the  Scottish  tunea 
were  clothed  with  new  words  after  the  union 
of  the  crowns.  The  inhabit ir.ts  of  the  border*, 
who  had  fiuinerly  been  warriors  from  choice, 
and  husbandmen  fiom  necessity,  cither  quitted 
the  country,  or  were  tratisronned  iato  real  .shep- 


dG 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


Leriis,  easy  in  their  c  rcumi>-tances,  and  satisfied 
with  their  lot.  Some  sparks  of  that  spirit  of 
chivalry  for  which  they  are  celebrated  by  Frois- 
fcart,  remained  suflicient  to  ins|)ire  elevation  of 
sentiment  and  gallantry  towards  the  fair  sex. 
The  familiarity  and  kindness  which  had  long 
Bubsisted  between  the  gentry  and  the  peasantry, 
could  not  all  at  once  be  obliterated,  and  this 
:onnexi(in  tended  to  sweeten  rural  life.  In  this 
state  of  innocence,  ease,  and  tranquillity  of 
jjiiad,  the  love  of  poetry  and  music  would  still 
maintain  its  ground,  though  it  would  naturally 
assume  a  form  congenial  to  the  more  peaceful 
state  of  society.  The  minstrels,  whose  metrical 
tales  used  on^-e  to  rouse  the  borderers  like  the 
trumpet's  sound,  had  been,  by  an  order  of  the 
Lei^islature  (1579),  classed  with  rogues  and  va- 
gabonds, and  attempted  tu  be  sujipiessed.  Knox 
And  his  discij)les  influenced  the  Scottish  parlia- 
ment, but  contended  in  vain  with  her  rural 
nmse.  Amidst  our  Arcadian  vales,  probably 
on  the  banks  of  the  Tweed,  or  some  of  its  tri- 
butary streams,  one  or  more  original  geniuses 
may  have  arisen  who  were  destined  to  give  a 
«ew  turn  to  the  taite  of  their  countrymen. 
They  would  see  that  the  events  and  pursuits 
which  chequer  private  life  were  the  proper  sub- 
jects f .  r  popular  poetry.  Love,  which  had  for- 
merly held  a  divided  sway  with  gloiy  and  am- 
bition, became  now  the  masrer-passion  ot  the 
foul.  To  |iortray  in  lively  and  delicate  colours, 
thiiUgh  with  a  hasty  hand,  the  hojies  and  fears 
that  agitate  the  breast  of  the  h.ve-suk  swain, 
or  forlorn  maiden,  alford  ample  scope  to  the 
rural  poet.  Love-songs,  of  which  Tibullus 
himself  would  not  have  been  ashamed,  might 
he  composed  bv  an  uneducated  rustic  with  a 
tlight  tincture  of  letters;  or  if  in  these  songs 
the  character  of  the  lustic  be  sometimes  assum- 
ed, the  truth  of  character,  and  tlie  language  of 
nature,  are  preserved.  With  niiatfected  sim- 
plicity and  tenderness,  topics  are  urged,  most 
likely  to  soften  the  heart  of  a  cruel  ai;il  coy 
mistress,  or  to  regain  a  tickle  lover.  Even  in 
such  as  are  of  a  melancholy  cast,  a  ray  of  hope 
breaks  through,  and  dispels  the  deep  and  settled 
gloom  which  characterizes  the  swee'.ist  ot  tlie 
Highland  luiiiaiji,  or  vocal  airs.  Nor  are  tlie>e 
songs  all  jilaintive  ;  many  of  them  are  lively 
and  bumorous-,  and  some  appear  to  us  coarse 
and  indelicate.  They  seem,  however,  genuine 
descrijitions  of  the  manners  of  an  energetic  and 
Bequestered  people  in  their  hours  of  mirth  and 
festiv  ty,  though  in  their  portraits  some  objects 
are  brought  into  o|)en  view,  whieli  more  fasti- 
dious painters  would  have  thrown  into  sh.ide. 

"  As  those  nuai  poets  Ming  tor  amusLiuent, 
n:t  for  gain,  their  eliusions  sehlimi  exceeded  a 
lov?-song,  or  a  billad  of  satire  or  hiimour, 
whitl.,  like  the  words  of  the  elder  minstre  s, 
were  seldom  coramitied  to  writing,  but  tiea- 
tured  up  in  the  memory  of  tht^ir  friend,  and 
aeighl.o  jrs.  Neither  known  to  the  learne(i  nor 
patii'iilzeil  by  tlie  great,  tlie-e  ru>lic  bards  lived 
»ud  Jied  111  obscurity  ;   aud  by  a  sti.(nge  latahty, 


their  story,  and  even  their  very  rwrnes  havi 
been  forgotten.  When  proper  models  for  pas- 
toral songs  were  produced,  there  would  be  nc 
want  of  imitators.  To  succeed  in  this  specie! 
of  composition,  soundness  of  understanding  and 
sensibility  of  heart  were  more  requisite  thas 
flights  of  imagination  or  pomp  of  numl>e:-v 
Great  changes  have  certainly  taken  place  13 
Scottish  song- writing,  though  we  cannot  tracs 
the  steps  of  this  chant;e  ;  and  few  of  the  pieces 
admired  in  Queen  Mary's  time  are  now  to  be 
discovered  in  modern  collections.  It  is  possible, 
though  not  proiiahle,  that  the  music  may  have 
remained  neaily  the  same,  though  the  words  to 
the  tunes  were  entirely  new-modelled." 

These  conjectures  are  highly  ingenious.  Ic 
cannot,  however,  be  presumed,  that  the  state  of 
ease  and  tranquillity  described  by  Mr.  Ramsay 
took  place  among  the  Scottish  peasantry  iniine- 
diately  on  the  union  of  the  crowns,  or  indeed 
during  the  greater  part  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. The  Scottish  nation,  through  all  ranks, 
was  deeply  agitated  by  the  civil  wars,  and  the 
religious  petsecutions  which  succeeded  each 
other  in  that  disastrous  period  ;  it  was  not  til) 
after  the  revolution  in  IGSS,  and  the  subsequent 
establishment  of  their  beloved  form  of  church 
government,  that  the  peasantry  of  the  Lowlandi 
enjoyed  comparative  repose  ;  and  it  is  since  that 
period  that  a  great  number  of  the  most  admireij 
."Scottish  songs  have  been  produced,  though  tht 
tunes  to  which  they  are  sung,  are  in  general  of 
n:uch  greater  antiquity.  It  is  not  unreasonab'e 
to  suppose,  that  the  jieace  and  security  derived 
from  the  Revolution,  and  the  Union,  produced 
a  favourable  change  on  the  rustic  poetry  of 
Scotland  ;  and  it  can  scarcely  be  doubted,  that 
the  institution  of  parish  schools  in  1696,  by 
which  a  certain  degree  of  instruction  was  dif- 
fused universally  among  the  peasantry,  contii- 
buted  to  this  happy  cH'ect. 

Soon  after  this  appeared  Allan  Ramsay,  the 
S>-ottish  Theociitus.  He  was  born  on  the  high 
mountains  that  divide  Clydesdale  and  Annan- 
dale,  in  a  small  hamlet  by  the  banks  of  Gleni,'o- 
uar,  a  stieam  which  descends  i  .to  the  Clyde. 
The  ruins  of  this  hamlet  are  still  shown  to  the 
inquir.ng  traveller.  He  was  the  son  of  a  pea- 
sant, and  piob lb  y  received  such  instruction  as 
Ins  parish-school  bestowed,  and  the  poverty  of 
his  parents  admitted.  Ramsay  ma  .e  his  ap- 
pearance in  Edii. burgh,  in  the  beginning  of  the 
present  century,  in  tlie  humble  character  of  an 
apprentice  to  a  barber  ;  he  was  then  fouiteen  or 
litteen  years  of  age.  By  degrees  he  acquired 
notice  for  his  social  disposition,  and  his  tal'.-ct 
I  for  the  composition  of  verses  in  the  Scot'ish 
idiom  ;  anil,  changing  his  profession  for  that  of 
a  bookseller,  he  became  i.timate  with  many  of 
the  literarv,  as  well  as  the  gay  and  fashionable 
characters' of  his   time.*      Hiving   published  a 


•  "  He  was  coeval  wilh  Joseiili  Mitchell,  luvl  hn 
club  of '"►«  wits,  who,  alioii  i7  9,  |ui'.ih»!Hil  a  verj 
l.oor  miSLLllaiii,  to  wlu-»^   Dr   Yoiin;j,  tl-  •utlloi  ul 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


rotiime  of  poems  of  liis  own  ii\  1751,  wliicli 
K'as  f.ivoiiralilv  ivi-oivL-il,  he  iindLTtonli  to  make 
t  (•(illcctioii  of  iiiicioiit  Scottish  poems,  iitider  the 
title  of  tlie  Ercr-dretii,  and  was  afterwards 
>m'imra;^'.il  to  pieseiit  to  tile  world  a  oolleetioii 
of  Scc.rti-h  siiiii;s.  "  From  what  soiiices  he 
proriirrd  tliein,"  says  Ramsay  of  Oihteityre, 
"  whither  from  tradition  or  maiiuscii)it,  is  iin- 
rertiiti.  As  in  the  I^twr- Green  he  made  some 
pi-h  attempts  to  improve  on  the  originals  of  his 
aneieiit  |)oems.  he  iiLohahly  used  still  [greater 
freedom  with  the  sontjs  and  hallaiis.  The  truth 
cannot,  however,  he  known  on  tlils  jioint,  till 
niamiseripts  of  the  son;;s  piinted  hy  him,  more 
sne'ent  tli  in  the  present  eentury,  shall  be  pro- 
d  leeii,  or  aceess  lie  oiitained  to  his  own  papers, 
if  they  are  sti  I  in  existence.  To  several  tunes 
whieh  either  wanted  words,  or  had  words  that 
weie  impro|  er  or  iinperlect,  he  or  his  friends 
adaptfil  verses  worthy  of  the  melodies  they  ac- 
ronipanied,  wi'itliy  indeed  of  the  sjolden  ii<re. 
These  verses  were  perfectly  intellii^ihle  to  everv 
rustic,  yet  justly  admired  hy  jiersons  of  taste, 
who  regarded  them  as  the  fienuine  otFspriiig  of 
the  pastoral  muse.  In  some  respects  Ranisav 
liad  advintaifcs  not  possessed  hy  poets  writini; 
in  the  Scottish  dl  ilect  in  our  davs.  Songs  in 
the  dialect  of  Cunihcrland  or  Lancasliiie,  could 
never  iie  popular,  liecinse  these  dialects  hive 
never  l.'cen  s|i()keii  hy  persons  of  fashion.  But 
till  the  middle  of  the  present  century,  every 
Scotsman,  from  the  peer  to  the  jieasant,  spnke 
a  truly  Doric  iani^uage.  It  is  true  the  English 
moralists  and  pnefs  were  hy  this  time  read  hv 
every  person  of  condition,  ami  considered  as  the 
standards  for  polite  composition,  iiut,  us  na- 
tional prejuilices  were  still  strong,  the  hi:sv,  the 
learned,  the  gay,  and  the  fair  continued  to  speak 
their  native  dialect,  and  that  with  an  elegance 
and  poignancy  of  whieh  Scotsmen  of  the  present 
day  can  h.ive  no  jiist  notion.  I  am  (dd  enough 
to  have  conversed  with  Mr.  Spittal,  of  Lenchat, 
a  schol.ir  and  a  man  of  fashion,  wlio  survived 
a!i  the  menihers  of  the  I'nic  ii  Parliament,  in 
which  he  had  a  seat.  His  pronuiiciation  and 
phraseidogy  differed  as  mueli  fiiiiii  tlie  common 
dialect,  as  the  language  of  St.  James's  fr<mi  that 
ijf  Thames  Street.  Had  we  letained  a  court 
and  parliament  of  our  own,  the  tongues  of  the 
two  sister  kingdoms  would  indeed  lune  diifered 
like  the  Castilian  and  Portuguese  ;  hut  each 
would  have  its  own  c'assics,  not  in  a  siugle 
branch,  hut  in  the  whole  circle  of  literature. 

"  Ran\say  associated  with  the  men  of  wit 
and  fashion  of  his  dav,  and  several  of  tliem  at- 
tempted to  write  poetry  in  his  manner.  Per- 
rons too  idle  oi  too  dissipatid  to  think  of  com- 
positions that  required  mu.h  cXirtion,  succeeded 
vciy  h.ippily  in  miikini;  tender  sonnets  to  fa- 
vourite tunes  in  conipliiiupt  to  their  mistresses, 
«nd    transfoiming  tl.einsei\es  into  impassioned 


shepherds,  cauglit  the  language  o.  .ne  chnractc;' 
they  assnmed.  Thus,  ahont  the  year  I7."il, 
Kohert  Crawfurd  of  Auchinames,  wrote  tlf 
morlern  song  of  Tircflxii/e,'  whieh  has  heer 
so  much  admired.  In  1713,  Sir  (iilhert  Klliot, 
the  first  of  our  liwyeis  who  both  spoke  and 
wrote  English  ehgantly,  composed,  in  the  cha- 
racter ot  a  love- sick  swain,  a  beautiful  song, 
beginning,  jyji/  sla<ep  I  veijlcctcil,  I  lust  inif 
fliii'f)-lini,k,  on  the  inarria_'e  (d"  his  mislress, 
Miss  Foihcs,  with  Ron  dd  Crawfurd.  And 
ahont  twilve  years  aftei wards,  tit  sister  of  Sir 
(iilheit  wrote  the  uiicicnt  words  to  the  tune  oi 
the  I'liiwers  (^f  the  FtTC^t.-f  and  supposed  to  al- 
lude to  the  battle  of  Fluwilen.  In  spite  of  tlio 
liouhle  rhyme,  it  is  a  sweet,  and  tiiongh  in  some 
parts  allegorical,  a  natural  expression  of  national 
sorrow.  The  more  nhilir/i  words  to  the  same 
tune,  beginning,  I  liave  scm  the  xmUiiifj  iffr- 
tiiiie  ii-(jiiilijif/,  w  ere  written  long  before  by  Mrs. 
Cockhuin,  i  Woman  of  great  wit,  who  outlived 
all  the  first  group  vi  literati  .if  the  present  cen- 
ttiiy,  all  of  whom  were  very  fond  of  her.  I  was 
flelighted  with  her  company,  tiiougn  when  I  saw 
her,  she  was  very  old.  iMu.h  did  she  know 
that  is  now  lost.  " 

In  addition  to  these  instrnees  of  Scoitish 
songs,  produced  in  tlie  earlier  pait  of  the  pie- 
sent  century,  may  he  menti.'iied  the  ballad  ol 
Iliirilikniitt,  by  Lady  Wanilaw  ;  the  ballad  o( 
WiUinm  (intl  Margarit ;  and  the  song  entitled 
the  Jiiiks  iif  Invermrnj,  by  Mallet;  the  love- 
song,  beginning,  Fi.r  tver.  Fortune,  wilt  tlimt 
pnivt;  jirodiiced  hy  the  youthful  muse  of  Thom- 
son ;  and  the  ex(|nisite  pathetic  ball, id,  tltt  JJnus 
of  Yarrow,  by  Hamilton  of  H.ingour.  On  tlie 
revival  of  letters  in  Seotlauil,  sul^eijuerit  to  tii6 
Union,  a  very  general  taste  seems  to  have  pre- 
vailed for  the  national  songs  and  music.  "  For 
many  years,"  says  Mr.  Ramsay,  "  the  singing 
of  songs  was  tlie  great  delight  of  the  higher  and 
middle  order  of  tlie  |)eojile,  as  well  as  of  the 
peasantry  ;  and  tin. ugh  a  taste  for  It.ilian  mus  c 
has  intertercd  with  this  amusement,  it  is  still 
very  prevalent.  Between  forty  and  fjt'ty  vears 
ago,  tlie  common  people  weie  not  only  exceed- 
ingly fond  of  songs  aiid  baihids.  hut  ol  metrical 
h. story.  Olten  have  1,  in  mv  eheerhil  inoin  of 
youth,  listened  to  tliem  with  deli-l.t,  win  n 
leading  or  reciting  the  exploits  of  U'.dUee  and 
Bruce  agiiust  the  Suiit/iruus.  Lord  Haile.« 
was  woiit  to  call  Blind  H.iriy  their  Il.'li/e,  he 
being  their  great  fav..uiite  next  the  Scriptuies. 
When,  therefore,  one  in  the  v.de  of  life  felt  the 
first  emotion  of  t.enius,  he  wanted  not  niodeU 
siii  ginerii.  But  though  the  .secd.s  of  jvietry 
were  scattered  with  a  pleniifiil  hand  a:i;(  iig  tlie 
Scottish  peasantry,  the  ])r  (hict  was  pndiahiy 
like  that  of  pears  and  apples — of  a  thousand 
that  sjirung  up,  nine  Iiui.divd  and  fifty  are  sa 
bad   as   to  set   the  teeth  on  edge  ;   foity-iive  oi 


r/zo /:,'//,'.■»,  prefixed  o  copy  of  verses." 
fa  Itl'.trf  om  Mr  liamaay  oj  Ochtcrli/t  : 
itur. 


*  Be/jinnin?,  \W>at  beauliex  dees  Flora  disclose 
t  Begji   ling,  I  have  heard  a  lilting  at  ou-J  cwn* 
mil/c'iije 


88 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


Hiore  S-'e  passsMe  and  ii'^eful ;  and  tKe  re«t  of 
an  exquisite  fl.ivnur.  Allan  Rams;iy  and  Birns 
are  tfildiiips  of  t\us  ]a.st  dcsfriijtion.  They  hud 
the  example  of  the  elder  Scotti'^h  poets  ;  they 
were  not  without  the  aid  of  ^he  bist  English 
writers  ;  and,  what  \\  as  of  still  more  import- 
ance, they  were  no  strangers  to  the  book  of  na- 
ture, and  to  the  book  of  God," 

From  this  general  view,  it  is  apparent  that 
Allin  Riims.iy  may  be  considered  as  in  a  great 
measure  the  reviver  of  the  rural  poetry  of  his 
countiy.  His  collection  of  ancient  Scottish 
poems  under  the  name  of  Tlie  £cer-);recn,  his 
collection  cf  Scottish  pcn,;;s,  and  his  own  poems, 
the  principal  of  which  is  the  Gentle  S/tep/ierd, 
have  been  universally  read  among  the  peasantry 
of  his  country,  and  have  in  some  degiee  super- 
seded the  adventures  of  I3ruce  and  Wallace,  as 
recorded  by  Bart)our  and  Blind  Harry.  Bums 
was  well  acquainted  with  all  of  these.  He  had 
a'.so  before  him  the  poems  of  Fergusson  in  the 
ftcottisli  dialect,  which  have  been  produced  in 
our  own  times,  and  of  which  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  give  a  short  account. 

Fergusson  was  born  of  parents  who  had  it  in 
their  power  to  procure  him  a  liberal  education, 
a  circumstance,  however,  which  in  Scotland, 
implies  no  very  high  rank  in  societv.  From  a 
Well  written  and  app  irently  authentic  account 
of  his  life,  we  learn  that  he  spent  six  years  at 
tile  schools  of  Edinburgh  and  Dundee,  and  se- 
veral years  at  the  universities  of  Edinburgh  and 
St.  Andrew's.  It  appears  that  he  was  at  one 
time  destined  for  the  Scottish  church  ;  but  as 
he  advanced  towards  manhood,  he  renounced 
that  intention,  and  at  Edinburgh  entered  the 
oftice  of  an  attorney,  Fergiisson  hail  sensibility 
of  mind,  a  waim  and  generous  heart,  and  ta- 
lents for  society,  of  the  most  attractive  kind. 
To  such  a  man  no  situati(m  could  be  more  ilan- 
gerous  than  that  in  wliich  he  was  placed.  The 
excesses  into  which  he  was  led,  impaired  his 
feeble  coiisti'iition,  and  he  sunk  uniler  tlieni  in 
the  month  of  October,  1774,  in  his '2:3d  or24tli 
year.  Burns  was  not  acipiaiiited  with  the 
jsocms  of  tlii>  yonthfiil  genius  when  he  himself 
began  to  write  jioetry  ;  and  when  he  first  sav>- 
them,  he  had  renounced  the  nnises.  But  while 
he  resided  in  tlie  town  of  Irvine,  meeting  with 
Ferrpissim^s  Scottish  Paems,  he  informs  us  that 
he  "  strung  liis  lyre  anew  with  enuila'ing  vi- 
gour. Tdiiched  by  the  svnipathv  originating 
in  kindred  genius,  and  in  the  forebodings  of  si- 
milar fortune,  Buri'.s  regarded  Fergusson  with 
a  partial  and  an  affectionate  admiration.  Over; 
his  grave  he  erected  a  monument,  as  has  al- 
ready been  inentioni-d  ;  and  his  poems  he  has 
in  sever.J  instances  nude  the  subjects  of  his 
imitation. 

I'roni  this  aci  ount  of  the  Scottish  poems 
Vn<iwn  to  Ihirns,  those  who  are  acipiainted 
with  them  will  see  they  are  chiefly  hiiiUMrous 
or  jiatbetic  ;  and  under  one  or  oilier  of  these 
■ii'scriptions  mo>-t  of  his  own  ))oems  will  cla-s. 
Let  UA  comuiire   him   with  his  predecessors  un- 


der each  of  th.-M  points  of  view,  an^  dose  om 
examination  with  a  few  general  observations. 

It  has  frequently  been  observed,  that  Scot. 
land  has  produced,  cumparatively  sjieaking,  f.-w 
writers  who  have  excelled  in  humour.  But  tliis 
observation  is  true  only  when  a]iplied  to  those 
wlio  have  continued  to  reside  in  their  own  coun- 
try, and  have  confined  themselves  to  coinposi- 
tion  in  pure  English  ;  and  in  thest  circuirs~ 
stances  it  admits  of  an  easy  explanation.  The 
Scottish  poets,  who  have  written  in  the  dialect 
of  Scotland,  havt  been  at  all  times  remarkable 
for  dwelling  on  subjects  of  humour,  in  \"liii;h 
indeed  some  of  them  have  excelled.  It  would 
be  easy  to  show,  that  the  dialect  of  Scotland 
having  beciinie  provincial,  is  now  scarcely  suit- 
ed to  the  more  elevated  kinds  of  poetry.  If  we 
may  believe  that  the  poem  of  CItristh  Kirk  i.j 
the  Grene  was  written  by  James  the  F.rst  of 
Scotland,  tliis  acc(uiipH>hed  monarch,  who  had 
received  an  Engli>h  education  under  Henry  the 
Fourth,  and  who  bore  arms  under  his  gallant 
successor,  gave  the  model  on  which  the  greater 
part  of  the  humorous  productions  of  the  rustic 
muse  of  Scotland  bad  been  formed  Chiistis 
Kiik  of  the  GreTie  was  leprinted  by  Ramsay, 
somevvhat  nuuiernized  in  the  orthography,  and 
two  cantos  were  added  by  hiin,  in  which  he  at- 
tempts to  carry  on  the  design.  Hence  the  |)oeni 
of  King  James  is  usually  printed  in  Ramsay's 
works.  The  royal  bard  describes,  in  the  first 
canto,  a  rustic  dance,  and  afterwards  a  cimten- 
tion  in  archery,  ending  in  an  aft'iay.  Ramsay 
relates  the  restoration  of  concord,  and  the  re- 
newal of  the  rural  s)iorts  with  the  humours  of  a 
countiy  wedding.  Though  e.ich  of  the  poets 
describes  the  mannt  is  of  his  respective  age,  yet 
in  the  whole  piece  there  is  a  very  sufSeiei.t  uni- 
formity ;  a  striking  proof  of  the  identity  of  cha- 
racter ill  the  Scottisli  ])easantry  at  the  two  pe- 
riods, distant  from  each  other  three  hundied 
ycar>.  It  is  an  hotiourable  distinction  to  this 
liody  of  men,  that  their  character  and  manneis, 
veiy  little  enibellisli'il,  have  been  fiund  to  he 
susceptible  of  an  amusing  and  interesting  spe- 
cies of  (loetiy  ;  and  it  must  appear  not  a  little 
curious,  that  the  single  n.i>-iot.  of  modern  Eu- 
rope which  possesses  an  tiriginal  poetry,  should 
have  received  the  model,  followed  by  their  rus- 
tic liards,  fi'oni  the  monarch  on  the  throne. 

The  two  additional  cantos  to  Christ/s  hirk 
of  the  Grene,  written  by  Ramsay,  though  ob- 
jectionable in  [loint  of  delicacy,  are  among  the 
hajipiest  of  his  productions.  H:s  duet  excel- 
lence indeed,  lay  in  the  descr  ption  of  rural  cha- 
racters, incidents,  and  scenery  ;  for  he  did  not 
possess  any  very  high  jiowers  either  of  iniagiuA. 
tion  or  of  understanding.  He  was  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  peasantry  of  Scotland,  their 
lives  and  opinions.  The  subject  was  in  a  great 
measure  new  ;  his  talents  were  etjual  to  the 
subject,  and  he  has  shown  thai  it  may  >e  hai*- 
pily  ail  ipted  to  pa^tor.il  poetry.  In  his  GtiDtU 
Shtjihcrd,  the  characters  are  delineations  from 
nature,   the  descriptive  parts  are  in  the  geuMin* 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


Kty'o  of  licautifiii  simplicity,  the  jia«^iot.s  ami 
siK-i  (ii  [in  I't  riiial  I'tt.'  :;ro  hndy  liortnyril,  ;ii:(l 
till'  lie  It  is  iileiniiiifjlv  intiTfstcil  in  the  li.i|  pi- 
revs  ih  it  is  hisrwc'  on  iMmc-ence  and  virtue. 
TliKHiii'mut  tlie  u  h  !e  there  is  iiii  air  of  reality 
n  li  cli  t!ie  iiidst  carele  s  reader  cannot  hut  jier- 
fr'vi-  ;  a^ul  in  laet  no  pooiii  ever  perhaps  ac- 
q-jirid  -u  hiih  a  r,  putation,  in  v.hieii  tiulli  le- 
c.'ivtti  Ml  Itt'e  enilii  llishnieiit  fnmi  the  iii:a;;ina- 
tism.  la  liis  |)ivti)ral  M)n!;s,  and  liis  rural  ta  es. 
H  inisiy  app  ais  to  less  advantage,  indeed,  hut 
etill  wltli  Cdiisiihralilc  attraetiou.  Tlie  stiiry  ol 
the  J\l(iiik  unit  the  JMille.r's  II  {/'',  tluniuh  siiine- 
\v#Mt  lieeiit:ous,  may  raid<  with  the  hap]iiest 
jirodui  tiiins  ot  I'rinr  or  Li  Funt.iine.  Cut  when 
he  attempts  suhjeets  from  Inghef  hfe,  and  aims 
at  pure  English  eonipusitioii,  hf  is  feel.le  and 
iinintere>tini;,  and  seldimi  even  reaches  meilio- 
ciity.  Meither  are  I'.is  f.milli.ir  epistles  and 
elegies  in  the  Scutti-h  dialect  entltle<i  to  much 
ai)(iri)l)atii;u.  Thnugh  Fergus>on  had  higher 
powers  of  imagination  than  Hanis:iy,  his  <;enius 
was  nnt  of  the  higliest  order  ;  nor  did  his  learn- 
ing, which  was  consideiahle,  improve  his  ge- 
nius. His  poems  written  in  pure  Kngli^h,  in 
wliich  he  olten  tollows  classical  models,  though 
K'jpiriir  to  t!ie  I'.n.lish  poem-  (.1"  Ramsay,  sel- 
dom rise  aliove  nudiocrity  ;  l)ut  in  those  com- 
posed in  the  Scottish  dialect  he  is  often  very 
successful.  He  was,  in  general^  however,  less 
hap|iy  th.in  R.inisay  in  the  suhjects  of  his  muse 
A>  he  sjient  the  greater  part  ot  his  life  in  Edin- 
tiurgli,  and  wrote  for  his  amusement  in  the  in- 
tervals oi  Inisiiiess  or  dissipation,  his  Scottish 
poems  aie  ehieliy  founded  on  the  incidents  of  a 
town  life,  wnicli,  tho\igh  they  are  not  suscepti- 
hle  of  huuiour,  do  not  ailiuit  of  those  delinea- 
tions of  scenery  and  manneis,  which  vivify  tlie 
rural  jjoetry  of  U.inisay,  and  which  so  agreeably 
amuse  the  fancy  and  mterest  the  heart.  The 
town  eclogues  of  Fuigusson,  it  we  may  so  deno- 
minate them,  are  hov.ever  faitliful  to  nature, 
and  often  distinguished  hy  a  very  happy  vein  of 
Luniour.  Ills  poems  entitied  '1  lie  JUuft  Days. 
'I  lie  lini/'s  lliitli-dny  in  Kdintxirgh,  LellU 
liiues,  and  Tlie  Uuihiw  Fair,  v.il!  justify  this 
character.  In  tliese.  particularly  in  the  last,  he 
iniit.iied  Christis  Kirk  of  the.  iiTtne,  as  Uam- 
Kay  had  done  htfore  him.  His  AddTess  to  the 
TiDii-kiik  Ucl  is  an  cMjni-ite  puce  of  humour, 
which  Huiui  has  scarcely  excelled.  In  ajipre- 
ciating  tilt  genius  of  Fcrgu.sson,  it  ought  to  be 
rtcoilected,  that  his  poems  are  the  careless  effu- 
sions of  au  irregular  thuu;,-h  amiable  young  man, 
who  wrote  for  tiie  periodical  papers  of  the  day, 
ai.d  who  died  ill  early  jou'h.  Had  his  life  been 
prolonged  undir  happier  Lircuuistances  of  for- 
tune, he  wuulil  jirob.ibly  h.ive  risen  to  much 
ciglM  r  reputation.  He  might  have  excelled  in 
rur.il  poetrv,  tor  though  his  professed  pastorals 
CD  the  estal.lished  Sicilian  model,  are  stale  and 
*niutiTesxin^,     J  he    Fanner's    Inyte,'    which 


•  The  fat  mer's  Sre-sidei 


mav  be  cousiilered  a«  a  Scottish  pastnial,  i.s  (.ht 
happiest  cf  all  his  productiins,  iind  ctrtiin'y 
w,is  the  aichetj-|)e  of  the  Ciillri's  Saturdaf 
Aiyht.  Fergusscn,  and  more  espicia'lv  Durni, 
have  shown,  that  the  character  mid  m.itiners  (>< 
the  jieas.mtry  of  Scotland,  i.f  tlie  present  times, 
are  as  well  adapted  to  poetry,  as  in  the  diys  of 
Kamsay,  or  vif  the  author  of  Chritis  Kirk  aj 
the   limif. 

The  hoinonr  of  l^iirns  is  of  a  richer  vein  than 
that  of  IJ.aiisav  or  Feigusson,  bi.tli  of  whom,  s.\ 
lie  himself  iutnims  us,  he  had  "  freipu  ntly  in  hif 
eye,  but  ratlur  with  a  view  to  kindle  at  their 
iLiine,  than  to  sei  vile  imitation."  His  ilescriiK 
tive  powers,  whether  the  objects  on  which  they 
ire  employeil  be  comic  or  serious,  animate,  or 
inanimate,  are  of  the  highest  order. — A  supe- 
liorilv  of  th.s  kind  is  e«senti.il  to  every  species 
of  poetical  excelli  nee.  In  one  of  h;s  earl. el 
poems  liis  plan  seems  to  be  to  inculcate  a  lesson 
(if  contentment  on  the  lower  classes  of  society, 
by  showing  that  their  superiors  are  neituer 
much  better  nor  happier  than  them-elves  ;  and 
this  he  cliooses  to  execute  in  the  form  of  a  ilia- 
logue  between  two  dogs.  He  introduces  thii 
di.ilogue  by  an  aecnnnt  of  the  persons  and  clia- 
racteis  of  the  speakers.  The  hrst,  whom  he 
has  named  Coisar,  is  a  dog  ol  coniiition  :  — 

"  His  locked,  lettir'i,  biaw  brass  collar, 
Showed  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar." 

Iligh-bied  though  he  is,  he  is  however  full  J. 
condescension  : 

"  At  kitk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
N.ie  tawted  tyke,  tho'  e'er  sae  duililie, 
IJut  he  wail  stan't,  as  glad  to  see  Inm, 
Aii"  straaii't  on  .stanes  aii   ItM.cks  w'l    fihn." 

The  other,  Liiath.  is  a  "  plougman's- collie." 
hut  a  cur  of  a  good  heart  and  a  sound  uuder- 
standing. 

"  His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face, 
Aye  gat  him  frienrls  in  ilka  |ilace  ; 
His  breast  was  white,  his  towsie  bjck 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black  ; 
IJis  gawcie  tad,  wi'  upward  curl, 
lluny  o'er  his  hurdles  wi'  a  swirL" 

Never  were  tira  days  so  exquisitely  delineat- 
ed. Their  gambols,  belore  they  sit  down  to 
moralize,  are  desciilted  with  an  equal  degree  ol 
h.i])piness  ;  and  through  the  whole  di,ilo.;ne, 
the  character,  as  well  as  the  dil'erLiit  condition 
of  the  two  speakers,  i-  kept  in  view.  The 
speech  of  Luath,  in  which  he  enumerates  tlae 
comforts  of  the  poor,  gives  the  following  ac- 
count of  their  merriment  ou  the  first  day  uf  tht 
year  : 

"  That  merry  day  the  year  begins. 
They  bar  the  duui  on  .rostj  winds. 


90 


ESSAY  UPON^  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


The  t.;'p]>V  ii'ck-!  «  i'  m^intling  ream, 
And  il.fds  a  he.iit-iMS|iirin'  stiMiii  ; 
The  ..intiii  |)i|ie,  and  siieeshiu"  mill. 
Are  handed  round  «i'  riy;':.t  ijiii'l-will  ; 
The  canty  auld  fulks  crackin'  crou-se. 
The  young  anes  rantin'  thro'  tht-  hduse — 
Mv  heart  lias  heen  sae  fiin  to  we  them, 
Thai  I f'"'  j<"J  /"'«  iarkit  wi'  i/:ein." 


Of  al!  the  animals  who  have  inora'ized  on  hu- 
man afFairs  since  the  days  of  A'ls.-p,  the  dog 
seems  lie-t  entitled  to  this  privile,:re.  as  well  from 
his  superior  s.igacitv,  as  from  his  hein;:,  more 
than  any  other,  the  friend  and  associate  of  man. 
The  do:is  of  Ijurns,  e.vceptin;j;  in  their  talent  for 
moralizing,  are  ilou-nright  dogs.  The  "  twa 
dogs"  are  constantly  kept  before  our  eyes,  and 
the  contnist  between  their  form  and  character 
as  dogs,  and  the  sagacity  of  their  conversation, 
heightens  the  humour,  and  deepens  the  impiei- 
sion  of  the  poet's  satire.  Tliongh  in  tliis  poem 
the  chief  excellence  may  he  <'onsidered  as  hu- 
raour,  vet  great  talents  are  disjdayed  in  its  com- 
position ;  the  hajipiest  jiowers  of  descript  on 
and  the  deepest  insight  into  the  human  heart. 
It  is  seldom,  however,  that  the  humour  of  Burns    .,,.(^..,ondeiates 

appears  in  so  simple  a  form.      The  liveliness  of        ,, „  "_ 

his   sensibility   fiequently  impels  him   to  intro 
duce  into  subjects  of  humour,   emotions  of  ten. 


l-'reedom  and  WlihJiy  ging  the^Ither, 
Tak   affyojr  diana  !" 

Df  this  union  of  humour,  with  the  liighe. 
powers  of  imagination,  instances  may  be  found 
in  the  poem  entitled  Death  and  Dr.  Horuboi.k, 
and  in  almost  every  stanzi  of  the  Address  tt 
the  Dtil,  one  of  the  happiest  of  his  productions. 
After  reproaching  this  terrible  being  with  all 
his  "doings"  and  misileeds,  in  the  course  of 
which  he  passes  through  a  series  of  Scottish 
superstitions,  anil  ri>es  at  times  into  a  high 
strain  of  poetry  ;  he  concludes  this  address,  de- 
livered in  a  tone  of  great  fimiliarity,  nut  alto- 
gether unmixed  with  ajipiehension,  in  the  fol. 
lowing  words  ; 


"  But,  fare  ye  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ' 
O  wail  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men'  • 
Ye  aiblins  might — I  ilinna  ken — 

Still  ha'e  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  ! 

Humour  and  tenderness  are  here  so   happ'.l-/ 
intermixed,    that  it  is   impossible  to  say  wliict 


Fergusson  wrote  a  dialogue  between  the 
Causeway  am\  the  Plainst  .nts,*  of  Edinburgh 
This  probably  suggested   to   liurns  his  (lialoa:u» 


derness  or  of  pity  ;  and,  where  occasion  admit<,  ^^^^^.^^^  ^^-le  Old  and  New  Bridge  over  the  river 
he  is  sometiuiLS  earned  on  to  exert  the  higher,  ^._  rj,,^^  ^^^^^^.^  „f  g^^,.],  subjects  requires  that 
powers  of  iniaginatiiui.  In  such  instances  he  j  ^j^  ^j^^„  ^^  ^^.^.^j^^j  i„„„orously,  and  Fergusson 
leaves  the  society  of  R.msay  and  of  Fergusson,    j^^^  attempted  nothing  bevond   this.      Though 


and  associates  himself  with  the  masters  of  Eng 
lish  poetry,  whose  language  he  frequently  as. 
sumes. 

Of  the  union  of  tenderness  and  humour,   ex- 


the  Causticay  and  the  Plaiiutmies  talk  to- 
gether, no  attempt  is  made  to  personify  the 
speakers. 

In   the   dialogue  between  the  Briqs  of  A)/r, 


amjiles  may  be  found  in  The  Death  au'JDi/n.;/   ^.^^  ..      .^''^^,;|   ,      ^.^;.^._„  ^,,.    ..  i^.^pHed  "by 


Wards  "fpo  T  Millie,  in  The  aidd  Farmer's 
Ntw-  Yi-ar's  Moraiiii/  Sulutaliori  tu  his  Mare 
M'lqgie,  and  in  many  other  of  his  ])oeuis.  The 
praise  of  whisky  is  a  favourite  subject  with 
Burns.  To  this  he  dedicates  his  i)oem  of 
Sc'ilch  Drink.  After  mentioning  its  cheering 
ii.fliience  in  a  variety  of  situations,  he  describes, 
with  singular  liveiiuess  and  power  of  fancy,  it.s 
Etimulating  effects  on  the  blacksmith  working 
at  his  forge  : 

'   Nae  mercy,  then,  for  airn  or  steel  ; 
The  brawnie,  hiinie,  ploughman  chiel. 
Brings  hard  owre-hip,  wi"  sturdy  wheel. 

The  strong  lore-hammer, 
Till  !)lock  an*  stu.lilie  ring  and  reel 

Wi'  diusome  clamour." 

Again,  however,  he  sinks  into  humour,  and 
toncludes  the  poem  with  the  tVllowlng  most 
Uughdble,  but  must  irreverent  apostrophe; 

"*  Scotland,  my  auld,  respected  mither  ! 
yiiiMigh  'vhyles  yt  •.^ol^t;'y  V"J''  le.ilher, 
"I'ili  where  j'ou  sit,  on  er.ips  o'  heatJiur, 
Ye  tine  your  dam 


whim,"  had  left  his  bed  in  the  town  of  Ayr, 
and  wandered  out  a!one  in  the  darkness  anil  so- 
litude of  a  winter  night,  to  the  mouth  of  the 
river,  where  tlie  stillness  was  interrupted  only 
by  the  rushing  sound  of  the  influx  of  the  tide. 
It  was  after  miilnight.  The  Di.tigeoii-clock 
had  struck  two,  ami  the  sound  had  heen  re- 
peated by  Wallace  Tower.  All  eUe  was  husheiL 
The  moon  shone  brightly,  and 

"  The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 
Crept,  gently-crusting,  o'er  theglittering  stream." 

In  this  situation,  the  listening  bard  hears  the 
"  clanging  sugh"  of  wings  moving  through  the 
air,  and  spi-eilily  he  perceives  two  be  iigs.  reaied, 
tlie  one  on  the  Old,  the  other  on  the  New  liriilge, 
whose  form  and  attire  he  describes,  and  whos« 
conveisation  with  each  other  he  reheaiseii. 
These  genii  cuter  into  a  comp.irlsoa  of  the  re- 
spective edifices  over  wh'ch  they  preside,  and  af- 
terwards, as  is  usual  bi'tween  the  old  and  young, 
compare  modern   characters  and   maiir.ers  with 


th-jse  of  •'i.-t  t.mes. 


The 


liliei 


l>e  <:i- 


•  I'UiiiiS  3  a'.—  iilc-iiavuiueiit. 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


9i 


pci'ted,  ami  ts4Jt  and  scold  each  otlior  in  liroad 
8i-(iti-h.  Tliis  c'onver-atlon,  whlcli  is  corfaiiily 
hui;;cirou5,  may  l)t'  consldciLiI  as  a  propL'r  l)rl^i- 
ness  of  the  poein.  As  the  debate  i  iiii<!  hitjh,  and 
tiireateiis  serious  cdiisocjueiiccs,  all  at  once  it  is 
interrupted  by  a  new  scene  of  wonders  : 


;ill  before  their  si;;ht 


A  fiii  V  train  appcar'd  in  order  bri;fht  ; 
Arlown  the  !;litterin!;  stream  they  fiMtly  danced  ; 
Firiiiht  to  the  moon  thoir  vaiioiis  dres<es glanced  ; 
ThfV  'iKiti'd  o'er  the  wat'ry  i;I.iss  so  neat, 
The  inf  int  ice  scarce  l)Liit  beneath  thuir  feet  ; 
Willie  arts  of  minstrelsy  anions;  them  rung, 
Ami  siiul-ennoliled  Bards  heroic,  ditties  sung," 


*  The  Genius  of  the  Strciim  in  front  appears, 
A  venerable  chief,  advMnce(l  in  years; 
Ills  lio.irv  head  wltli  water-lilies  crown'd. 
Ills  manly  'eg  with  girter  tan^de  bound." 

Next  follow  a  number  of  other  allegorical  be- 
ings, among  whom  are  the  four  seasons,  Rural 
Joy,  Plenty,  Hospitality,  and  Courage. 

"  Benevolence,  with  mllil  Iienignaiit  air, 
A  female  form,  c ime  from  the  tow'is  of  Stair  : 
Learnin;j  and  Worth  in  etjual  measures  trode, 
Fiom  simple  Catrine,  theU'  iong-luved  abode: 
Last,  white-robed  Peace,   crown'd  with  a  hazci 

wreath. 
To  rustle  Agriculture  did  befpieath 
The  broken  iron  in^ti  iimenr  of  Death  ; 
At  sight  of  whom  our   Sprites  forgit  their  kin- 

dlmg  wrath." 

This  poem,  iriegul  ir  and  imperfect  as  it  is, 
displays  various  and  powerful  talents,  and  may 
gerve  to  illustrate  th.euenius  of  Burns.  In  par- 
ticular, it  affords  a  striking  instance  of  his  being 
carried  beyond  bis  original  purpose  by  the  pow- 
ets  of  imaglnaticm. 

In  Fergnsson's  poem,  the  Pluhisianes  and 
Caiisewny  contrast  the  churrctei's  of  the  rilffer- 
ent  persons  who  walked  upon  them  Burns 
probably  conceived,  that,  by  a  dlah'gue  lictween 
the  Old  anil  New  Bridge,  he  might  form  a  hu- 
morous contrast  between  ancient  and  modern 
manners  in  the  town  of  Avr.  Such  a  dialogue 
could  only  be  sujiposed  to  pass  in  the  stillness  of 
nlgiit ;  and  this  led  our  poet  into  a  description 
of  a  midnight  scene,  which  excited  in  a  high 
degree  the  powers  of  his  imagination.  During 
tl.o  whole  dialogue  the  scenery  is  present  to  his 
fancy,  and  at  length  it  sug.;ests  to  him  a  fairy 
dance  of  aerial  beings,  under  the  beams  of  the 
noon,  by  which  the  wrath  of  the  Genii  of  the 
Briijs  of  Ayr  is  appeased. 

Incongruous  as  the  different  parts  of  this  poem 
are,  it  is  not  an  incom.;ruity  that  displeises  ;  and 
«'e  have  only  to  regret  tiia'  tne  poet  did  not  be- 
Uow  a  little  pains  in  making  the  figures  more 
correct,  and  in  smoothing  the  veisitidtiim. 

The  ei^istlei*  of  Burns,   in  which   may  be   in- 


cludeil  his  Dcilicnt'ion  to  G.  H.  Hs:^  discover 
like  his  other  writings,  the  powers  of  i  superiol 
understanding.  Tliey  display  deep  insight  into 
human  nature,  a  gay  ami  happy  strain  of  rellec- 
turn,  great  indepenLence  of  sentiment,  and  ge- 
nerosity of  heart.  The  Jlul/owcen  of  linnis  i] 
free  from  every  objecti  in.  It  is  interesting  n^it 
merely  from  its  humorous  description  of  miniiers, 
but  as  it  records  the  spells  and  charms  used  oa 
the  celebration  of  a  festival,  now,  even  in  Scot- 
land, filling  into  neglect,  but  which  was  once 
observed  over  the  greater  jiart  of  ]?ritain  and 
Irelanil.  These  charms  are  siip))oscd  to  alT.ini 
an  insight  into  futurity,  especially  on  the  sub- 
ject of  marriage,  the  most  interesting  event  of 
rural  life.  In  the  Hnllmucen,  a  female,  in  |)er- 
forminr  one  of  the  spells,  has  occasion  to  go  out 
by  mnonllght  to  dip  her  shift-slccve  into  a  stieain 
rniinitKj  townril.-i  the  South.  It  was  not  ne- 
cessary for  Burns  to  give  a  description  of  this 
stream.  But  it  was  the  character  of  his  ardent 
mind  to  pour  forth  not  merely  what  the  occasion 
required,  but  what  it  admitted  ;  and  the  teinj)- 
tatlon  to  describe  so  beautiful  a  natural  object 
by  moonlight,  was  not  to  be  resisted — 

"  Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays, 
As  through  the  glen  it  wimpi't  ; 
Wliyles  round  the  rocky  scar  it  strays; 

\VliyIes  in  a  wlel  it  diuipl't  ; 
Whyles  glitter'd  to  the  nightly  rays, 

\Vi'  bickering  ilincing  (hizzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  unilerneith  the  braes, 
Beneath  the  spreading  hazel. 

Unseen  that  nigl'.t. 

Those  who  understand  tlie  Scottish  dialect 
will  allow  this  to  be  one  of  the  finest  instances 
of  description  which  the  records  of  poetry  atF():d. 
In  pastoral,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  In 
rural  poetry  of  a  serious  nature.  Burns  excelled 
eqii..*y  as  i:i  that  of  a  humorMus  kind,  and,  using 
less  of  the  Scottish  dialect  in  his  serious  poems, 
be  becomes  moie  generally  intelligible  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  decide  whether  the  .idJic^s  to  a  Muuse 
whose  nest  was  turned  up  with  //ieju/o'//,//,  should 
be  considered  as  serious  or  comic.  Be  this  as 
it  may,  the  pnein  is  one  of  the  ha  'piest  anl 
most  finished  of  his  productions.  If  we  smile 
at  the  '•  bickering  brattle"  of  this  little  flying 
aniiiial,  it  is  a  smile  of  tendei  iiess  and  pity. 
The  descriptive  part  is  admirable  :  tlie  iiioi  jl  re- 
flections beautiful,  and  aiising  dliectly  out  of  the 

'occasion;  and  iri  the  cuncluslmi  there  is  a  deep 

■  melancholy,  a  sentiment  of  doubt  and  dread, 
that  arises  to  the  suliliine.     The   A<l,ircss  to  a 

I  Jiloiiiit'iin  Dnisy,  turned  il'iK'n  with  the  pfouiih, 
is  a  poem  of  the  same  nature,  tlioi,,li  somewhat 
inferior  in  poiiit  of  originality,  as  well  as  in  the 
interest  produced.  To  extract  our  of  incideiiU 
so  common,  and  .seemingly  so  trivial  as  thi-se, 
>.o  tine  J  tran;  of  M;i:*imei:*  <trid  iuiagcry.  i>  th« 
surest  proof,  as  well  as  the  nnst  brilliant  triumph, 
of  origin  il  genius.       The   Vision,  in  two  tanto-i 

,  from  which  a  beautiful  e.vtract  ii  taken  bv  .Mr 


92 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


Mackenzie,  '/n  the  9''tli  numbcT  of  tlie  Latinner, 
is  a  pnein  of  gre.it  anil  various  excelli-nce.  The 
orienin<j,  in  which  the  poet  describes  his  own 
stiti;  of  minil,  retiriiis;  ia  the  evening,  wearied, 
from  the  labours  of  the  day,  to  moralize  on  his 
conduct  and  prospects,  is  truly  interestins;.  The 
ch:inil)er,  if  we  may  so  term  it,  in  which  he  sits 
down  to  muse,  is  an  exqui-ite  painting: — 

"  ll:cre,  lanely.  by  tlie  infjJe  cheek, 
I  sat  and  eyed  the  spewinLj  reek. 
That  fill'd  wi'  hoasr-prov  king  sme  k 

That  auld  clay  biggin  ; 
An'  heard  the  restless  rations  squeak 

About  the  riggiu. " 

To  reconcile  to  our  imagination  the  entrance 
of  an  aerial  being  into  a  mansion  of  this  kind, 
required  the  powers  of  Burns — he,  however,  suc- 
ceeds. Coi'.a  enters,  and  her  countenance,  atti- 
tude, and  dress,  unlike  those  of  other  spiritual 
oeings,  are  distinctly  portrayed.  To  the  painting 
Dn  her  mantle,  on  which  is  depicted  the  most 
strikitig  scenery,  as  well  as  the  nu)>t  distinguished 
cliariclt-rs,  of  his  nttive  country,  some  exceptions 
may  be  mide.  The  mantle  of  Coda,  like  the  cup 
of  Tiiyrsis,  *  and  the  shield  of  Achilles,  is  too 
murli  crowded  with  figures,  and  some  of  the  ob- 
jects represented  upon  it  are  scarcely  admissible, 
according  to  the  principles  of  design.  The  ge- 
nerous temperament  of  Burns  led  him  into  these 
exulicrances.  In  his  second  edition  he  enlarged 
the  nuiidier  of  figures  originally  introduced,  that 
he  might  include  objects  to  wiiiih  he  was  at- 
tached by  senf. meats  of  affection,  giit  tude,  (U' 
pati  iotisin.  The  second  Diian,  or  canto  of  this 
poem,  in  which  Coila  describes  her  own  nature 
and  occupations,  pai  ticularly  her  superintendence 
of  his  infant  genius,  and  in  which  she  reconciles 
him  to  the  character  of  a  bard,  is  un  elevated  and 
solenm  strain  ol  poetry,  ranking  in  all  respects, 
excepting  the  harmony  of  nuud»ers,  with  the 
higher  productim.s  of  tlie  English  muse.  The 
concluding  stauz.i,  comp  ired  with  that  already 
quoteii,  will  show  to  what  a  height  Burns  rises 
in  this  puein,  from  the  uoint  at  wliich  he  set 
out   — 

"  And  irear  thmi  thi^ — she  solemn  said, 
And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head  ; 
The  poli.sh'd  leaves,  and  berries  red, 

iJld  rustling  play  ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thougnt,  she  fled 

Id  light  away." 

In  various  poems  Burns  has  exhibited  the  pic- 


ture of  a  mind 


th. 


e  deep   impressKMis  of 


real  sorrow.  Tlic  I.iiinenf,  the  O'le  to  Jiniti, 
Drxjmndtiirii,  .ind  Winter,  a  Dinje,  are  of  this 
character.  In  the  first  of  these  poems  the  eighth 
*tanz.i,  which  describes  a  Bleepless  night  from 
ftiinuisli  (.f  mind,  is  particularly  striking.  Burns 
often  indulgui  in  those  luelancliolv  views  of  the 

•  Sec  the  lirtt  hli/Hlum  of  Theocritus.  I 


nature  anil  condition  of  man,  which  are  so  ron. 
genial  to  the  temperament  of  sensibility.  Th» 
])oeni  entitled  Munu-as  made  to  Movrn,  a/Totdt 
an  instance  of  this  kind,  and  The  Wnler  Niuht 
is  of  the  same  description.  The  laii ;  is  highly 
characteristic,  both  of  the  temper  of  mind,  and 
of  the  condition  of  Burns.  It  begins  with  a 
descri])tion  of  a  dreiidful  stiuni  on  a  niglit  in 
v.'in'er.  The  poet  represents  himself  as  lying  in 
bed,  and  listening  to  its  howling.  In  this  situ- 
atiun,  he  naturally  turns  his  thoughts  to  lh« 
nurie  *  Cuttle,  dnd  the  mlli/f  S/ieep.  exposed  to 
all  the  violence  uf  the  tempest.  Having  lament- 
ed their  fate,  he  proceeds  in  thi;  following  :  — 

"  Ilk  happing  bird — wee  helpless  thing  ! 
That  in  the  mei  ry  months  o'  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  coines  o'  thee  ."' 
Wharc  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittei  ing  wing, 

An'  close  thy  e'e  ? 

Other  reflections  of  the  same  nature  occur  to 
his  mind  ;  and  as  the  midnight  moon,  "  muf- 
fled with  clouds,"  casts  her  dreary  light  on  his 
window,  thoughts  of  a  darker  and  moie  me- 
lundiidy  nature  crowd  upon  hlni.  In  this  state 
of  mind,  he  hears  a  voice  pouring  through  the 
gloom,  a  solemn  and  plaintive  strain  of  reflec- 
tion. The  mourner  compares  the  fury  of  the 
elements  v.'ith  that  of  man  to  his  brotht  r  ma"l, 
and  finds  the  former  light  in  the  balance. 

"  See  stern  Oppressicm's  iron  gitp, 

Or  ma<l  Ainbitiou's  gory  hand. 
Sending,  like  bluoil-houiids  from  the  slip. 

Woe,  want,  and  inuider,  o'er  the  laud." 

He  pursues  this  train  of  reflection  through  £ 
vaiiity  of  ))  irtiiulars,  in  the  course  uf  which  he 
introduces  the  following  animated  apostrophe  :— - 

"  O  ye  !   who  sunk  in  beds  of  down, 

Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create. 

Think,  for  a  moiiient,  on  his  wretched  fate, 

Whom  friends  and  ftirtiine  quite  disown  ! 
Ill-satisfy'd  keen  Niiture's  dain'rous  call, 

Strett  h'd  on   his  straw  be  lays  him   down  tc 
sleep, 
While  thro'  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wail. 

Chill  o'er  his  sluinbeis  jiiles  the  drifty  heap.* 

The  strain  of  sentiment  which  runs  through 
this  poem  is  noble,  thounh  the  execution  is  un- 
equal, and  the  versification  is  defective. 

Among  the  serious  poems  of  Burns,  Tf'i 
Ciittcr'x  Satiirdai/  Nit/fil  is  perhaps  entitled  to 
the  first  rank.  77/e  I'urnier's  /n;,le  of  Feigui 
son  evidently  suggested  the  plan  of  this  poem, 
as  has  been  already  mentioui  rl  ;  but  alter  the 
))l.in  was  formed,    Burns   trusted  entirely  to   his 

•  Oi.ijc,  out-lying.  Ourif  Cd///r,  Cattle  that  arc  un. 
housed  all  wniter. 

1  Sill;/  is  in  ilus,  as  ir  olnor  pheei,  a  term  of  con* 
passion  and  eiiileariiu'nL 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


92 


own  jinwcrs  for  flie  t-xociitioii.  !■"(  rpjiKsoii's 
]ioi'iii  is  i-iTtainlv  very  licMiitifiil.  It  lias  all  tlie 
Ehatiiis  wliiih  Hepi'inl  on  rural  cliaractrrs  and 
inainiLTS  liappily  portrayed,  and  exhibited  under 
ciii'unistiiiiees  highly  £);rateful  to  the  imagination. 
Tlia  Ftirnur'a  Ini/le  liegins  with  describing  the 
return  of  evening.  The  toils  of  the  day  are  over, 
and  the  farmer  retires  to  his  comfortable  fire- 
giJe.  The  reception  which  he  and  his  men-ser- 
vants receive  from  the  carefid  hotise-wife,  is 
jileasiiigly  described.  After  *heir  supper  is  over, 
they  begin  to  talk  on  the  rural  events  of  the  day. 

"  'Rout  kirk  and  market  eke  tlieir  tales  gae  on, 
How  Jock  woo'd  Jenny  here  to  be  his  bride  ; 

And  there  how  Marian  for  a  bastard  son, 
l^pon  the  cutty-f-tool  was  forced  to  ride. 

The  waefu'  scauld  o'  our  Jilcss  John  to  bide. 

The  "  Guidamc"  is  next  introduced  as  forming 
a  circle  round  the  fire,  in  the  midst  of  her  grand- 
children, and  while  she  spins  from  the  rock, 
and  the  spindle  ]ilays  on  btr  "  russet  lap,"  she 
is  relating  to  the  )  oung  ones  tales  of  witches  and 
ghosts.     The  poet  exclaims, 

*'  O  mock  na  this  my  friends  !  but  rather  mourn. 
Ye  in  life's  brawest  spring  wi'  reason  clear, 

VVi'  eild  our  idle  fancies  a'  return. 

And  dim  our  dolef':'  days  wi'  bairnly  foar ; 

The  mind's  aye  cradl'd  when  the  grave  is  near." 

In  the  meantime  the  farmer,  wearied  with  the 
fatigues  of  the  day,  stretches  himself  at  length 
on  the  sett!e,  a  sort  of  rustic  couch,  which  ex- 
tends on  one  side  of  the  fire,  and  the  cat  and 
house-dog  leap  upon  it  to  receive  his  caresses. 
Here,  resting  at  his  ease,  he  gives  liis  directions 
to  his  men-servants  for  the  succeeding  day. 
The  house-wife  follows  his  example,  and  gives 
her  orders  to  the  maidens.  By  degrees  the  oil 
in  the  cruise  begins  to  fail  ;  the  fire  runs  low  ; 
bleep  steals  on  his  rustic  group  ;  and  they  move 
off  to  enjoy  their  peaceful  slumbers.  The  poet 
concludes  by  bestowing  his  blessing  on  the 
"  h'jsbandman  and  all  his  tribe." 

This  is  an  original  and  truly  interesting  pas- 
toral. It  possesses  every  thing  required  in  this 
species  of  composition.  We  might  have  perhaps 
eaid,  every  thing  that  it  admits,  had  not  Bums 
written  his  Cotter's  Saturday  N'lylit. 

The  cottager  returning  fiom  his  labours,  has 
ao  servants  to  accompany  him,  to  partake  of  liis 
fare,  or  to  receive  his  instructions.  The  circle 
wliich  le  joins,  is  composed  of  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren only  ;  and  if  it  admits  of  less  variety,  it  af- 
fortls  an  opportunity  for  representing  scenes  that 
more  strongly  interest  the  affections.  The 
roungcr  children  running  to  meet  him,  and 
llanibering  round  his  knee  ;  the  elder,  returning 
from  their  weekly  labours  with  the  neighbouring 
fanners,  dutifully  depositing  their  little  gains 
hlth  their  parents,  and  receiving  theii  fatlier's 
Dlessing  and  instructions  ;  the  incidents  of  \he 
courtship  of  Jenny,  their  eldest  daughce! ,   "  wo- 


man grown,"  are  circuiustapces  of  the  most  in, 
terestiiig  kind,  w  hicli  are  most  ha))pily  di-lijieat- 
ed  ;  and  after  their  fi i)(^,il  supper,  the  represeri- 
tati.in  of  these  humbler  cottagers  foruiing  a  wider 
circle  round  their  litirth,  and  uniting  in  the 
worship  of  God,  is  a  picture  the  mo^t  dceiily  af- 
fecting of  any  which  the  rural  muse  has  ever 
presented  to  the  view.  Burns  was  admiiably 
adapted  to  this  delineation.  Like  all  men  of 
genius  he  was  of  the  tenipeiament  of  devotion, 
and  the  powers  of  memory  co-o|)eraied  in  thi» 
instance  with  the  sensibility  of  his  heart,  and 
the  fervour  of  his  iniagination.  The  Colter's 
Saturday  Night  is  tender  and  moral,  it  is  so- 
lemn and  devotional,  and  rises  at  length  in  a 
strain  of  grandeur  and  sublimity,  which  modern 
Iioetry  has  not  surpassed.  The  noble  sentiments 
of  patriotism  with  which  it  concludes,  corres- 
pond with  the  rest  of  the  poem.  In  no  age  or 
country  have  the  pastoral  muses  breathed  such 
elevittd  accents,  if  the  Messiah  of  Pope  be  ex- 
cepted, which  is  indeed  a  pastoral  in  form  onlv. 
It  is  to  he  regretted  that  Burns  did  nut  em])loy 
his  genius  on  other  subjects  of  the  same  nature, 
which  the  manners  and  customs  of  the  Scottish 
peasantry  would  have  amiily  su])])Iied.  Such 
poetry  is  not  to  be  estimated  by  the  degree  of 
pleasure  which  it  bestows  ;  it  sinks  deeply  into 
the  heart,  and  is  calculated,  fir  beyond  any  otluT 
human  means,  for  giving  ]iermanenre  to  the 
scenes  and  the  chaiactets  it  so  exiiulsitcly  de- 
sciibes. 

Before  we  conclude,  it  will  be  proper  to  of- 
fer a  few  observations  on  the  lyric  proiluctions 
of  Burns.  His  compositions  of  this  kind  are 
chiefly  songs,  generally  in  the  Scottish  dialect, 
and  always  after  the  model  of  the  Scottish  songs, 
on  the  general  character  and  moral  infiiience  of 
which,  some  observations  have  ulreadv  been  of- 
fered. We  may  hazard  a  few  moie  ]iarticular 
remarks. 

Of  the  historic  or  heroic  ballads  of  Scotland 
it  is  unnecessary  to  speak.  Burns  has  no  where 
imitated  them,  a  circumstance  to  be  regretted, 
since  in  this  species  of  composition,  from  its  ad- 
mitting the  more'  terrible,  as  well  as  the  softer 
graces  of  poetry,  he  was  eminently  (pialilicd  to 
have  excelled.  The  Scottish  songs  which  ser- 
ved as  a  model  to  Burns,  are  almost  without 
exception  pastoral,  or  rather  rural.  Such  of 
them  as  are  comic,  fiequently  treat  of  a  rustic 
courtship,  or  a  country  wedding;  or  they  de- 
scribe the  differences  of  opinion  which  arise  in 
married  life.  Burns  has  imitated  this  species, 
and  surpassed  his  models.  The  song  beginning 
"  Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife,"  may  !« 
cited  in  support  of  this  observation.  *    His  other 


»  The  (lialo£jurs  between  husbands  anil  their  wives 
wliieli  form  tlie  subjects  of  the  Scotlisli  sonj^s,  are  al 
most  all  ludicrous  and  s;itirjcal,  and  in  llicse  ci>iitest« 
the  lady  is  generjlly  viclorious.  From  the  <'ollcetioni 
of  Mr.  Pnikerton,  we  finil  that  tlieioinie  muse  of  Scot' 
land  ilcli^htcd  in  such  reiirescntations  from  very  early 
times,  in  her  rude  dramatic  eli'orts,  as  well  as'inhel 
rustic  son^s. 


i)4 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


comic  soni^s  are  of  equal  merit.  In  the  rural 
songs  of  Scotland,  whether  humorous  or  ten- 
der, the  sentiments  are  given  to  particular  cha- 
racters, and  very  generally,  the  incidents  are 
referred  to  particular  scenery.  This  last  cir- 
cumstance may  be  considered  as  a  distinguish- 
ing feature  of  the  Scottish  scngs,  and  on  it  a 
cousiHerable  part  of  their  attraction  depends. 
On  all  occasions  the  sentiments,  of  whatever 
nature,  are  delivered  in  the  character  of  the  per- 
son ])rincipa.ly  interested.  If  love  be  described, 
it  is  not  as  it  is  observed,  but  as  it  is  felt;  and 
the  passion  is  delineated  under  a  particular  as- 
pect. Neither  is  it  the  fiercer  impulses  of  de- 
sire that  are  expressed,  as  in  the  celebrated  ode 
of  Sappho,  the  model  of  so  many  modern  songs  ; 
but  those  gentler  emotions  of  tenrlerness  and  af- 
fect'on,  which  do  not  entirely  absorb  the  lover; 
but  permit  him  to  associate  his  emotions  with 
the  charms  of  external  nature,  and  breathe  the 
accents  of  purity  and  innocence,  as  well  as  of 
love.  In  these  respects  the  love-songs  of  Scot- 
land are  honourably  di^tinguished  from  the 
most  admired  classical  compositions  of  the  same 
kiml  ;  and  by  such  associations,  a  variety  as 
well  as  Iivelines.s,  is  given  to  the  representation 
of  this  passion,  which  are  not  to  be  found  in 
the  poetry  of  Greece  or  Rome,  or  perhaps  of 
any  other  nation.  Many  of  the  love-songs  of 
Scotland  describe  scenes  of  rural  courtship ; 
many  may  be  considered  as  invocations  from 
lovers  to  their  mistresses.  On  such  occasions 
a  degree  of  interest  and  realily  is  given  to  the 
Reiitiment,  by  the  spot  destined  to  these  happy 
interviews  being  particularized.  The  lovers 
perhaps  meet  at  the  liunh  aboon.  Traquair,  or 
on  the  Slinks  of  Elirick  ;  the  nymphs  are  in- 
voice:! to  wander  among  the  wilds  of  Jioslin  or 
trie  Woofls  of  Invcrmay.  Nor  is  the  spot  mere- 
ly pointed  out ;  the  scenery  is  often  described 
as  well  as  the  character,  so  as  to  represent  a 
complete   picture    to    the    fancy.  *      Thus    the 


»  One  or  two  examples  may  illustrate  this  observa- 
tion. A  Scottish  song,  wriiten  about  a  hundred  years 
ago,  begins  thus: — 

"  On  Ettrick  Banks,  on  a  summer's  night 
At  gluaiiiing,  when  the  sheep  drove  harne 
1  met  iTiy  lassie,  braw  and  tiplH, 
Come  wading  baretbot  a'  her  lane. 

Mv  Heart  prow  lisht,  I  ran,  T  flang 

My  .irms  about  her  Ijly-neck, 
All!  kissed  and  ela-ipcd  there  fu'  lang— 

.My  words  they  were  na  mouy  feck." 

The  lover,  who  is  a  Highlander,  Roes  on  to  relate 
the  language  he  employrd  with  his  Lowland  maid  to 
win  her  hrart,  and  to  persuade  her  to  fly  with  him  to 
Ihf  lligl  laud  hills  Ihire  to  share  his  fortune.  The 
sc'iriinents  are  in  thMnsehcs  beaiiiiiul.  U;it  we  feel 
tluni  "lib  double  force,  while  we  coneiive  ijiat  they 
Wire  ;iildre>sed  by  a  lover  to  his  mistress,  whom  he 
■iifjt  all  alniic-  on  a  summer's  evening,  by  the  banks  of 
a  beautiful  stream,  which  some  of  us  have  nciiirdly 
Been,  and  which  all  of  us  can  paint  to  our  hr.aglnaiion. 
Let  u~  take  annilier  exauijile.  It  is  now  a  nymph  that 
ipeaks.     Mere  how  she  expresses  herself— 

"  How  hlyihe  each  mom  was  I  to  sec  ' 
Mv  twain  come  o'er  thi-  lull  I 


maxim  of  Horace,  ut  pi'cfurri  pnesix,  is  faithfnt> 
ly  observed  by  these  rustic  bards,  who  are  guid- 
ed by  the  same  impulse  of  nature  and  sensibility 
which  influenced  the  fatliLT  of  epic  poetry,  on 
whose  example  the  precept  of  the  Roman  post 
was  perhaps  founded.  Bv  this  means  the  ima- 
gination is  employed  to  interest  tluj  feelingn. 
When  v.'e  do  not  conceive  distinctly,  we  do  not 
sympathize  deeply  in  any  human  affection  ;  and 
we  conceive  nothing  in  th.e  abstract.  Abstrac- 
tion, so  useful  in  morals,  and  so  essential  in 
science,  mu^t  be  ab.indoned  when  the  heart  is 
to  be  subdued  by  the  powers  of  poetry  or  of 
eloquence.  The  bards  of  a  ruder  condition  of 
society  paint  individual  objects  ;  and  hence, 
among  other  causes,  the  easy  access  they  obtain 
to  the  heart.  Generalization  is  the  voice  of 
poets,  whose  learning  overpov/ers  their  genius  ; 
of  poets  of  a  relined  and  scientific  age. 

The  dramatic  style  which  prevails  so  much 
in  the  Scottish  songs,  whne  it  contributes  great- 
ly to  the  interest  they  excite,  also  shows  that 
they  have  originated  among  a  people  in  the  ear» 
lier  stages  of  society.  Where  this  form  of  com- 
position appears  in  songs  of  a  modern  date,  it 
indicates  that  they  have  been  written  after  the 
ancient  model.  * 

The  Scottish  songs  are  of  verv  unequal  poe 
tical  merit,  and  this  inequality  often  extends  to 
the  different  parts  of  the  same  song.  Those  that 
are  humorous,  or  characteristic  of  manners, 
have  in  general  the  merit  of  copying  nature  ; 
those  that  are  serious  are  tender  and  often 
sweetly  interesting,  but  seldom  exhibit  luL^h 
powers  of  imagination,    which   indeed    do   nut 


He  skipt  the  bum,  and  flew  to  me, 
I  met  him  with  good  will." 

Here  is  another  picture  drav.Ti  by  the  pencil  of  Na- 
ture. \V  see  a  shepherdess  standing  by  the  side  of  a 
brook,  watching  her  lover,  .as  he  deseenils  the  opposite 
hill.  He  bounds  lighly  along;  he  appro -chs  nearer 
and  nearer;  he  leaps  tlie  brook,  and  flies  into  her 
arms.  In  the  recollection  of  these  circumstances,  the 
surrounding  scenery  becomes  endeared  to  the  fair 
mourner,  and  she  bursts  into  the  following  exclama- 
tion :— 

"  O  the  broom,  the  bonnie  bonnie  broom. 
The  broom  of  the  Cowden-knowes  ! 
I  wish  I  were  with  mv  dear  swain, 
Witli  his  pipe  and  his  ewes;" 

Thus  the  individual  spot  of  this  happy  interview  i> 
pointed  out,  and  the  picture  is  completed, 

*  Tliat  the  dramatic  form  of  writing  charactrrizci 
productions  of  an  early,  or  what  amounts  to  the  same, 
of  a  rude  st.ige  of  society,  may  be  illustrated  by  a  re- 
ference to  the  most  ancient  coiniiositions  that  wc  know 
of,  the  Hebrew  scriptures,  and  ihe  writings  of  Homer. 
The  form  of  dialogue  is  adopted  in  the  old  Scottish 
ballads,  even  in  nariation,  whi  nwcr  Ihe  situations  do. 
scribed  become  interes;ing  This  sometimes  pnxliiios 
a  very  striking  ctlcet,  of  which  an  instance  may  be 
given  from  the  ballad  of  Edoiit  o'  Conion,  a  compor.i- 
tion  aiirarently  of  the  sixteenih  eeutiirv.  The  s;o:y 
of  t":c  ballad  is  shortly  this:— Ihe  Cxstle  of  liholts 
in  tie  absence  of  its  lord,  is  aiiaeked  by  the  robber 
I'llom  Gordon.  1  he  lady  stands  in  her  deltuce,  beats 
oil' the  assailants,  and  wounds  liordon,  wlio  in  his  ra.;e 
orders  the  ciistle  to  be  set  on  fire.  Tli;it  his  orders  are 
CMiried  into  eti'eet,  we  learn  from  the  expostulation  ol 
Uiu  Luly,  uIk>  is  reprck'Utud  as  stajidini;  on  the  lulllti 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


95 


easily  finil  a  pl.ire  in  this  species  of  composition. 
The  alliance  of  the  Wdiils  of  the  Scottish  soiijjs 
witii  the  iiuisic  has  in  some  inst.incos  sjiven  to 
the  fiiiiier  a  pi)piil;irity,  which  otherwise  they 
would  iiev'cr  h;ive  obtained. 

Tl'.e  a;<sociation  of  the  words  and  the  music 
of  these  songs  with  the  more  beaiitiful  parts  of 
the  scenery  of  Scotland,  contrihutes  to  the  same 
I'ffi'ct.  It  lias  1,'iven  them  not  merely  popularity, 
but  pormineiice  ;  it  has  imparted  to  tlie  works 
of  mm  some  portion  of  the  durability  of  the 
works  of  nature.  If,  from  our  imperfect  expe- 
rience of  the  ])ast,  we  may  judge  with  any  con- 
fidence respecting  the  future,  songs  of  this  de- 
scription are  of  all  others  the  least  likely  to  die. 
In  the  changes  of  language  they  may  no  doubt 
Bufler  change  ;  but  the  associated  strain  of  sen- 
timent and  of  music  will  perhaps  survive,  while 
the  clear  stream  sweeps  down  the  vale  of  Yar- 
1  o\v,  or  the  yellow  broom  waves  on  the  Cowden- 
Knowes. 

The  first  attempts  of  Burns  in  song-writing 
were  not  very  successful.  His  habitual  inatten- 
tion to  the  exactness  of  rhymes,  and  to  the  har- 
mony of  numbers,  arising  probably  from  the 
models  on  which  his  versification  was  formtd, 
were  fiults  likely  to  appear  to  moie  advantage 
ill  this  species  of  composition,  than  in  any 
other  ;  and  we  may  al>o  remark,  that  the 
strength  of  his  imagination,  and  the  exuberance 
of  his  sensibility,  were  with  difficulty  restrained 
within  the  limits  of  gentleness,  delicacy  and 
tenderne-s,  which  seem  to  be  assitrned  to  the 
love-songs  of  his  nation.  Burns  was  better 
adapted  iiy  nature  fur  following  in  such  compo- 
sitions the  model  of  the  Grecian  than  of  the 
Scottish  muse.  By  study  and  practice  he  how- 
ever surmounted  all  these  obstacles.  In  his 
earlier  songs  there  is  some  ruggedness  ;  but  this 
gra<lually  disappears  in  his  successive  efforts  ; 
and  some  of  his  later  compositions  of  this  kind 
may  be  compared,  in  polished  delicacy,  with  the 
finest  songs  in  our  language,  while  in  the  elo- 
ijueiice  of  sensibility  they  surpass  them  all. 

The  songs  of  Burns,  like  the  models  he  fol- 
lowed and  excelled,  are  often  dramatic,  and  for 
the  greater  part  amatory  ;  and  the  beauties  of 
rural  nature  are  eveiy  where  associated  with 
the  passions  and   emotions  of  the  mind,     Dis- 


ments  an  I  remonstrating  on  this  barbarity.   She  is  in- 
terruptcil — 

"  O  tlicn  bcspake  hnr  little  son, 

!^ate  on  his  nooricc  knee; 
Says  '  [iiitlier  Juar,  ^i'  owre  this  house, 

Kor  tlie  reik  it  smiihers  me.' 
"  I  wail  Kie  .a'  my  go»d,  my  childc, 

Sae  wad  I  .V  my  tee, 
Fir  ae  hla^l  o'  the  «cstlin  wind. 

To  bldw  the  re-jk  Irae  thee." 

The  rircnmstaiitiality  of  the  Scottish  love-songs, 
^nd  thcdr.iiT'.atie  form  wliich  pre^ailss<)  generally  in 
them,  prulxibl)  arises  from  their  btiiiji  thedesCtmlaiiLs 
and  suft<.SM)rb  of  tlie  aiicieni  ballads.  In  the  beautiful 
modern  sung  of  Mary  of  CasVeCary,  ilie  dramatic 
form  has  h  very  happy  effect.  Tlie  same  mav  l)e  said 
3t  Uututid  and  Flaiu,  ;md  Cmne  under  my  Ptuidie,  by 
the  s*ije  iiuilior,  .Mr.  Maemel. 


daining  to  copy  the  works  of  others,  he  has  no», 
like  some  poets  of  great  name,  admitted  into  his 
descri|)tions  exotic  imagery.  The  landscapes 
he  has  painted,  and  the  objects  witli  which  they 
are  embellished,  are,  in  every  single  instancir, 
such  as  are  to  be  found  in  his  own  country.  la 
a  mountainous  region,  especially  when  it  is 
comjiaratively  rude  and  naked,  the  most  beauti- 
ful scenery  will  always  be  found  in  the  valley*, 
and  on  the  banks  of  the  wooded  streams.  Such 
scenery  is  peculiarly  interesting  at  the  close  of  a 
summer  day.  As  we  advance  northwards,  the 
number  of  the  days  of  summer,  indeed,  dimi- 
nishes ;  but  from  this  cause,  as  well  as  from  t\:i 
mildness  of  the  temperature,  the  attraction  in- 
creases, and  the  suminer  night  becomes  still 
more  beautiful.  The  greater  obli(iuity  of  the 
sun's  path  in  the  ecliptic,  prolongs  the  grateful 
season  of  twilight  to  the  midnight  hours,  and 
the  shades  of  the  evening  seem  to  mingle  with 
the  morning's  dawn.  The  rural  poets  of  Scot- 
land, as  may  be  eKpected,  associate  in  their 
songs  the  expression  of  passion,  with  the  most 
beautiful  of  their  scenery,  in  the  fairest  season 
of  the  year,  and  generally  in  those  hours  of  the 
evening  when  the  beauties  of  nature  are  most 
interesting. 

To  all  these  adventitious  circuinstanccs,  on 
which  so  much  of  the  effect  of  poetry  depends, 
great  attention  is  paid  by  Burns.  There  is 
scarcely  a  single  song  of  his  in  which  particnl  ii 
scenery  is  not  described,  or  allusious  maHe  tr 
natural  objects,  remarkable  for  beauty  or  inte- 
rest ;  and  though  his  descriptions  are  not  so  full 
as  are  sometimes  met  with  in  the  older  Scottish 
songs,  they  are  in  the  highest  degree  appropriate 
and  interesting.  Instances  in  proof  of  thi^ 
might  'oe  quoted  from  the  Lea  Rig,  Highland 
Mary,  the  Soldier's  Return,  Lugan  Water, 
from  that  beautiful  pastoral,  Ronnie  Jean,  and 
a  great  number  of  others.  Occasionally  the 
force  of  his  genius  carries  him  beyond  the  usjal 
boundaries  of  Scottish  song,  and  the  naturil 
objects  introduced  have  more  of  the  charactef 
of  sublimity.  An  instance  of  this  kind  is  no- 
ticed by  Mr.  Syme,  and  many  otheis  might  be 
adduced. 

"  Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore, 
Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  wave'a  dashioj 
roar  ; 
There  would  I  weep  my  woes. 
There  seek  my  lost  repose, 
Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close 
Ne'er  to  wake  more." 

In  one  song,  the  scene  of  which  is  laid  in  a 
winter  night,  the  "  wan  moou"  is  described  at 
"  setting  behind  the  white  waves  ;"  in  another, 
the  "  storms"  are  apostrophized,  and  command- 
ed to  "  rest  in  the  cave  of  their  slumbers."  On 
several  occasions,  the  genius  of  Burns  loses  si"ht 
entirely  of  his  archetypes,  and  rises  into  a  strain 
of  uniform  sub  imity.  Instances  of  this  kind 
appear  in  L'Mrti/,    a   Vision,   and  in  Lis  two 


96 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY 


irar-snntjs,  Urtice  to  his  troups,  and  the  So>^(f 
of  Dentil.  The-se  last  are  of  a  description  of 
whieh  we  have  no  other  in  our  lan^.iaf^e.  The 
martial  snngs  of  our  nation  are  not  military,  but 
naval.  If  we  were  to  seek  a  comparison  of 
these  soni^s  of  Burns  with  others  of  a  similar 
nature,  we  must  have  recoiiise  to  the  poetry  of 
ancient  Greece,  or  of  modern  Gaul. 

Burns  has  made  an  important  addition  to  the 
gongs  of  Scotland.  In  his  compositions,  the 
poetry  equals  an<l  sometimes  surpasses  the  mu- 
sic He  has  enlarged  the  poetical  scenery  erf  his 
country.  Many  of  her  rivers  and  mountains, 
formerly  unknown  to  the  muse,  are  now  conse- 
crated by  his  immortal  verse.  The  Doon,  the 
Lugar,  the  Ayr,  the  Nith,  and  the  Cluilen,  will 
in  future,  like  the  Yarrow,  the  Tweed,  and  the 
Tay,  be  considered  as  classic  streams,  and  their 
borders  will  be  trode  with  new  and  superior 
emotions. 

The  greater  part  of  the  songs  of  Burns  were 
written  after  he  removed  into  the  county  of 
Dumfries.  Influenced,  perhaps,  by  habits 
formed  in  early  life,  he  usually  composed  while 
walking  in  the  open  air.  M'hen  engaged  in 
writing  these  songs,  his  favourite  walks  were 
in  the  banks  of  the  Nith,  or  of  the  Cluden, 
partirularly  near  the  ruins  of  Lincluden  Abbey  ; 
and  this  beautiful  scenery  he  has  very  happily 
describeil  under  various  aspects,  as  it  a[ipears 
durmg  the  softness  and  serenity  of  evening,  and 
(luring  the  stillness  and  solemnity  of  the  moon- 
light night. 

There  is  no  species  of  poetry,  the  productions 
of  the  drama  not  excepted,  so  much  calculated 
to  influence  the  moials,  as  well  as  the  happiness 
of  a  people,  as  those  popular  verses  v,li;ch  are 
associated  with  the  national  airs,  and  which 
being  learnt  in  the  years  of  infmcy,  make  a 
deep  impression  on  the  heart  before  tlie  evolu- 
.ion  of  the  powers  ol  the  understanding.  The 
composilicuis  of  Burns,  of  this  kind,  now  pre- 
sented in  a  collected  form  to  the  world,  mike  a 
most  important  addition  to  the  popular  songs  of 
his  nation.  Like  all  his  other  writings,  they 
exhibit  independence  if  sentiment  ;  they  are 
peculiarly  calculated  to  increase  those  ties  which 
bind  generous  hearts  to  their  native  soil,  and  to 
the  domestic  circle  of  their  infancy :  and  to 
cherish  those  sensibilities  which,  under  due  re- 
striction, form  the  purest  happiness  of  our  na- 
ture. If  in  his  unguarded  moments  he  com- 
posed some  songs  on  which  this  praise  cannot 
be  bestowed,  let  us  hope  that  they  will  speedily 
be  hiigotten.  In  several  instances,  where  Scot- 
tish aira  were  allied  to  words  objectionable  in 
Doint  of  delicacy,  Burns  has  substituted  others 
of  a  purer  character-.  On  such  occasions,  %vith- 
DWl  changing  tlie  subject,  he  has  changed  the 
seui.imeuts.  A  proof  of  this  may  be  seen  in  the 
»lr  of  Jolin  Aitilerson  my  Joe,  whicl.  is  now 
united  to  words  that  breatlie  a  strain  of  conjugal 
teridernes'",  that  is  as  highly  moral  as  it  is  ex- 
quisitely urtcctiiig. 

Vu'v  circumk'iucea  could  uflfurd  a  more  strik- 


ing proof  of  the  strength  of  Burns's  gcr.ins,  that 
the  general  circulation  of  his  poems  in  England, 
notwithstanding  the  dialect  in  whic'-  the  great- 
er part  are  written,  and  which  miiju  be  sup- 
posed to  render  them  here  uncouth  or  obscure. 
In  some  instances  he  has  used  this  dialect  on 
subjects  of  a  sublime  nature  ;  but  in  general  be 
confines  it  to  sentiments  or  description  of  a 
tender  or  humorous  kind  ;  and,  where  he  rises 
into  elevation  of  thought,  he  assumes  a  purer 
English  style.  The  singular  faculty  he  pos- 
sessed of  mingling  in  the  same  poem  humorous 
sentiments  and  descriptions,  with  imagery  of  a 
sublime  and  terrific  nature,  enabled  biin  to  use 
this  variety  of  dialect  on  some  occasions  with 
striking  effect.  His  poem  of  Tnm  6"  Shanter 
alTords  an  instance  of  this.  There  he  passes 
from  a  scene  of  the  lowest  hunr.our,  to  situations 
of  the  most  awful  and  terrible  kind.  He  is  a 
musician  that  runs  from  the  lowest  to  the 
highest  of  his  keys;  and  the  u?.e  of  the  Scottish 
dialect  enables  him  to  add  two  additional  notes 
to  the  bottom  of  his  sca'e. 

Great  efforts  liave  been  made  by  the  inli.ibi- 
tants  of  Scotland,  of  the  superior  ranks,  to  ap- 
proximate in  their  speech  to  the  pure  English 
standard  ;  and  this  has  made  it  difficult  to  write 
in  the  Scottish  dialect,  without  exciting  in  them 
som.e  feelings  of  di-gust,  which  in  England  are 
scarcely  felt.  An  l:^ng!islmian  who  understand* 
the  meaning  of  the  Scottish  words,  is  not  af- 
fended,  nay,  on  certain  sutijects,  he  is  perhaps 
pleased  with  the  rustic  dialect,  za  Im  an?\-  \is 
with  the  Doric  Greek  of  Theocritus. 

But  a  Scotchman  inhabiting  his  own  coub- 
try,  if  a  man  of  education,  and  more  especially 
if  a  literary  character,  has  banis-lied  such  words 
from  his  writings,  and  has  attempted  to  banish 
them  from  his  s])cech  ;  and  being  accusionied 
to  hear  them  finm  the  vulgar  daily,  does  not 
easily  admit  of  their  use  in  poetry,  which  re- 
quires a  style  elevated  and  ornamental.  A  dis- 
like of  this  kind  is,  however,  accidental,  not  na- 
tural. It  is  of  the  species  of  disgust  which  we 
feel  at  seeing  a  female  of  high  birth  in  the  dress 
of  a  rustic  ;  which,  if  she  be  leally  young  and 
beautiful,  a  little  habit  will  enalile  us  to  over- 
come. A  lady  wlio  assumes  such  a  dress  putj 
her  beauty,  indeed,  to  a  severer  trial.  She  re- 
jects— she,  indeed,  opposes  the  influence  of  fa- 
shion ;  she,  possibly,  abandons  the  grace  of 
L'legant  and  flowing  drapery  ;  but  her  native 
charms  remain,  the  more  striking,  perhaps,  be- 
cause the  less  adorned  ;  and  to  these  she  tiusti 
for  fixing  her  emjiire  on  those  afl'rctlons  over 
which  fashion  has  no  sway.  If  sl.e  succeeds,  a 
new  association  arises.  The  dress  of  the  beau- 
tiful rustic  becomes  itself  beautiful,  and  estab- 
lishes a  new  fashion  for  the  young  and  the  gay. 
And  when,  in  after  ages,  the  contemplative  ob- 
server shidi  view  lier  picture  in  the  gallery  thai 
contains  the  portraits  of  the  beauties  of  succes- 
sive centuries,  each  in  the  dress  of  her  respec- 
tive day,  her  drapery  Mill  not  deviate,  mor* 
than  that  of  her  rivals,  fr  )in  the  fitundaid  of  hk 


ESSAY  UPON  SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


97 


teste,  anil  lie  will  tjii'e  flie  |),ilni  to  her  who  ex- 
Cb>!r  in  tlic  lineiiiiiLMits  of  n.iturc. 

liurns  wrote  iM-ofesscdly  for  the  peasantry  of 
hi*  coiiiiti  V,  anil  by  them  their  native  dialect  is 
universally  reli'^heil.  To  a  numerous  class  of 
the  natives  of  Scotland  of  another  desrrijjtion, 
it  may  nUo  I.e  eon-^idered  as  attractive  in  a  dif- 
ferent point  of  view.  Estranged  from  their 
native  soil,  and  sjiread  over  foreii^n  lands,  the 
idiom  of  their  country  unites  with  the  senti- 
ments and  the  descripticms  on  which  it  is  em- 
plovtNl,  to  recall  to  their  minds  the  interestinp; 
scenes  of  infaiicv  anil  youth — to  awaken  many 
pleasinc;,  niaiiy  tender  recollections.  Literary 
men,  residing  at  Edinbnrt;h  or  Aberdeen,  can- 
not jiidf{e  on  this  point  for  one  hundred  and 
fil'tv  thousand  of  their  expatriated  countrymen. 

To  the  u>e  of  the  Scottish  dialect  in  one  spe- 
cies of  poetrv,  tlie  composition  of  songs,  the  taste 
of  the  public  has  been  for  some  time  reconciled. 
The  dialect  in  question  excels,  as  has  already 
been  observed,  in  tiie  copiousness  and  exactness 
of  its  terms  for  natural  objects  ;  and  in  pastoral 
or  rural  songs,  it  gives  a  Doric  simplicity,  which 
is  very  generallv  approved.  Neither  does  the 
regret  seem  well  founded  which  some  persons  of 
taste  have  expressed,  that  ISurns  used  this  dia- 
lect in  so  many  other  of  his  compositions.  His 
declared  purpose  was  to  jjaint  the  manners  of 
rustic  life  aniiuig  his  "  humble  compeers,"  and 
it  is  not  easy  to  conceive,  that  this  could  have 
been  done  with  eipial  humour  and  effect,  if  he 
had  not  adopted  their  idiom.  There  are  some, 
indeed,  who  will  think  the  suliject  too  low  for 
poetry.  Persons  of  this  sickly  taste  will  find 
their  delicacies  con>ulted  in  many  a  polite  and 
learned  author;  let  them  not  seek  for  gratifica- 
tion in  the  rough  and  vigorous  lines,  in  the  ua- 
l)ridled  humour,  or  in  the  overpowering  sensi- 
bility of  this  bard  of  nature. 

To  determine  the  comparative  merit  of  Burns 
would  be  no  easy  task.  Many  persons  after- 
warils  distinguished  in  literature,  have  been 
from  in  as  humble  a  situation  of  life  ;  but  it 
r9u.d  be  difBcu-t  to  &utl  auy  other  who  while 


earning  his  subsistence  by  daily  ia>"'.ir,  has 
writteu  verses  which  have  attracted  tod  re- 
tained universal  attention,  and  which  are  likely 
to  give  the  author  a  perniatient  .and  distinguish- 
ed place  among  the  followers  of  the  muses.  I| 
he  is  deficient  in  grace,  he  is  distinguished  for 
case  as  well  as  energy  ;  and  these  are  indica- 
tions of  the  higher  order  of  genius.  The  father 
of  epic  poetry  exhibits  ime  of  his  heroes  as  ex- 
celling in  strength,  another  in  swiftness — to 
form  his  perfect  warrior,  these  atfiibutes  ire 
cond)ined.  Every  species  o'  intellectual  supe- 
riority admits,  perhaps,  of  a  limil.ir  arrange- 
ment. One  writer  excels  in  torci.' — another  in 
ease;  he  is  superior  to  them  both,  in  whom 
both  these  qualities  are  united.  Of  Homer 
himself  it  may  be  said,  that  like  his  own  Acliil 
les,  he  sur))asses  his  competitors  iu  mobility  as 
well  as  strength. 

The  force  of  Burns  lay  in  the  powers  of  his 
understanding,  and  in  the  sei.sibilitv  of  his 
heart;  and  these  will  be  found  to  infuse  the 
living  principle  into  all  the  works  of  genius 
which  seem  destined  to  immortality.  His  .sen- 
sibility had  an  uncommon  range.  He  was  a- 
live  to  every  species  of  emotion.  He  is  one 
of  the  few  poets  that  can  be  mentioned,  who 
have  at  once  excelled  in  humour,  in  tenderness, 
and  in  sublimity  ;  a  pr.iise  iiiiUiunvn  to  the  an- 
cients, and  which  in  modern  times  is  only  dun 
to  Ariosto,  to  Shakspeare,  and  perhaps  to  Vol. 
taire.  To  compare  the  writings  of  the  Scottish 
peasant  with  tlie  works  of  these  giants  in  liter- 
ature, might  appear  presumiifiions  ;  yet  it  may 
be  asserted  that  he  has  dispLiyeil  the  font  <J 
Hercules.  How  near  be  might  have  approach- 
ed them  by  proper  culture,  with  lengthened 
years,  and  under  happier  auspices,  it  is  nut  for 
us  to  calcul.ite.  But  while  we  run  over  the 
melancholy  story  of  his  life,  it  is  impossible  not 
to  heave  a  sigh  at  the  asperity  of  his  fortune  ; 
and  as  we  survey  tlie  records  of  his  mind,  it  ii 
easy  to  see,  that  out  of  such  matei  iaU  ha"e  bt-en 
reared  the  fairest  and  the  Uiint  durable  of  tlM 
tCr^numeats  cf  geniuii 


»d 


THE  SONGS. 


The  poetry  of  Burns  has  been  referred  to  as  one  of  the  causes  which 
prevented  the  Scottish  language  from  falling  into  disuse.  It  was  beginning 
to  be  disrontinued  as  vulgar,  even  as  the  medium  of  oral  connnunication  ; 
and  an  obvious  consequence  of  tliat  state  jf  the  public  taste  was,  that  the 
Scottish  songs,  sweetly  pathetic  and  expressive  as  many  of  them  are,  were 
not  fashionable,  but  rather  studiously  avoided.  The  publication  of  Ina 
poetry  changed  this  taste.  Burns,  followed  by  Scott,  not  merely  revived 
the  use  of  their  native  tongue  in  their  own  country,  but  gave  it  a  cur- 
rency in  the  polite  world  generally  :  an  effect  which  was  greatly  assisted  by 
Burns's  songs,  and  not  a  little  by  what  he  did  for  the  songs  of  his  prede- 
cessors. He  was  a  most  devoted  admirer  of  the  Ivrical  effusions  of  the 
olden  time,  and  became  a  diligent  collector  of  the  ancient  words,  as  well 
as  of  the  sets  of  the  music.  His  remarks,  historical  and  anecdotic,  upon 
the  se\cral  songs,  are  amusing  and  instructive;  and  where  there  were 
blanks  to  be  supplied,  he  was  ready  as  powerful  at  a  refit.  To  do  all  this^ 
find  at  same  time  to  double  the  stock  of  Scottish  songs,  was  no  small  task ; 
and  so  well  has  it  been  executed,  that  in  place  of  forming  the  amusement 
and  delight  of  the  Scots  only,  they  have  become  a  part,  nay,  have  taken 
the  lead,  of  the  lyrical  compositions  used,  and  in  fashion,  throughout  the 
British  dominions.  It  is  because  of  their  intrinsic  worth,  as  a  branch  of 
elegant  amusement,  that  we  have  given  the  whole  here,  presented  in  two 
distinct  parts  : — The  first  part  contains  the  songs  before  Burns,  with  tlie 
remarks,  by  which  he  has  so  felicitously  illustrated  them. — The  second 
pa/t  is  formed  of  his  own  songs,  and  which  are  now  Jirought  together,  in 
place  of  being  scattered  over,  and  mixed  with  the  prose  pieces,  as  hereto- 
fore — The  whole  forming  a  complete  collection  of  select  Scolhsh  Sotu/s, 
such  as  cannot  fail  to  be  acceptable  to  the  lovers  of  good  taste,  and  inno- 
cent amusement  in  every  country. 


100 


SELECT 


SCOTTISH  SONGS. 


TxK  poet  thus  writes  to  Mrs.  Diinlnp  : — •  I 
cad  an  old  grand- uncle,  with  whom  my  mo- 
ther lived  awhile  in  her  girlish  years;  the 
good  old  man,  for  such  he  was,  was  long 
blind  ere  he  died  ;  during  which  time,  his 
highest  enjoyment  was  to  sit  down  and  cry, 
while  my  mother  would  sing  the  simple  old 
song  of  Tht  Life  and  Age  of  Man.'  The 
song,  as  here  given,  was  taken  down  from  the 
recitation  of  the  puet's  mother,  who  had 
never  seen  a  printed  copy  of  it, — and  had 
learned  it  from  Imr  mother  in  early  youth.] 

THE  LIFE  AND  AGE  OF  MAN : 

Oil, 

A  SHORT  DESCRIPTION  OF  HIS  NATURE,   RISE 

AND   FALL,   ACCORDING   TO  THE  TWELVE 

MONTHS  OF  THE   YSAR. 

ruM— "UleofKell." 

Upon  the  sixteen  hunder  year, 

of  God  arici  tifty  three, 
Frae  Chii>t  was  horn,  that  bought  us  deaii 

as  writings  testitie  ; 
On  January  the  sixteenth  day, 

as  I  did  ly  alone. 
With  many  a  sigh  and  sob  did  say. 

Ah  !    Miu  is  made  tu  moan. 

Dame  Natur,  that  excellent  bride, 

did  stand  up  me  before. 
And  said  to  me,  thou  must  provide 

this  life  for  to  abhor  : 
Thou  seeit  what  things  are  gone  before, 

experience  teaches  thee  ; 
Yet  do  not  miss  to  remember  this, 

that  one  day  thiiu  must  die. 

Of  all  the  creatures  hearing  life 

recall  back  to  thy  mind, 
Consider  liow  they  ehh  and  flow, 

each  thing  in  their  own  kind  ; 
Ifet  few  of  tiiem  h  ive  such  a  strain, 

at  God  hath  given  to  thee  ; 
Therefore  thi>  lesson  keep  in  mind,— 

lemcmber  man  tu  die. 


Man's  course  on  earth  '  will  repcrb 

if  I  have  time  and  space  ; 
It  may  be  long,  it  may  be  short, 

as  God  hath  giv'n  him  grace. 
Ilis  natur  to  the  herbs  compare, 

that  in  the  ground  ly  dead  ; 
And  to  each  month  add  five  year, 

and  so  we  will  procede. 

The  first  five  years  then  of  man's  life 

compare  to  Januar  ; 
In  all  that  time  but  sturt  and  strife, 

he  can  but  greet  and  roar. 
So  is  the  fields  of  flowers  all  bare, 

by  reason  of  the  frnst  ; 
Kept  in  the  ground  both  safe  and  80ua&. 

not  one  of  them  is  lost. 

So  to  years  ten  I  shall  speak  then 

of  Februar  but  lack  ; 
The  child  is  meek  and  weak  of  spir't, 

nothing  can  unclert;d<e: 
So  all  the  flow'rs,  for  lack  of  show'rs, 

no  springing  up  can  make, 
Yet  birds  do  sing  and  praise  their  king, 

and  each  one  choose  their  inat«. 

Then  in  comes  March,  tliat  noble  area, 

with  wholesome  s|)ring  and  air, 
The  child  doth  spring  to  years  fifteen, 

with  visage  fine  and  fair  ; 
So  do  the  flow'rs  with  softening  show'r* 

ay  spring  up  as  .ve  see  ; 
Yet  nevertheless  remember  this, 

that  one  day  we  must  die. 

Then  brave  April  doth  sweetly  sraLft 

the  flow'rs  do  fair  appear, 
The  child  is  then  become  a  man, 

to  the  age  of  twenty  year  ; 
If  he  be  kind  and  well  imdin'd, 

and  brought  up  at  the  school, 
Tlien  men  may  know  if  he  foreshow 

a  wise  maa  or  a  fool. 

Then  cometh  Miy,  gallant  and  gay, 
when  frao'ant  flow'rs  do  thrive. 


SONGS. 


101 


The  child  is  then  become  a  map, 

ot'aije  twunty  and  five  ; 
And  for  hir*  life  dcith  sock  a  wife, 

liis  life  and  yeais  to  sjjL-iid  ; 
Christ,  from  above  send  peare  and  love, 

and  grace  unto  the  end  ! 

Then  Cometh  June  with  pleasant  tune, 

when  fields  with  flow'rs  are  clad, 
And  I'luelms  briu^lit  is  at  his  height, 

all  creatures  then  are  ^lad  : 
Then  he  appears  of  thretty  years, 

with  courage  hold  and  stout ; 
His  nature  so  makes  him  to  go, 

of  death  he  hath  no  doubt. 

Then  July  comes  with  his  hot  climes, 

and  constant  in  his  kind, 
The  man  doth  thrive  to  thirty-five, 

and  sober  grows  in  mind  ; 
His  children  small  do  on  him  call, 

and  bi'eed  lum  stuit  aud  strife; 


Then  August  old,  both  stout  and  bold, 

when  flow'rs  do  stoutly  stand  ; 
So  man  appears  to  forty  years, 

with  wisdom  and  command  ; 
And  doth  provide  his  house  to  guide, 

children  and  familie; 
Yet  do  not  miss  t'  remember  this, 

that  one  day  thou  must  die. 

September  then  comes  with  his  train, 

and  makes  the  flow'rs  to  fade  ; 
Thtn  man  belyve  is  forty-five, 

grave,  constant,  wise,  and  staid. 
When  he  looks  on,  how  youth  is  gone, 

and  shall  it  no  more  see  ; 
Then  may  he  say,  both  night  and  da  •, 

have  mercy.  Lord,  on  me  ! 

October's  blast  comes  in  with  boast, 

and  makes  the  flow'rs  to  fall ; 
Then  man  appears  to  fifty  years, 

old  age  doth  on  him  call  : 
The  almond  tree  doth  flourish  hie, 

and  pale  grows  man  we  see  ; 
Then  it  is  time  to  use  this  line, 

remember,  man,  to  die. 

November  air  maketh  fields  bare 

•if  flow'rs,  of  gra«s,  and  corn  ; 
Then  man  arrives  tu  fifty-five, 

and  sick  both  e'en  and  morn  : 
Loins,  legs,  and  thighs,  without  disease, 

makes  him  to  sigh  and  say. 
Ah  !   Christ  on  high  have  mind  on  me, 

and  learn  me  for  to  die  ! 

December  fell  baith  sharp  and  snell, 
makes  flow'rs  creep  in  the  ground  ; 

Then  man's  threescore,  both  sick  aud  sore, 
no  soundness  in  him  fouud. 


His  ears  and  e'en,  and  teeth  of  bane, 

all  these  now  do  him  fiil  ; 
Then  may  he  say,  both  night  and  d.iy, 

that  death  shall  him  assail. 

And  if  there  be,  thru*  natur  stout, 

some  that  live  ten  years  more  ; 
Or  if  he  eieepeth  up  and  down, 

till  he  comes  to  fourscore  ; 
Vet  all  this  time  is  but  a  line, 

no  pleasure  can  be  see  : 
Then  may  he  say,  both  night  and  day, 

have  mercy,  Lord,  on  me  ! 

Thus  have  I  shown  yon  as  I  can, 

the  course  of  all  mens'  life; 
We  will  return  where  we  began, 

but  either  sturt  or  strife: 
Dttme  lilemorie  doth  take  her  leave, 

she'll  last  no  more,  we  see  ; 
God  grant  that  I  may  not  you  grieve, 

Ye'll  get  nae  mair  of  lue. 


BESS  THE  GAWKIE. 

This  song  shews  that  the  Scottish  IVIuses  did 
not  aJI  leave  us  when  we  lost  Ramsay  and  O9. 
wald,  *  as  I  have  good  reason  to  believe  that 
the  verses  and  music  are  both  posterior  to  the 
days  of  these  two  gentlemen. — It  is  a  beautiful 
song,  and  in  the  genuine  Scots  taste.  We  have 
few  pastoral  compositions,  1  mean  the  pastora. 
uf  nature,  that  are  e(iual  to  this. — Burns. 

Blythe  young  Bess  to  Jean  did  say, 
Will  ye  gang  to  yon  sunny  brae. 
Where  flocks  do  feed  and  herds  do  strav. 

And  sport  awhile  wi'  Jamie  ? 
Ah  na,  lass,  I'll  no  gimg  there. 
Nor  about  Jamie  tak  nae  care. 
Nor  about  Jamie  tik  nae  care. 

For  he's  taen  up  wi'  Maggy  ! 

For  hark,  and  I  will  tell  you,  lass, 
Did  I  not  see  your  Jamie  pass, 
Wi"  meikle  gladness  in  his  face, 

Out  o'er  the  nuiir  to  Maggy. 
I  wat  he  gae  her  mony  a  kiss. 
And  IMaggy  took  them  ne'er  amiss  ; 
'Tween  ilka  smack,  pleas'd  her  with  this, 

That  Bess  was  but  a  gau'kle. 

For  when  a  civil  kiss  I  seek. 

She  turns  her  head,  and  thraws  her  cheek, 


•  Oswald  was  a  mnsic-scller  in  I,nn<!i)n,  about  tlie 
year  17)0.  lie  pul)!ishcil  a  larpc  collix'tion  of  Scottiah 
tiincs,  wliicli  liu  called  The  C\i'e<lonliii  Pitclcct  Cunipa- 
nlon.  Mr.  Tytler  ob-crves,  that  his  fjcnius  in  compo- 
sition, joined  to  his  taste  in  the  perlurmance  of  .Scot- 
trsh  music,  wius  natural  and  patlietic.  Thrs  sonj^  ha* 
t)een  imputed  to  a  clergyman — Mr.  Morchcad  oi"  Uil 
m  Galloway. 


J  02                                          BURNS'  WORKS. 

And  for  au  liour  slio'Il  scarcely  speak  ; 

The  gladsome  waters  sung  below. 

Wlio'd  not  Call  Ikt  a  gawkie? 

And  the  sweet  wind  sung  above-— 

Rut  6uia  my  I\Iaj(gie  has  marr  sense, 

Make  way  for  Annie  of  Lochroyan,  • 

She'll  gie  a  score  without  offence  ; 

She  conies  to  seek  her  love. 

Now  gie  me  ane  unto  the  mense, 

And  ye  shall  be  my  dawtie. 

A  gentle  wind  came  with  a  sweep. 
And  stretched  her  silken  sail, 

O,  Jamie,  ye  ha'e  mony  tane, 

^^^len  up  there  came  a  reaver  rude. 

But  I  will  never  stand  for  ane, 

With  many  a  shout  and  hail : 

Or  twa,  when  we  do  meet  again  ; 

0  touch  her  not,  my  mariners  a*. 

Sae  ne'er  think  me  a  gawkie. 

Such  loveliness  goes  free  ; 

Ah,  na,  lass,  that  ne'er  can  be, 

Make  way  fot-  Annie  of  Lochroyan, 

Sic  thoughts  as  these  are  far  from  ue, 

She  seeks  Lord  Gregorie. 

Or  ony  that  sweet  face  that  see, 

E'er  to  think  thee  a  gawkie. 

The  moon  locked  out  with  all  her  star^ 
The  ship  moved  merrily  on. 

Rut  whisht ! — nae  mair  of  this  we'll  speak, 

Until  she  came  to  a  castle  high. 

Fur  yonder  Jamie  docs  us  meet  ; 

That  all  as  diamonds  shone : 

Instead  of  Meg  he  kiss'd  sae  sweet. 

On  every  tower  there  streamed  a  light. 

I  trow  he  likes  the  gawkie. 

On  the  middle  tower  shone  three- 

0  dear  bess,  I  hardly  knew, 

Move  for  that  tower  my  mariners  a', 

When  I  came  by,  your  gown  sae  new, 

IMy  love  keeps  watch  for  me. 

I  think  you've  got  it  wat  wi'  dew  ; 

Quoth  she,  that's  like  a  gawkie  : 

She  took  her  young  son  in  her  arms, 
And  on  the  deck  she  stood — 

It's  wat  wi'  dew,  and  'twill  get  rain, 

The  wind  rose  with  an  angry  gust. 

And  I'll  get  gowns  when  it  is  gane, 

1  he  sea  wave  wakened  rude. 

Sue  you  may  gang  the  gate  you  came. 

Oh  open  the  door,  Lord  Gregory,  love  : 

And  tell  it  to  your  t'awtie. 

Oh  open  and  let  me  in  ; 

The  guilt  appear'd  in  Jamie's  check  ; 

The  sea  foam  hangs  in  my  yellow  hair. 

He  cry'd,  0  cruel  maid,  but  sweet, 

The  surge  dreeps  down  my  chin. 

If  I  should  gang  anither  gate. 

I  ne'er  could  me/;t  my  dawtie. 

All  for  thy  sake.  Lord  Gregory,  love, 
I  have  sailed  the  perilous  way, 

The  las=es  fast  frae  him  they  flew. 

And  thy  fair  son  is  'tween  my  breasts, 

And  left  poor  Jamie  sair  to  rue, 

And  he'll  be  dead  ere  day. 

That  ever  IMaggy's  face  he  knew, 

The  fiiam  hangs  on  the  topmost  cliff. 

Or  yet  ca'd  Bess  a  gawkie. 

The  fires  run  on  the  sky. 

As  they  went  o'er  the  muir  they  sang ; 

And  hear  you  not  your  true  love's  voick 

The  hills  and  dales  with  echoes  rang, 

And  her  sweet  baby's  cry  ? 

The  hills  and  dales  with  echoes  rang, 

Gang  V°r  the  muir  to  Maggy  ' 

Fair  Annie  turned  her  round  about. 
And  tears  began  to  flow — 

May  never  a  baby  suck  a  breast 
\Vi'  a  heart  sae  fou  of  woe. 

Take  down,  take  down  that  silver  mar 

FAIR  ANNIE  OF  LOCHROYAN. 

Set  up  a  mast  of  tree. 

(original  song  of OH  OPEN  THE  DOCK, 

It  does  nae  become  a  forsaken  dame 

LORD  GREGOUy). 

To  sail  sae  royallie. 

It    is  somewhat  singular,    that   in   Lanark, 

Oh  read  my  dream,  my  mother,  deal 

Renfrew,    Ayr,    Wigton,    Kirkcudbright,    and 

I  heard  a  sweet  babe  greet, 

Dumfiies-shires,  there  is  scarcely  an  old  song 

And  saw  fair  Annie  of  Lochroyan 

or  tune  which,  from  the  title,  &c.  can  be  gues- 

Lie cauld  dead  at  my  feer. 

sed  to  belong   to,   or  be  the  production  of  these 

And  loud  and  loud  his  mother  laugnetf— 

counties.      This,    I  conjecture,   is  one   of  these 

Oh  sights  mair  sure  than  sleep, 

very  few  ;  as  the  ball.d,    which  is  a  long  one, 

I  saw  fair  Annie,  and  heard  her  voice, 

is  called  both  by  tradition  and  in  printed  collec- 

And her  baby  wail  and  weep. 

tions,   The  Lass  o'  Lochroijan,  which  I  take  to 

be  Lochroyan  in  Galloway Burns. 

0  he  went  down  to  yon  sea  side 
As  fast  as  ho  could  fare, 

Sweet  Annie  built  a  bonnie  ship, 

He  saw  idK  Annie  and  her  sweet  babt. 

And  set  her  on  the  sea  ; 

Rut  the  wild  wind  tossed  them  sair; 

Th(!  sails  were  a'  of  the  damask  silk, 

And  hey  Annie,  and  how  An:iie, 

The  mast*  vf  silver  free. 

And  Annie  wiuna  ye  bidu? 

■-■                                                                                            '        J 

> 

SONGS                                                    103 

But  ave  the  iiiair  he  called  A.mie, 

O  !  con;?,  my  love  !   thy  Colin's  lay 

'I'he  broader  grew  the  tide. 

With  rapture  calls,  O  come  away  ! 

Come,  while  the  Muse  this  wreath  shall  twia» 

And  hey  Annie,  and  how  Annie, 

.\round  that  moilest  brow  of  thine  ; 

Dear  Annie  speak  to  me, 

O  !   hither  haste,  and  with  thee  bring 

But  ;:ye  the  louder  he  cried  Annie, 

Thut  beauty  blooming  like  the  spring  ; 

Tlie  louder  roared  the  sea. 

Those  graces  that  divinely  shine. 

The  wind  waxed  loud,  the  sea  grew  rough, 

And  charm  this  ravish'd  breast  of  mine  ! 

The  slilp  sunii  nis^li  the  shore, 

Fair  Annie  floated  through  the  foam, 
I3ut  the  baby  rose  no  more. 

0  first  lie  kissed  her  cherry  cheek, 

SAW  YE  JOHNNIE  CUMMIN? 

And  then  he  kis^^ed  her  chin, 

QUO'  SHE. 

And  syne  he  kissed  her  rosy  lips, 

But  there  was  nae  brtwth  within. 

This  song  for  genuine  humour  in  the  verse*. 

0  my  love's  love  was  true  as  light, 

and  lively  originality  in  the  air,  is  unparalleled 

As  meek  and  sweet  was  she — 

I  take  it  to  be  very  old Burns. 

RIy  mother's  hate  was  sti'ong  as  death. 

And  fiercer  tlun  the  sea. 

Saw  ye  Johnnie  cummin  ?  quo'  she. 

Saw  ye  Johnnie  cummin, 

0  saw  ye  Johnnie  cummin,  quo'  she  • 
Saw  ye  Johnnie  cummin. 

ROSLIN  CASTLE. 

Wj'  his  blue  bonnet  on  his  head. 
And  his  doggie  runnin,  quo'  she  , 

These  beautiful  verses  were  the  production 

And  his  doggie  runnin  ? 

of  a  Richard   Hewit,   a  young  man  that  Dr. 

Blacklock,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  anec- 

Fee him,  f  ither,  fee  him,  quo'  she  • 

dote,  kept  for  some  years  as  an  amanuensis.      1 

Fee  him,  father,  fee  him  : 

do  not  know  who  was  the  author  of  the  second 

For  he  is  a  gallant  lad, 

song  to  the  tune.       Ti/ller,  in  his  amusing  his- 

And  a  weel  doin'  ; 

^  i-y  of  Scots  music,  gives  the  air  to   Oswald; 

And  a'  the  wark  about  the  house 

rut  in  Oswald's  own   collection  of  Scots  tunes. 

Gaes  wi'  me  when  I  see  him,  quo'  ihs 

where  he  affixes  an  asterisk  to  those  he  himself 

Wi'  me  when  I  see  him. 

composed,  he  does  not  make  the  least  claim  to 

the  tune. — KuiiNs. 

What  will  I  do  wi'  him,  hussy  ? 

What  will  I  do  wi'  him  ? 

'TwAS  in  that  season  of  the  year. 
When  all  things  gay  and  sweet  appear. 

He's  ne'er  a  sark  upon  his  back. 

And  I  hae  nane  to  gie  him. 

That  Colin,  with  the  morning  ray, 

Arose  and  sung  his  rural  lay. 

Of  Nanny's  charms  tlie  shepherd  sung. 

I  hae  twa  sarks  into  my  kist. 

And  ane  o'  them  I'll  gie  him. 

And  for  a  mark  of  mair  fee, 

Tile  hills  and  dales  with  Nanny  rung  ; 

Dinna  stand  wi'  him,  quo*  sne  ; 

Wilde  Iloslin  Castle  heard  the  swain, 

Dinna  stand  wi'  him. 

And  echoed  back  the  cheerful  strain. 

For  weel  do  I  lo'e  him,  quo'  she  ; 

Awake,  sweet  Muse  !  the  breathing  sprioj;. 
With  rapture  w.irnis  ;   awake  and  sing  ! 

Weel  do  I  lo'e  him  : 

0  fee  him,  father,  fee  him,  quo'  she  ; 

Awake  and  join  the  vocal  tlirong, 
Willi  hail  the  morning  with  a  song; 

Fee  him,  father,  fee  him  ; 

He'll  baud  the  plcugh,  thrash  i'  the  bxra, 

To  Nanny  raise  the  cheerful  lay, 

And  lie  wi'  me  at  e'eu,  quo'  she  ; 

0!   bid  her  h.iste  and  come  away; 

Lie  wi'  me  at  e'en. 

In  swrcti'st  sniilss  herself  adorn, 

And  add  new  graces  to  the  morn  ! 

0,  hark,  my  love  !  on  ev'ry  spray. 
Each  feather'd  wai  bier  tunes  his  lay  ; 

CLOUT  THE  CALDRON. 

Tis  beauty  fires  the  ravish'd  throng. 

And  love  inspires  the  melting  song  : 

A  TRAniTios  is  mentioned  in  Ojc  Bee,  that 

Then  let  my  raptur'd  notes  arise, 

the  second  Bishop  Chisholm,  of  Di/nblane,  used 

I'or  beauty  darts  from  Nanny's  eyes  ; 

to  say,  that  if  he  were  going  to  be  lian;.;cd,   no- 

And love  my  risinc^  bosom  warms. 

thing  would  soothe  his   mind  so  much   by  ths 

And  fills  my  soul  with  sweet  alarmsi, 

way,  as  to  hear  Clout  Ike  CcUdron  played. 

1 

tui 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


T  have  met  w'ltl    another  tradition,  that  the 
eld  song  to  this  tune, 

Hae  ye  nny  pots  or  pans, 
Or  onie  broken  chanlers, 

was  composed  on  one  of  the  Kenmure  family,  in 
the  Ciivaller  times  ;  ind  alluded  to  an  amour  he 
had,  while  uniler  hidinjr,  in  the  disguise  of  an 
itinerant  tinker.  The  air  is  also  known  by  the 
name  of 

The  Blacksmith  and  his  Apron, 

which  from  the  ryihym^  seems  to  have  been  a 
line  of  some  old  song  to  the  tune. — Burns. 

Have  you  any  pots  or  pans, 

Or  any  broken  chandlers  ? 
I  am  a  tinkler  to  niv  trade. 

And  newly  come  fiae  Flanders, 
As  scant  of  siller  as  of  ,^race. 

Disbanded,  we've  a  bad  run  ; 
Gar  tell  the  lady  of  the  place, 

I'm  come  to  clout  her  caldron. 

Fa  aclrie,  didle,  didle,  Uc, 

Madam,  if  ycu  have  wark  for  me, 

I'll  do't  to  your  contentment, 
And  diiina  care  a  single  Sie 

Tor  anr  man's  resentment ; 
Fur,  lidy  fail',  though  I  apjjcar 

To  cv'ry  ane  a  tinkler, 
Yet  to  yoursel  I'm  bauld  to  tell, 

1  am  a  gentle  jinker. 

Fa  adiie,  didle,  didle,  &c. 

Love  .lupiter  into  a  swan 

Tiirn'd  fur  bis  lovely  Leda  ; 
lie  like  a  buH  o  er  uicadov/s  ran, 

To  cany  aff  Europa. 
Then  may  not  I,  as  well  as  he, 

To  cheat  your  Argos  blinker, 
And  win  your  love,  like  mighty  Jov^ 

Thus  hide  me  in  a  tinkler? 

Fa  adrie,  didle,  didle,  &c. 

Sir,  yp  appear  a  cunning  man, 

But  this  tiue  plot  you'll  fail  in, 
Fur  there  is  neither  pot  nor  pan 

Of  mine  you'll  drive  a  nail  in. 
Then  bind  your  budget  on  your  back, 

And  nails  up  in  your  apiou. 
For  I've  a  tinkler  under  tick 

That's  ns'd  to  clout  my  caldron. 
Fa  adrie,  didle,  didle,  &c. 


SAW  YE  NAE  MY  PEGGY? 

This  charming  song  is  much  older,  and  in- 
deed superior,  to  Ramsay's  vci-scs,  *'  The  Toast," 
as  he  calls  them.     There    is  another  set  of  the 


the  original  one,  hut  though  it  has  a  very  gr?»t 
deal  of  merit,    it  is  not  quite  ladies'  reading.— 

BUKNS. 

Saw  ye  nae  my  Peggy, 
Saw  ye  nae  n>y  Peggy, 
Saw  ye  nae  my  Peggy, 

Coming  o'er  the  lea  ? 
Sure  a  liner  creature 
Ne'er  was  furm'd  by  nature, 
So  complete  each  feature. 

So  divine  is  she. 

O  !  how  Peggy  charms  me  ; 
Every  look  still  warms  me  ; 
Every  thought  alarms  me, 

Lest  she  love  nae  me. 
Peggy  doth  discover 
Nought  but  charms  all  over; 
Nature  bids  me  love  her. 

That's  a  law  to  me. 

WTio  would  leave  a  lover, 
To  become  a  rover  ? 
No,  I'll  ne'er  give  over, 

'Till  1  happy  be. 
For  since  love  inspires  roe, 
As  her  beauty  tires  me. 
Anil  her  absence  tires  me. 

Nought  can  please  but  she. 

^^^lcn  I  hope  to  gain  her. 
Fate  seems  to  detain  her, 
Cou'd  I  but  obtain  her, 
Happy  wou'il  I  be  ! 
I'll  ly  down  before  her. 
Bless,  sigh,  and  adore  her. 
With  faint  looks  implore  her, 
'Till  she  pity  me. 

The  original  words,  for  they  can  scarcely  b« 
called  verses,  seem  to  be  as  follows  ;  a  song  fa- 
miliar from  the  cradle  to  every  Scottish  ear. 

Saw  ye  my  Jlaggie, 
Saw  ye  my  Maggie, 
Saw  ye  my  IMaggie, 
Linkin  o'er  the  lea? 

High  kilted  was  she. 
High  kilted  was  she. 
High  kilted  was  she, 

Her  coat  aboon  her  kcec. 

\Miat  mark  has  your  Magajie, 
AVliat  mark  has  your  Maggie, 
What  mark  has  your  Maggie, 
That  ane  may  keu  l.ct  ve  9  {hi/) 

Though  it  by  no  means  follows  that  the  stl- 
liest  verses  to  an  air  must,  for  that  reason,  be 
the  original  song ;  yet  I  take  this  ballad,  ol 
which  I  have  quoted  p  irt,  to  be  the  old  verses. 
The  two  songs   in  Riimsarj,   one  of  them  evi- 


words,  much  older  still,  and  which  I  take  to  be  Idently  his  own,  are  never  to  be  met  with  in  tlia 


SONGS. 


105 


firp-side  circle  of  our  piMsmtry  ;  while  that 
wliii-li  I  take  to  be  the  olil  son'^,  is  in  every 
Bli"|)li;ni's  nio'.ith,  Jtdiiis  ly,  I  suppose,  hail 
tliiiuylit  the  tiM  ve.'ses  uiiwui  thy  of  a  place  ia 
bis  collectiua.^IScuNS. 


FYE,  GAE  RUB  HER  O'ER  AVI*  STRAE. 

It  is  sflf-cviilent  that  tlie  first  four  lines  of 
this  son?  are  p  irt  of  a  song  more  ancient  than 
Ramsay's  beautiful  verses  which  are  annexed  to 
tlieui.  As  music  is  the  language  of  nature  ;  and 
poetry,  partitiilaily  songs,  are  always  less  or 
more  localized  (if  I  may  be  allowed  the  verb) 
bv  some  of  the  modifieatious  of  time  and  p'.ace, 
this  is  the  reason  why  so  many  of  our  Scots  airs 
have  outlived  their  original,  and  perhaps  many 
subsequent  sets  of  verses ;  except  a  single  name, 
>r  phrase,  or  sometimes  one  or  two  lines,  simply 
Ko  distinguish  the  tunes  by. 

To  this  day  among  people  who  know  nothing 
af  Ramsay's  verses,  the  following  is  the  song, 
jod  all  the  song  that  ever  I  heard  : — Burns. 

Gin  ye  meeS  a  bonnie  lassie, 

Gie  her  a  jjss  and  let  her  gae  ; 
But  gii.  ye  meet  a  dirty  hizzie, 

Eye,  gar  lub  her  o'er  wi'  strae. 

Fye,  gae  rub  her,  rub  her,  rub  her, 

Fye,  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae  ; 
An'  gin  ye  meet  a  dirty  hizzie, 

Fye,  gar  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae. 


Look  up  to  Pentland's  tow'ring  tap, 
Bury'd  beneath  great  wreaths  of  snaw, 

O'er  ilka  cleugh,  ilk  scar,  and  slap, 
As  high  as  ony  Roman  wa.' 

Driving  their  baws  frae  whins  or  tee, 
The-e's  no  nae  gowfers  to  be  seen ; 

Nor  dousser  fowk  wysing  a-jee 

The  byass- bonis  on  Taiuson's  green. 

Then  fling  on  coals,  and  iij)e  the  ribs, 
And  beek  the  house  lialth  butt  and  ben  ; 

That  niotchkin  stuwp  it  hads  but  dribs, 
Then  lei's  get  in  the  tappit  hen. 

Good  claret  best  keeps  out  the  cauld. 
And  drives  away  the  winter  soon  ; 

It  makes  a  mm  baith  gas'    m<l  bauld, 
And  heaves  his  saul  beyond  the  moon. 

Leave  to  the  gods  your  ilka  care. 

If  that  thi-y  think  us  worth  their  while. 

They  can  a  rowth  of  blessings  spare. 
Which  will  our  fiishious  fears  beguile. 

For  what  they  hive  a  mind  to  do, 

That  will  thc<   <o   should  we  gang  wood  ; 


If  they  command  the  storms  to  hlaw, 
Then  upo'  sight  the  hailst^iins  thud 

But  soon  as  ere  they  cry,   "  Be  quiet,* 

The  blatt'ring  winds  dare  nae  mair    moVC, 

But  cour  into  their  caves,  and  wait 
The  high  command  of  sujircme  Jovjii 

Let  neist  day  come  as  it  thinks  fit. 
The  present  minute's  only  ours  ; 

On  pleasure  let's  employ  our  ivit, 

And  laugh  at  fortune's  fickle  powers. 

Be  sure  ye  dinna  quat  the  grip 

Of  ilka  joy  when  ye  are  young, 
Before  auld  age  your  vitals  nip. 

And  l.iy  ye  twafald  o'er  a  rung. 

Sweet  youth's  a  blythe  and  heartsoc:c  time  ; 

Then,  lails  and  lasses,  while  it's  3Iay, 
Gae  pou  the  gowan  in  its  prime, 

Before  it  wither  and  decay. 

Watch  the  saft  minutes  of  delyte. 

When  Jenny  speaks  beneath  her  breath, 

And  kisses,  laying  a'  the  wyte 
On  you,  if  she  kepp  ony  skaith. 

"  Haith,  ye' re  ill-bred,"  she'll  smiling  say  •_ 
"  Ye'll  worry  me,  ye  gretdy  rook;" 

Syne  frae  your  arms  she'll  rin  away. 
And  hide  hersell  iu  some  dark  nook. 

Her  laugh  will  lead  you  to  the  place 
Where  lies  the  happiness  you  want, 

Ami  plainly  tells  you  to  your  face. 
Nineteen  nay-says  are  half  a  grant. 

Now  to  her  heaving  bosom  cling. 

And  sweetly  toolie  for  a  kiss, 
Frae  her  f.iir  finger  whop  a  riug, 

As  taiken  of  a,  future  bless. 

These  bennisons,  I'm  very  sure. 
Are  of  the  gods'  indulgent  grant ; 

Then,  surly  carles,  whisht,  forbear 

To  plague  us  with  your  whining  cant. 


THE  LASS  O'  LIVISTOX. 

The  old  song,  in  three  eight-line  stanzas,  if 
well  known,  and  has  merit  as  to  wit  and  hu- 
mour ;  but  it  is  rather  unfit  for  insertion. — 1> 
begin?, 

The  bonnie  lass  o'  Liviston, 

Her  name  ye  ken,  her  name  ye  ken, 

And  she  has  written  in  her  contract, 
To  lie  her  lane,  to  lie  her  1-iue. 
&c.  &c. 


L3 


a06 


BURXS'  WORKS. 


THE  LAST  TIME  I  CA.ME  O'ER  THE 
MUIR. 

Ramsay  found  the  first  liae  of  this  sonj^, 
which  had  been  preserved  as  the  title  of  the 
charming  air.  and  then  composed  the  rest  of  the 
verses  to  suit  that  line.  This  has  always  a  finer 
vffevX  than  composing  English  words,  or  words 
with  an  idea  foreign  to  the  spirit  ef  the  old  title. 
Where  old  titles  of  songs  convey  any  idea  at  all, 
it  will  generally  be  found  to  be  quite  iu  the 
spirit  of  the  air. — Burns. 

The  last  time  I  came  o'er  the  muir, 

I  left  my  love  behind  me  ; 
Ye  pow'rs  !   what  pain  do  I  endure, 

When  soft  ideas  mind  me. 
Soon  as  the  ruddy  morn  display 'd 

The  beaming  day  ensuing, 
I  met  betimes  my  lovely  maid. 

In  fit  retreats  for  wooing. 

Btne.ith  the  cooling  shade  we  lay, 

Gazing  and  chastely  sporting  ; 
We  kiss'd  and  promis'd  time  away, 

Till  night  spread  her  black  curtain  : 
I  pitied  all  beneath  the  skies, 

Ev'n  kings,  when  she  was  nigh  me; 
In  raptures  I  beheld  her  eyes, 

Which  could  but  ill  deny  me. 

Ehould  I  be  call'd  where  cannons  roar. 

Where  mortal  steel  may  wound  me ; 
Or  cast  upon  some  foreign  shore, 

Where  dangers  may  surround  me  ; 
Yet  licipes  again  to  see  my  love. 

To  fea^t  on  glowing  kisses. 
Shall  make  my  cares  at  distance  move, 

In  prospect  of  such  blisses. 

In  all  my  soul  there  s  not  one  place 

To  let  a  rival  enter ; 
Since  slie  excels  in  ev'ry  grace. 

In  her  my  love  shall  centre. 
Sooner  the  seas  shall  cease  to  flow. 

Their  waves  the  Alps  shall  cover  ; 
On  Greenland's  ice  shall  roses  grow. 

Before  I  cease  to  love  her 

The  next  time  I  gang  o'er  the  muir, 

She  shall  a  lover  find  me  ; 
ftnd  that  my  fiith  is  firm  and  pure. 

Though  1  left  her  behind  me. 
Then  Hymen's  sacred  bonds  shall  chain 

Jly  heart  to  her  fair  bosom  ; 
rtwre,  while  my  being  does  remain, 

My  love  more  fresh  shall  blossom. 


JOHNNY'S  GRAY  BREEKS. 

Tuot'oii  this  has  certainly  every  evidence  of 
fing  a  Scottivn  air,   yet  there   is  a  Well-known  j 
lue  and  sons  in   the  Noith  cf  Ireland,  called,  I 


The     Weaver    and     f>'s    Shuttle,     O,    whx 
though  sung   much    Quicker,   13  evt  y  note  tin 
very  tune. 

When  I  was  in  my  se'nteen  jivr, 

I  was  baith  biythe  and  bunny, 
O  the  lads  loo'd  me  baith  far  and  near-, 

B.-,  I  loo'd  nane  but  Johnny  : 
He  gain'd  my  heart  in  twa  three  weekS;. 

He  spake  sae  biythe  and  kindly  ; 
And  I  made  him  new  gray  breeks, 

That  fitted  him  most  finely. 

He  was  a  handsome  fellow  ; 

His  humour  was  baith  frauK  icd  fiiw;. 
His  bonny  Jocks  sae  yellow, 

Like  gowd  they  glitter'd  in  my  ee;— 
His  dimpl'd  chin  and  rosy  cheeks. 

And  face  sae  fair  and  ruddy  ; 
And  then  a-days  his  gray  breeks. 

Was  neither  auld  nor  duddy. 

But  now  they're  threadbare  worn, 

They're  wider  than  they  wont  to  bt  f 
They're  tashed-like,*  and  sair  torn, 

And  clouted  sair  on  ilka  knee. 
But  gin  I  had  a  simmer's  day, 

As  I  have  had  right  mony, 
I'd  make  a  web  o'  new  gray. 

To  be  breeks  to  my  Johnny. 

For  he's  weel  wordy  o  t!iem. 

And  better  gin  I  had  to  gie, 
And  I'll  tak  pains  upo'  them, 

Frae  fauts  I'll  stiire  to  keep  them  &w 
To  dead  him  weel  shall  be  my  care, 

And  please  him  a'  my  study  ; 
But  he  maun  wear  the  auld  pair 

Awei,  tho'  they  be  duddy. 

For  v/hen  the  lad  was  in  his  jirime, 

Like  him  there  was  nae  mony 
He  ca'd  me  aye  his  bonny  thing, 

Sae  wha  wou'd  na  lo'e  Johnny  ? 
So  I  lo'e  Johnny's  gray  breeks. 

For  a'  the  care  they've  gi'cn  me  yet. 
And  gin  we  live  anither  year, 

We'll  keep  them  hale  between  us  yet 

Now  to  conclude, — his  gray  breeks, 

I'll  sing  them  up  wi'  miith  and  glee; 
Here's  luck  fc)  a'  the  gray  stocks. 

That  show  themseils  upo'  the  knee  i 
And  if  wi'  health  I'm  spared, 

A'  wee  while  as  I  may, 
I  shall  bae  them  prepared. 

As  Wee'  as  ony  that's  o'  gray 


StaiDod. 


SONGS. 


107 


MAT  EVF    OR  KATE  OF  ABERDEEN. 

Kate  of  At)eiilt'cn,  is,  I  believe,  the  work  of 
pour  CiiniiinslKun  the  pljyer  ;  of  whom  the  fol- 
lowing anecdote,  thojj;li  told  before,  deserves  a 
reiitul.  A  fat  dignitary  of  the  church  coming 
past  Cunniiiijham  one  Sunctay  as  the  poor  poet 
was  bu-y  plying  a  fi-hing-rod  in  some  stniam 
near  Duiliam.  his  native  country,  his  reverence 
reprimanded  Cunningham  very  si'verely  for  >jeli 
an  oecup.ition  on  such  a  day.  The  poor  poet, 
with  that  inoffensive  gentleness  of  manners  which 
was  his  peculiar  characteristic,  replied,  that  he 
hoped  God  and  his  leverenee  would  forgivj  his 
seeming  profanity  of  that  sacred  day,  "  as  he.  had 
no  dinnir  to  eat,  but  ichat  lay  at  the  bottom  of 
that  pool  !"  This,  Jlr.  Woods,  the  player,  who 
knew  Cunningham  well,  and  e-iteeined  him  in  ich, 
assured  me  was  true. — Burns. 

ilver  moon's  enamour'd  beam, 

Steals  softly  through  the  night. 
To  wanton  with  the  winding  stream, 

And  kiss  reflected  light. 
To  beds  of  state  go  balmy  sleep, 

('Tis  where  you've  seldom  beeri). 
May's  vigil  while  the  shepherds  keep 

With  Kate  of  Aberdeen  ! 

Upon  the  grctrA  the  virgins  wait, 

In  rosy  chaplets  gay. 
Till  morn  unbar  her  golden  gate, 

And  give  the  jiromis'd  May. 
Methinks  I  hear  the  maids  declare 

The  promis'd  May,  when  seen. 
Nut  half  BO  fragrant,  half  so  fair. 

As  Kate  of  Aberdeen  ! 

Strike  up  the  tabor's  boldest  notes, 

We'll  rouse  the  nodding  grove  ; 
The  nested  birds  shall  raise  their  throats, 

And  hail  the  maid  I  love  : 
And  see — the  matin  lark  mistakes, 

He  quits  the  tufted  green  ; 
Fond  bird  !   'tis  not  the  morning  breaks, 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen  ! 

Now  lightsome  o'er  the  level  mead, 

Where  midnight  fairies  rove, 
Like  thera,  the  jocund  dance  we'll  lead. 

Or  tune  the  reed  to  love  : 
For  see  the  ro-<y  May  draws  nigh. 

She  claims  a  virgin  ([ueen  ; 
And  hark,  the  happv  shepherds  cry, 

'"Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen  1" 


Avrshire. — The  following  &nerdote  I  had  from 
the  present  Sir  William  Cunningham,  of  Robert- 
land,  who  had  it  from  the  la^t  Jcdin,  Eirl  ol 
Lou<ion. — The  then  Earl  of  Loudon,  father  to 
Earl  John,  before  mentioned,  had  Ramsay  at 
Loudon,  and  one  day  walking  together  by  the 
banks  (>f  Irvine  water,  near  New-Mills,  at  a 
place  yet  called  Patie's  Mill,  they  were  stiuek 
with  the  ap|iearance  of  a  beautiful  country  girl. 
His  lord-hij)  observed,  that  she  would  be  a  fine 
theme  fir  a  song. — Allan  lagged  behind  in  re- 
turning to  Loudon  Castle,  and  at  dinner  produc- 
ed  this  identical  song Bukks. 

The  lass  of  Paties  mill. 

So  bonny,  biythe,  and  gay, 
In  sj)ite  of  all  my  skill. 

She  stole  my  heart  away. 
Wiien  tedding  of  the  hay, 

Bare-heuded  on  the  green. 
Love  'midst  her  locks  did  play. 

And  wantun'd  in  her  een. 

Her  arms  white,  round,  and  smootl^ 

Breasts  rising  in  their  dawn, 
To  age  it  would  give  youth. 

To  press  'em  with  his  hand  : 
Thro'  all  my  spirits  ran 

An  ecstasy  of  bliss, 
\^^len  I  such  swcetuess  fanu 

M'rapt  in  a  balmy  kiss. 

Without  the  help  of  art, 

Like  flowers  which  grace  the  wild. 
She  <lid  her  sweets  impart. 

Whene'er  she  spoke  or  smil'd. 
Her  looks  they  were  so  mild, 

Frte  from  affected  pride. 
She  me  to  love  beguil'd  ; 

I  wish'd  her  for  my  bride. 

O  had  I  all  that  wealth, 

Hopeton's  high  mountains  *  fill, 
Insur'd  lang  life  and  health. 

And  pleasure  at  my  will ; 
I'd  promise  and  fultil. 

That  none  but  bonny  she, 
The  lass  of  Patie's  mill 

Shou'd  share  the  same  wl'  no* 


THE  LASS  OF  PATIE'S  MILL. 

Is  Sinclair's  Statistical  Account  of  Scotland, 
fnis  song  is  localized  (a  verb  I  must  use  fur  want 


THE  TURNIMSPIKE. 

There  is  a  stanza  of  this  excellent  scng  for 
local  humour,  omitted  iu  this  set, — where  I  have 
placed  the  astensms.  }• 

llERSEl.r,  pe  highland  «hentleman, 
Pe  auld  as  Pothwell  Prig,  man  ; 


•    Thirty  three    miles    south-west    of    Edinbuigh^ 
lere  the  Karl  (if  Hopeton's  mints  are. 
-^  -  -  .       .  t  Burns  hail  placed  the  asterisms  between 

Worth  of  Scotland,  and  likewise  is  claimed  by   and  10th  verses.     The  verse  is  here  restored. 


of  another  to  express  my  idea )  somewhere  in  the  !  ^'^'^Tf  "''•"  !;-f,'  "[  ""^f'T" ,""'"'  '''^,  .k    o,v 

--  !""■  J  '  I  Burns  had  placed  the  a.sterisins  between  the  9t3 


LI 


i08 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  mony  alterations  set-a 

Amang  te  lawlatd  whig,  man. 
Fal,  §-c 

First  when  her  to  the  lawlands  came, 
Nainsel  was  driving  cows,  man  ; 

There  was  uae  laws  about  him's  nerse, 
About  the  preeks  or  trews,  man. 

Nainsell  did  wear  the  philaheg, 
Tl.e  plaid  prick't  on  her  shouder ; 

The  guid  claymore  hung  pe  her  pelt, 
De  pistol  sharg'd  wi'  pouder. 

But  for  whereas  these  cursed  preeks, 
Vt'herewith  man's  nerse  be  locket, 

O  hon  !   that  e'er  she  saw  the  day  ! 
For  a'  her  houghs  be  piokit. 

Every  ting  in  de  highlands  now 

Pe  turn'd  to  alteration  ; 
The  sodger  dwall  at  our  door-sheek. 

And  tat's  te  great  vexation. 

.Scotland  be  turn't  a  Ningland  now. 

An'  laws  pring  on  de  eager  ; 
Nainsell  wad  durk  him  for  his  deeds. 

But  oh  !   she  fear  te  sodger. 

Anither  law   came  after  dat, 

Me  never  saw  de  like,  man  ; 
Thev  mak  a  lang  road  on  de  crund. 

And  ca'  him  Turniinspike,  man. 

An'  wow  !   she  pe  a  ponny  road. 
Like  Louden  corn-rigs,  man  ; 

Where  twa  cai  ts  may  gang  on  her, 
An'  no  prcak  ithers  legs,  man. 

Thev  sharge  a  penny  for  ill<a  horse, 
(In  troth,  tney'll  no  pe  sheaper^  ; 

For  udtight  but  gam  upo*  the  crund. 
And  they  gie  Ee  a  paper. 

Thetj  tak  the  horse  then  py  te  head, 

And  tere  teij  iiiuk  her  atiiii,  man; 
Mc  tell  teiii,  me  hue  seen  te  day, 
Tey  had  7ia  sic  commaH,  man. 

Nae  doubt,  Nainsell  maun  traw  his  purse. 
And  pay  teni  what  liim  likes,  man  ; 

I'll  seo  a  shudgment  on  his  toor  ; 
Tat  filthy  Turnimspike,  man. 

But  I'll  awa  to  the  Highland  hills. 
Where  te'il  a  ane  dare  turn  her, 

£nd  no  come  near  your  Turnimspike, 
Uoletjs  it  yc  to  purn  her. 

Fal,^c 


HIGHLAND  LADDIE. 

As  this  was  a  favourite  theme  with  our  later 
Scottish  muses,  there  are  several  airs  and  songs 
of  that  name.  That  which  1  take  to  be  the 
oldest,  is  to  be  found  in  the  Musical  Museum^ 
beginning,   /  hue  been  at  Crookie-den. — 

I  HAE  been  at  Crookie-den,* 

My  bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ; 

Viewing  Willie  and  his  men, 

Jly  bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie 

There  our  faes  that  burnt  and  slew, 
IMy  bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ; 

There,  at  last,  they  gat  their  due. 
My  bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 

Satan  sits  in  his  black  neuk. 

My  bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  ; 

Breaking  sticks  to  roast  the  Duke, 
JMy  bonnie  laddie.  Highland  laddie  : 

The  bluidy  monster  gae  a  yell. 

My  bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie  ; 

And  loud  the  lauyh  gaed  round  a'  hell ! 
My  bonnie  laddie,  Highland  laddie. 

One  of  my  reasons  is,  that  Oswald  has  it  in  hia 
collection  by  the  name  of  The  auld  Highland 
Ldddie.  —  It  is  also  known  by  the  name  of 
Jinijhm  J'  hni'e,  which  is  a  well  known  song  of 
four  oi  five  stanzas,  and  seems  to  be  an  earlier 
song  than  Jacobite  times.  Asa  proof  of  this,  it 
is  little  known  to  the  peasantry  by  the  name  of 
Hiijhlnnd  Laddie ;  while  every  body  knows 
Jinylan  Juhnie.      The  song  begins, 

Jinglan  John,  the  meickle  man. 

He  met  wi'  a  lass  was  blythe  and  bonnie. 

Another  Higland  Laddie  is  also  in  the  3/«- 
setim,  vol.  v.  which  I  take  to  be  Ramsay's  ori- 
ginal, as  he  has  borrowed  the  chorus  "  O  my 
bonnie  Highland  lad,  §-c.''  It  consists  of  three 
stanzas,  besides  the  chorus  ;  and  has  humour  in 
its  composition — it  is  an  escellentbut  somewhat 
licentious  song. — It  begins. 

As  I  cam  o'er  Cairney-Mount, 

And  down  amang  the  blooming  heather,  &c. 

This  air,  and  the  common  Highland  Laddie^ 
seem  only  to  be  different  sets. 

Another  Highland  Laddie,  also  in  the  Mu- 
seum, vol.  V.  is  the  tune  of  several  Jacobite  frag 
ments.— One  of  these  old  songs  to  it,  only  eiiatt, 
as  far  as  1  know,  in  these  four  lines— 

Whare  hae  ye  been  a'  day, 

Bonnie  ladifie.  Highland  laddie  ? 
Down  the  back  o'  Bell's  brae, 

Courtin  Maggie,  courtin  Maggie. 


*  A.  cant  name  for  Hell 


SONGS. 


108 


Aao'her  cf  this  name  is  Dr.  Arne's  beautiful  air, 
talltii,  the  new  Ilii/liltind  Laddie.* 


THE  BLAITHRIE  O'T. 

The  following  is  a  set  of  this  song,  which 
wa-s  the  earliest  sonji;  I  refnenil)er  to  have  got  !iy 
hrart.  When  a  chil.l,  an  old  woman  sung  it  to 
mc,  and  I  picked  it  up,  every  word,  at  first 
hearing. 

0  Wxi.i.v  weel  I  mind,  I  lent  you  my  li.inil, 
To  sing  you  a  song  whii-h  y<\i  did  me  comiiuinrl  ; 
Hut  my  memoiy'N  :><i  l)a<l,  I  had  aln\ost  forgot 
That  you  call'd  it  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 

I'll  not  sing  ahnut  confusion,  d'!!usi(m,  or  prid«, 
I'll  sitig  about  a  laddie  was  fur  a  virtuous  hride  ; 
For  virtue  is  an  ornament  that  time  will   never 

rot. 
And  preferable  to  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 

Tho'  my  lassie  hae  nae  scarlets  or  silks  to  put  on. 
We   envy  not  the   greatest   that   sits   ujnm   the 
throne  ; 

1  wad  rather  hae  my  lassie,  tho'  she  cam  in  her 

smock, 
Than  a  princess  wi'  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 

Tho'  we  hae  nae  horses  or  menzie  at  command. 
We  will  toil  on  our  foot,  and  we'll  work  wi'our 

hand  ; 
And  when  wearied  without  rest,  we'll  find  it 

sweet  in  any  Sjior, 
And  we'll  value  not  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 

If  we  hae  ony  babies,  we'll  count  them  as  lent ; 
Hae  we  less,  hae  we  mair,  we  will  aye  be  content ; 
Fur  they  say  they  hae   mair  pleasure  that  wins 

but  a  groit. 
Than  the  miser  wi'  his  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 

I'll  not  meddle  wi'  th'  affairs  o'  the  kirk  or  the 

queen  ; 
They're  nae  matters  for  a  sang,  let  them  sink 

let  them  swim, 
On  your  kirk  I'll  ne'er  encroach,  but  I'll  hold  it 

still  remote, 
Sae  tak  lids  for  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't. 


THE  BLAITHRIE  O'T. 

When  I  think  on  this  warld's  pelf, 

And  the  little  wee  shaie  I  have  o't  to  myself, 


•  The  followinR  (.l>^erv;itinn  was  found  in  a  mcmo- 
"andum  book  Ulongm);  lo  Bums: 

The  Higfiltinder^  Prayer  at  Sheriff: HTuir. 
"  O  L— <1  i*.'  ihou  with  ii« :   but,  if  thou  l)e  n-./  with 
»«,  be  not  agaiusi  us  i   but  Uave  it  bet-neen  the  rat  coati 
•la  in/" 


And  how  the  lass  that  wants  it  is  by  the  ladj 

forgot. 
May  the  shame  fa' the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't  !• 

Jockie  was  the  laddie  that  he'd  the  pleugh, 

Hut  now  he's  got  gowd  and  gear  eneugh  ; 

He  thinks  nae  mair  of  me  that  wears  the  plaide« 

coat  ; 
May  the  shame  fa'  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't ! 

Jenny  was  the  lassie  tliat  mucked  the  byre, 

Hut  now  she  i.<  clad  in  her  silken  attiie, 

And  Jockie  s.iys  he  lo'es  her,   and  swears  he'i 

me  forgot  ; 
May  the  shame  fa'  the  gear  and  the  blaithrie  o't ! 

Rut  all  this  shall  never  daunton  me, 

Sae  lang's  I  keep  my  fancy  free: 

For  the  lad  that's  sae  inconstant,  he's  not  wcrth 

a  groat ; 
May  the  shame  fa'  the  gear  an.l  the  blaithrie  o't ! 


TWEEDSIDE. 

In  Ramsay's  Tea-table  Mixcellani/,  he  tells 
us  that  about  thirty  of  the  songs  in  that  publi- 
cation were  the  works  of  some  young  gentlemen 
of  his  acquaintance  ;   which  soti^s  are   marked 

with  the  letters   D.  C,  &c Did   Mr.  Tytler, 

of  Woodhouselee,  the  worthy  and  able  defender 
of  the  beauteous  Queen  of  Scots,  told  me  that 
the  songs  marked  C,  in  the  Tca-tab/e,  were  the 
composition  of  a  Mr.  Crawford,  of  the  house  of 
Achinames,   who  was  afterwards  uiifortunatelv 

drowned  coming  from  France As  Tvtler  was 

most  intimately  acquainted  with  Allan  Ramsay., 
I  think  the  anecdote  may  be  de|ien(led  on.  6i 
consequence,  the  beautiful  song  of  Twtedslde  is 
Mr.  Crawford's,  and  indeed  docs  great  honour 
to  his  poetical  talents.  He  was  a  Roliei  t  Craw- 
ford ;  the  Mary  he  celebrates,  was  Mary  Stuart, 
of  the  Castlemilk  family,  afterwards  married  tc 
a  Mr.  John  Belches, 

What  beauties  does  Flora  disclose  I 

How  sweet  are  her  smiles  upon  Tweed  • 
Yet  .Clary's  still  sweeter  than  those  ; 

Both  nature  and  fancy  exceed. 
Nor  daisy,  nor  sweet  blushing  rose, 

Nut  all  the  gay  flowers  of  the  field. 
Nor  Tweed  gliding  gently  through  those, 

Such  beauty  and  pleasure  dues  yield. 

The  warblers  are  heard  in  the  grove. 
The  linnet,  the  lark,  and  the  thrush, 

The  blackbird  and  sweet  cooing  dove, 
With  music  enchant  ev'ry  bush. 


♦  Shame  fall  the  trear  ami  the  bhrTrij  o'l,  is  the  tura 
ofanolil  Scottish  soiij,  spoken  when  a  >ouiig  hami. 
snme  girl  marries  an  olii  man,  upon  the  acpuuiit  of  t:A 
wealth  —Kelly's  Scult  Ptuverltt. 


no 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Come,  let  us  jro  forth  \o  the  mead, 
Let  us  see  how  the  primroses  spring, 

We'll  lod'jre  in  some  villao;e  on  Tweed, 
And  love  while  the  feather'd  folks  sing. 

How  does  my  love  pass  the  long  day  ? 

Does  JIary  not  'tend  a  fev/  sheep  ? 
Do  they  never  carelessly  stray, 

While  happily  she  lie»  asleep? 
Tweed's  murmurs  should  lull  her  to  rest ; 

Kind  nature  indulging  my  blis'*, 
To  relieve  the  siift  pains  of  my  breast, 

I'd  steal  an  ambrosial  kiss. 

'Tis  she  does  the  virgins  excel, 

No  beauty  with  her  may  compare  ; 
Love's  gracts  around  her  do  dwell ; 

She's  faiiest,  where  thousands  are  fair. 
Say,  charmer,  wliere  do  thy  flocks  stray  ? 

Oh  !    tell  me  at  noon  where  they  feed  ; 
Shall  I  sei^k  them  on  sweet  winding  Tay, 

Or  the  pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed  ? 

I  have  seen  a  song,  calling  itself  the  original 
Tweedsiile,  and  s.iid  to  have  been  composed  by 
a  Lord  Yester.  It  cnn-;!sted  of  two  stanaas,  of 
which  I  titill  recollect  the  fir.-t. 

When  Maggy  and  T  was  acquaint, 

I  carried  my  nodille  fu'  hie  ; 
Nae  lintwhite  on  a'  the  gieen  jjlain. 

Nor  gowdspiiik  sue  happy  as  me  : 
But  I  saw  her  sae  fair,  and  I  lo'ed  ; 

I  woo'd,  but  I  came  nae  great  speed  ; 
So  now  I  m.iun  waniler  abroad. 

And  lay  uiy  banes  far  frae  the  Tweed. 

The  last  stanza  runs  thus  : — Ed. 

To  Meiggy  my  love  I  did  tell, 

Saut  tears  did  my  pas-ion  express, 
Alas  !   for  I  loo'd  her  o'erwell. 

An'  the  women  loo  sic  a  man  less. 
Her  heart  it  was  frozen  and  cauM, 

Her  pride  had  my  ruin  decreed  ; 
Therefore  I  will  wander  abroad, 

And  lay  my  baues  far  frae  the  Tweed. 


THE  BOATIE  ROWS. 

The  author  of  the  Jioiitie  Rows,  was  a  Mr. 
Ewen  of  Aberdeen.  It  is  a  charming  di-play  of 
womanly  afffction  min^lin;:  with  the  concerns 
and  occU|iati<'i.s  of  bfe.  It  is  nejrly  e(jual  to 
Tliercs  niii:  luck  about  the  house. 

O  WVT.I.  may  the  boatie  row» 
And  better  may  she  s.ieed  ; 
Anil  leesoine  ni  ly  the  boatie  re 
Tiiut  wins  my  b.iini-  lire  ul  . 
The  boatie  row-:,  tl'.e  bo  itie  rows, 
The  boatie  rows  iikL'b  I  ; 
And  wei-1  may  the  biiatli-  row 
That  wins  the  bairns  breid. 


I  cust  •  my  line  in  Largo  bay, 

And  fishes  I  catch'd  nine  ; 

There  was  three  to  boil,  and  three  to  firf 

And  three  to  bait  the  line: 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  row? 

The  boatie  rows  indeed  ; 

And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 

Who  wishes  her  to  speed. 

O  weel  may  the  boatie  row. 
That  fills  a  heavy  creel.f 
And  cleads  us  a'  frae  head  to  feet. 
And  buys  our  porridge  meal : 
The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rowa, 
The  boatie  rows  indeed  ; 
And  happy  be  the  lot  of  a' 
That  wish  the  boatie  speed. 

Wlien  Jamie  vow'd  he  would  be  miOB, 
And  wan  frae  me  my  heart, 

0  muckle  lighter  grew  my  creel, 
He  swore  we'd  never  part : 

Tiie  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows. 
The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel ; 
And  muckle  lighter  is  the  load, 
When  love  bears  up  the  creel. 

My  kurtch  I  put  upo'  my  head. 
And  dress'd  mysel'  fu'  braw  ; 

1  true  my  heart  was  douf  an*  wae, 
When  Jamie  gaed  awa  : 

Hut  weel  may  the  boatie  row, 
And  lucky  be  her  part ; 
And  lightsome  be  the  lassie's  care> 
That  yields  an  honest  heart. 

\\lien  Sawney,  Jock,  an'  Janetie, 

Are  up  and  gotten  lear, 

They'll  help  to  gar  the  boatie  row. 

And  lighten  a'  our  care  : 

The  boatie  rows,  the  boatie  rows, 

The  boatie  rows  fu'  weel  ; 

And  lightsome  be  her  heart  that  heart 

The  murlain,  and  the  creel. 

And  when  wi'  age  we're  worn  down, 
Anil  hirpling  round  the  door, 
TheyT.  row  to  keep  us  dry  and  warni, 
As  we  did  them  l)efore  ;  — 
Then  weel  may  the  boatie  row. 
She  wins  the  bairns  bread  ; 
And  happy  l>e  the  lot  of  a' 
That  wish  the  boat  to  speed  ! 


TIIE  HAPPY  MARRIAGE. 

Another,  out    very  p'-etty  Anglo-5!oot  tiiii 
piece. 


•  Cast— Tlic  AlicrilocriShirc  dialecU 
\  kn  u«icr  UuikeU 


SONGS. 


m 


How  blest  lias  ray  time  Decu,  what  joys  have  1 

Since  wedlock's  soft  bondage   made  Jessy  my 

own  ! 
So  joj-ful  my  heart  is,  so  easy  my  chain, 
That  freedom  is  tasteless,  uiid  lovin'j  a  pain. 

Thro'  walks  grown  with  woodbines,  as  often  we 

stray, 
Arnund  us  our  boys  and  girls  frolic  and  play  : 
How  pleasing    1  !ieii- sport  i* .'   the  wanton  ones 

see 
And  borrow  their  iooks  from  my  Jessy  and  me. 

To  try  her  sweet  temper,  oft  times  am  I  seen 
In  revels  all  day  with  the  nymphs  on  the  green: 
Tho'   painful    my  absence,  'my  doubts   she   be- 
guiles, 
And  meets  me  at  night  with  curopUcence  and 
smiles. 

What  thu'  on  her  cheeks  the  rise  loses  its  hue, 
Her  wit  and   good    humour  bloom  all  the  year 

thro' ; 
Time  still,  as  he  flies,  adds  increase  to  her  truth, 
And  gives  to  her  mind  what  he  steals  from  her 

youth. 

Ye  shepherds  so  gay,  who  make  love  to  ensnare, 
And    cheat,  with  false  vows,   the    too  credulous 

fair  ; 
In  search  of  true  pleasure,  how  vainly  you  roam  ! 
To  hold  it  for  life,  you  must  find  it  at  home. 


Unto  the  yinvcs  a  niilkin,  itind  sir,  «he  says, 
With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee  fair  IMay. 
What  if   I  gang  alang  wi' thee,   my  ain   piettj 
May, 
Wi'  thy  red  rosy  cheeks,   and  thy  coal-blacli 
hair  ; 
Wad  I  be  aught  the  warse  o'  that,  kind  sir,  sht 
says. 
With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee  fair  May. 
&c.  &e. 


THE  POSIE. 

It  appears  evident  to  me  that  Oswald  com- 
posed  his   /{iisUn  Castle  on   the  modulation  of 

this  air In  the  second  part  of  Oswald's,  in  the 

three  first  bars,  he  has  either  hit  on  a  wonder- 
ful similarity  to,  or  else  he  has  entirely  borrow- 
ed the  three  first  bars  of  the  oM  air  ;  and  the 
close  of  both  tunes  is  almost  exactly  the  same. 
The  old  verses  to  which  it  was  sunjr,  when  1 
took  down  the  notes  fioin  a  country  jjirl's  voice, 
had  no  great  merit.— The  following  is  a  speci- 
men ; 

There  was  a  pretty  May,*  and   a  milkin  she 
went ; 
Wi*  lier  red  rosy  cheeks,  and  her  coal-black 
hair : 
And  she  lia»  met  a  young  man  a  comin  o'er  the 
bent. 
With  a  double  and  adieu  to  thee  fair  May. 

O  where  are  ye  goin,  my  ain  pretty  May, 

Wi    thy  red   rosy  cheeks,   tnd  thy  c.-al-black 
hair  .' 


•Maid. 


THE  POSIE 

O  LUVK  will  venture  iu,    vhere  it  daui  na  wee' 

be  seen, 
O  luve  will  venture  in,  where  wisdom  ance  has 

been. 
But   I   will   down   yon   river   rove,    ammg  the 

wood  sae  green, 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu",  the  firstling  o'  the  year, 
And  I  will  pu"  the  piuk,  the  eiiihlem  o'  my  dear, 
For  she's  the  |)ink  o' woman   kind,   and  hlooiiia 
without  a  peer  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  jiosie  to  my  ain  dear  IMay. 

I'll  pu'   the  budding  rose,   when  Plia'biis   jieeps 
in  view. 

For  it's   like   a   baumy  kiss  o'   her  sweet  bonie 
mou  ; 

The  hyacinth's  for  constancy  wi'  its  unchang- 
ing blue. 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair. 
And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I'll  place  the  lily  there; 
The  daisy's  for  simplicity  and  unaA-cted  air. 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  aiu  dear  May  ; 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu',   wi'  its  locks  o'  siller 

g'ey. 
Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  o 

day, 
But  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush  I  winns 

tak  away  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  IMay 

The  woodbine   I  will  pu',  wlien  the  e'ning  sta. 

is  Ileal', 
And  the  diamond  djaps  o'  dew  shall  be  her  e'ei 

sae  clear  ; 
The  violet's  lor  modesty  which  wcel  she  fa's  h 

wear, 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll    tie  the  posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band  o 

luve, 
And  I'll  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I'll  swear  b» 

a'  above, 
That  to  my  latest  drauglu  o'  life  the  band  shali 

ne  er  remuve, 
And  this  will  be  a  posie  to  my  aiii  t'-ar  Ma^ 


112  BURNS'  WORKS 

MARY'S  DREAM. 
The  Miry  here  alluded  to  is  generally  sup- 


pi  "-.o  lie  Miss  Mary  Macghie,  daiisjhter  to 
the  ^AUt\  of  Ainls,  ia  Galloway.  The  poet 
was  a  Mr.  Alexander  Lowe,  who  likewise 
wrote  another  beautiful  song,  called  Pnmpei/s 
Ghost. — I  have  seen  a  poetic  epistle  from  him 
in  North  America,  where  he  now  is,  or  lately 
was,  to  a  lady  in  Si-otland. — By  the  strain  of 
the  veises,  it  appeared  that  they  allude  to  some 
love  disappointment. 

The  moon  had  c'imb'd  the  hignest  hill, 

Which  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 
And  from  the  eastern  summet  shed 

Her  silver  light  on  tow'r  and  tree: 
When  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep. 

Her  thouj^hts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea  ; 
When  soft  and  low  a  voice  was  heard. 

Saying,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me. 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  rais'd 

Her  head  to  ask,  who  there  might  be  ; 

She  saw  young  Sandy  shiv'rlng  stand. 
With  visage  pale  and  hollow  eye  ; 

'  O  M  iry,  dear,  cold  is  my  clay, 
'  It  lies  l)eneath  a  stormy  sea  ; 

'  Far,  far  from  thee,  I  sleep  in  death  ; 
'  So,  Mary,  weep  iio  more  for  me. 

*  Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 

*  We  toss'd  uixiii  the  raging  main  ; 

*  And  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save, 

'  But  all  our  striving  vi^as  in  vain. 

*  E'en  then  when  horror  chill'd  my  blood, 

'  My  heart  was  tillM  with  love  for  tliee  : 
'  The  storm  is  past,  and  I  at  rest  ; 
'  So,  Mary,  weej>  no  more  fui-  me. 

O  maiden  de:ir,  tin  self  prepare, 
'  We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore, 
'  Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 

•  And  tlioii  and  1  shall  part  no  more  !' 
Loud  crow'd  the  cock,  the  sharlows  fled. 

No  moie  of  Sandy  could  she  see  ; 
But  soft  the  |)assiug  s|)irit  said, 

"  Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  !" 


He  wad  neither  ly  in  barn,  nor  yet  wad  te  in 

byre, 
But  in  aiint  the  ha'  door,  or  e\v  afore  the  fire, 
^nd  we'll  gang  tmb  mair,  Sfc- 


THE  JOLLY  BEGGAR. 

Said  to  have  been  composed   oy  King  James 
v.,  on  a  frolic  of  iiis  own. 

There  was  a  jcdly  beggar,    and    a   begging  h« 

was  bono', 
And   he   took    up   his  quarters   into  a  land'art 
town, 
And  we'll  gang  nae  mair  a  roving, 

Hue  lute  into  the  tiig/it, 
And  we'll  gang  tine  mair  a  roving,  lioys, 
L$ti  the  moon  xhine  ne'er  xae  brii/hl  I 


The  beggar's  bed  was  made  at  e'en  wi'  good 

clean  straw  and  hay. 
And  in  ahint  the  ha'  door,  and  there  the  beggar 

lay, 

And  ive'll  gang  nae  mair,  §"0. 

Up  raise  the  good  man's  dcchte',  and  for  to  ba. 

the  door. 
And  there  she  saw   the  beg>,ir  standin  i'  th» 

floor. 

And  we'll  gang  nae  mair,  §"c 

He  took  the  lassie  i;i  iiis  Firms,    and   to  the  bed 

he  ran. 
O  hooly,   hooly  wi'  me,   sir,   ye'U  waken  out 

goodnian. 

Anil  we'll  gang  nae  mair,  ifc. 

The  beggar  was  a  cunnin  loon,   and   ne'er   a 

word  he  spake. 
Until  he  gi>t  his  turn  done,   syne  he  began  tc 

crack. 

And  we'll  gang  nne  mair,  §-c. 

Is  there  ony  nogs  into  this  town?    maiden,   tell 

me  true. 
And  what  wad   ye  do  wi'  them,   my  hiuny  and 

my  dow  ? 

And  we'll  gang  nne  mair,  SjX. 

They'll  rive  a'  my  mealpocks,  and  do  me  meikU 
wrang, 

0  dool  for  the  doing  o't !   are  ye  the  pnir  man  3 

And  we'll  gang  nae  mair,  Sfc. 

Then  she  took  up  the  mealpocks  and  flang  theiB 

o'er  the  wa', 
The  (leil  gae  wi'  the  mealpocks,  my  maidenhea< 

and  a*, 

A-id  we'll  gang  nae  mair,  §"c. 

1  took  ye  for  some  gentlenian,   at  least  the  laird 

of  llrodie  ; 
O  dool  for  the  doing  o't  !   are  ye  the  puir  bodie? 
And  we'll  gang  nae  iiinir,  6fc, 

He  took  the  la.ssie  in  his  arms,  and  gae  her  kissct 

three, 
And   four-aiid-twenty  hunder   merk   to  pay  the 

uurice-fee. 

And  we'll  gang  nae  mair,  ^-c. 

He  took  a  horn   frae  his  side,    and    blew  hiitb 

loud  and  slinll, 
And  four-and-twinty  belfel  kuight.'t  came  ikip- 

ping  o'er  the  hdl, 
j  And  we'll  gaiiy  >uie  tnuir,  jfC 


SONGS. 


And  he  took  out  his  little  knife,  loot  a'  lis  dud- 
dies  f.i', 

And  he  wm  the  brawest  gentleman  that  was 
aiiian^  them  a'. 

And  we'll  gang  nae  mair,  §-c, 

1  he  hocjcrar  wis  3  cliver  loon,  and  he  lap  shoul- 

dor  lici>;ht, 
O  ay  for  sii-kori  qii  irtcrs  as  I  gat  yesternight  ! 
And  we'll  gang  nae  mair,  Sfc. 


HIE  MAID  THAT  TENDS  THE  GOATS. 

BV   MR.    DUDGEON. 

Tins  DiiilgiHiu  is  a  respectable  farmer's  son 
in  Berwickshire. 

Vy  amanij  yon  cliffy  rocks 

Swt'etJy  rings  the  rising  echo, 
To  the  nviid  tliat  tends  the  goats, 
Lihiiig  o'er  her  native  notes. 

Hark  !   she  sink's,  "  Young  Sandy's  kind 
All'  he's  luouilsed  av  to  loe  me  ; 

Here's  a  hrooili  I  ne'er  shall  tine 
Till  he's  fairly  married  to  me  : 
Drive  away  ye  drone  Time, 
An'  bring  about  our  bridal  day. 

"  S.indy  herds  a  fluck  o'  sheep, 

Alton  does  he  blaw  the  whistle, 
In  a  strain  sae  saftly  sweet, 
Laniniies  list'niiig  d  lurna  bleat. 

He's  as  fleet's  the  mnuntain  roe, 
Hardy  as  the  highland  heather. 

Wading  thri)Ui;h  the  winter  snow, 
Keeping  ay  his  flock  together  ; 
Rut  a  pla;d,  wi'  bare  houghs, 
He  braves  the  bleakest  uorlin  blast. 

"  Brawly  he  can  dance  and  sing 

Canty  glee  or  highland  cronach; 
Ndne  can  ever  match  his  fl-.ug, 
At  a  reel,  or  round  a  ring  ; 

\Vij;htly  can  he  wield  a  rung, 
In  a  brawl  he's  ay  the  bangster  : 

A'  liis  piaise  can  ne'er  be  sung 
IJy  the  lange-t-winded  sangster. 
Sangs  that  sing  o'  Sandy 
Come  short,  though  they  were  e'er  sae  lang. 


When  'tis  carded,  row'd  and  njms^ 
Then  the  work  is  haflens  done  ; 
Hut  when  woven,  drest  and  ilean, 
It  may  be  clea<ling  for  a  queen. 

Sing,  my  bonny  harmless  sheep, 
That  feed  upon  the  mountain  s  steepj 
Bleating  sweetly  as  ye  go, 
Thro'  the  winter's  frost  and  snow; 
H.irt,  and  hvnd,  and  fiUow-deer, 
No  be  haff  so  nsefid  are  : 
Frae  kings  to  him  that  hads  the  plovf. 
Are  all  oblig'd  to  tarry  woo. 

Up,  ve  shepherds,  dance  and  skip. 
O'er  the  hills  and  vallies  trip, 
Sitig  up  the  praise  of  tarry  woo, 
Sing  the  flocks  that  bear  it  too  ; 
Haimless  creatures  without  blame, 
That  dead  the  back,  and  cram  the  waia^ 
Keep  us  warm  and  hearty  fou ; 
Lcese  me  on  the  'arry  woo. 

IIow  happy  is  the  shepherd's  life, 
Far  fiae  cuui  ts,  and  free  of  strife, 
While  the  giiDiners  bleat  and  bae, 
And  the  lambkins  answer  mae  : 
No  such  music  to  his  ear  ; — 
Of  thief  or  fox  he  has  no  fear  ; 
Sturdy  Kent  and   CoUg  true, 
Will  defend  the  tarry  woo. 

He  lives  content,  and  envies  noce; 
Not  even  a  monarch  on  his  throne, 
Tho'  he  the  royal  sceptre  sways. 
Has  not  sweeter  holidays. 
M'ho'd  be  a  king,  can  ony  tell. 
When  a  shepherd  sings  sae  well  ? 
Sings  sae  well,  anil  pays  his  due. 
With  honest  heart  and  tarry  woo. 


TARRY  WOO. 

This  19  a  very  pretty  song ;  but  I  fancy  that 
tlie  first  half  stanz.u  as  well  as  the  tune  itself, 
ftre  much  older  than  the  rest  oH  the  words. 

Tarry  woo,  tarry  woo, 
Tarry  woo  is  ill  to  spin  ; 
Card  it  well,  card  it  well. 
Card  ..  »'ell  ere  ye  begin. 


THE  COLLIER'S  BONNIE  LASSIF.- 

The  first  h.df  stanza  is  much  older  than  the 
days  of  Ramsay. — The  old  words  began  thus  :— 

The  collier  has  a  dochter,  and,   O,  she's  woo. 

dcr  bonnie  ! 
A  laird  he  was  that  sought  her,   rich  baith   it 

lands  and  money. 
She  wad  na  hae  a  laird,  nor  wad  she  be  a  lady 
But  she  wad  hae  a  collier,  the  color  o'  her  daddia 


The  collier  has  a  oaughter. 

And  O  she's  wonder  bonny  ; 
A  lainl  he  was  that  sought  her, 

Rich  baith  in  lands  and  money  ; 
The  tutors  watch'd  the  motion 

Of  this  young  honest  lover  ; 
But  love  is  like  the  oceau  ; 

Wha  c*i*  its  depth  discover? 


114 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


He  li.id  i  ir,".rt  to  please  ye. 

And  w.is  hy  ii'  respected  ; 
His  airs  sat  roiiiul  him  easy, 

Genteel,  l>ut  un^iifected. 
The  fullier's  honnie  lassie, 

Fdir  as  the  new-hlown  lilie, 
Ay  sweet,  ana  never  saucv, 

Seeur'J  the  lieurt  of  WiRie. 

He  lov'd  beyond  expression 

The  charms  that  were  about  her^ 
Anil  panted  for  pnsse-sitm, 

His  life  was  dull  without  her 
After  mature  resolving. 

Close  to  his  breast  he  held  her 
In  saftest  flames  dissolving, 

He  tenfierly  thus  tell'd  her  : 

'My  bonny  collier's  daughter. 

Let  nacthing  discompose  ve, 
'Tis  no  yiHir  scanty  tocher 

Shall  ever  gar  me  lose  ye  : 
For  I  have  gear  in  plenty, 

And  love  says,  'Tis  my  duty 
To  ware  what  heav'n  has  lent  me 

Upon  your  wit  and  beauty. 


MY  AIN  KIND  DEARIE— O. 

The  old  words  of  this  song  are  omitted  here, 
though  much  more  beautiful  than  these  insert- 
ed ;   which  were  mostly  composed  by  poor  Fer- 

gusson,  in  one  of  his  merry  humours The  (Id 

words  began  thus: — 

I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

IMy  ain  kind  dearie,  O, 
I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O, 
Altho'  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wat. 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  weary,  O, 
I'll  rowe  thee  o'er  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O 


Will  ye  gang  o'er  the  lea-rig, 

My  aiii  kind  dearie,  O  ? 
And  cuddle  there  sae  kindlie, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O? 
At  thorny  ilike  and  birken-treo, 

We'll  dilT  and  ne'er  be  weary,  O  ; 
They'll  scug  ill  een  fiae  you  and  me. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O  ! 

Nae  herds,  wi'  kent  or  colly,  there, 

Shall  ever  come  to  fear  ye,  O  ; 
But  lavrocks,  whistling  in  the  air, 

Sh.'.ll  woo,  like  me,  their  dearie,  O. 
While  others  herd  their  lambs  and  yowcs, 

And  toil  for  wuild's  gear,  my  jo  ; 
(Jj)on  the  lea,  my  pleasure  grows, 

Wi*  thee  my  kiud  dearie,  O. 


DOWN  THE  BURN,  DAVIE. 

I  have  been  informed,  that  the  tune  of  Down 
the  Hum,  Davie,  was  the  composition  of  David 
Maigh,  keeper  of  the  blood  slough  hounds,  be- 
longing  to  the  Laird  of  Riddel,  in  Tweeddule. 

When  trees  did  bud,  and  fields  were  greca. 

And  broom  bloom  d  fair  to  see  ; 
When  Mary  was  complete  fiftee-n, 

And  love  laugh'd  in  her  e'e  ; 
Blythe  Davie's  blinks  her  heart  did  mo7e» 

To  speak  her  mind  thus  free, 
Gang  dawn  the  Ivrn  Davie,  love. 

And  I  shall  follow  thee. 

Now  Davie  did  each  lad  surpass, 

That  dwalt  on  yon  burn  side, 
And  Mary  was  the  bonniest  lass, 

Just  meet  to  be  a  bride  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  rosie,  red  and  white. 

Her  een  were  bonnie  blue  ; 
Her  looks  were  like  Aurora  bright, 

Her  lips  like  dropping  dew. 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 

What  tender  tales  they  said  1 
His  cheek  to  her's  he  aft  did  lay. 

And  with  her  bosom  play'd  ; 


^V^lat  pass'd,  I  guess,  was  harmless  plsy, 

And  naething  sure  unmeet  : 
For,  ganging  hame,  1  heard  them  say, 

They  lik'd  a  walk  sie  sweet  ; 
And  that  they  aften  should  return, 

Sic  ])leasure  to  renew  ; 
Quoth  Mary,  Love,  I  like  the  burn, 

And  ay  shall  follow  you.  • 


BLINK  O'ER  THE  BURN,  SWEET 
BETTY. 

The  old  words,  all  that  I  remember,  are,— 

Blink  over  the  burn,  sweet  Betty, 

It  is  a  cauld  winter  night  ; 
It  rains,  it  hails,  it  thunders. 

The  moon  she  sries  nae  light : 
It's  a'  for  the  sake  o'  sweet  Betty, 

That  eTer  I  tint  my  way  ; 
Sweet,  let  me  lie  beyond  thee, 

Until  it  be  break  o'  day.— 

O,  Betty  will  bake  my  bread, 

Ami  Betty  will  brew  my  ale, 
And  15etty  will  be  my  love. 

When  I  come  over  the  dale  : 

•  TIic  last  four  lines  of  the  tlotd  stnn/.i,  tx-ing 
»omcivliat  objectionable  in  point  ol  ilelii'acy,  arc  omit- 
teil.  Ihirns  .iltcroil  tlicso  liiic!,.  11;..  '.\\i  alii-iatioB 
lici'n  atteuiled  with  his  usual  succe.»,  \t  would  hava 
bi'L'n  aUuDtt^L 


SONGS. 


115 


Blink  ovpi-  tlie  burn,  sweet  Betty, 
liliisk  over  the  liiini  to  ine, 

\ii(l  while  I  hae  life,  dear  l.issie, 
Mv  iiiii  sweot  Bv^tty  thuu's  be.— 


THERE'S  NAE  LUCK  ABOUT  THE 
HOUSE. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  songs  in 
the  Scuts,  or  any  other  language. — The  two 
lines, 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ! 
Ana  will  I  hear  him  speak  ! 

as  well  as  the  two  preceding  ones,  are  unequall- 
ed almost  l)y  any  thing  I  ever  heard  or  read  : 
and  the  lines, 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neiit  we  never  saw- 
are  woithy  of  the  first  poet. — It  is  long  poste- 
rior to  Ramsay's  days. — About  the  year  1771, 
or  72,  it  came  first  on  the  streets  as  a  ballad  ; 
and  I  su|ipose  the  composition  of  the  song  was 
not  much  aiiterior  to  that  period.* 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 
And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  talk  o'  wark  ? 
Ye  jads,  lay  by  your  wheel  ! 
Is  this  a  time  to  talk  of  wark, 
When  Culin's  at  the  door? 
Gie  me  my  cloak  !   I'll  to  the  quay, 
And  see  him  come  ashore. 

Fjt  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There^s  nne  luck  ava  ; 

There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house, 

M'hen  our  gudeminis  awa. 

Rise  up,  and  mak  a  clean  fire-side, 

I'ut  on  the  muckle  pat  ; 

Gie  httle  Kate  her  cotton  gowu, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday's  coat  ; 

And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw  ; 

It's  a  to  please  my  ain  guilenian, 

He  likes  to  see  them  braw. 

For  there's  nae  luck,  §'c. 

There  is  tiva  hens  upon  the  bauk. 
Sheen  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about. 
That  Colin  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 
oar  ilka  thing  look  braw  ; 
It's  a  for  love  of  my  gudeman, — • 
For  he's  been  long  awa. 

For  there's  nae  luck,  §t. 


0  gie  me  down  my  bigonets. 
My  bishop-satin  gown  ; 

For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife 

That  Colin's  come  to  town  ; 

My  Sunday's  shoon  they  maun  gae  OII« 

My  hose  o'  peail  blue. 

It's  a*  to  please  my  ain  guderaan, 

For  he's  baith  leel  and  true. 

For  there's  ?iue  luck,  §-c. 

Sae  true's  his  woriU,  sae  smooth's  his  speeeh 

His  breath  like  caller  air, 

Ilis  very  foot  has  music  in't, 

When  lie  comes  up  the  stair  : 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ! 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ! 

I'm  dowri;;ht  dizzy  with  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet  I 

For  there's  nae  luck,  §-c. 

The  cauhl  blasts  of  the  winter  wind, 

That  thrilled  thro'  my  heart, 

They're  a'  blaun  by  ;   I  hae  Lm  safe, 

'Till  death  we'll  never  part  ; 

But  what  puts  [laiting  in  my  head? 

It  may  be  far  awa  ; 

The  present  moment  is  our  ain. 

The  uei^t  we  never  saw  ! 

Fur  there's  nae  luck,  SfC. 

Since  Colin's  well,  I'm  well  content, 

1  hae  nae  niajr  to  crave  ; 

Could  I  but  live  to  mak  hiir.  bles*, 

I'm  blest  ahoou  the  lave  ; 

And  will  I  see  his  face  again  I 

.And  will  I  hear  him  spe.'k  ! 

I'm  downrigl'.t  dizzy  with  cap  .iap-t^ 

In  troth  I'm  like  io  g:«;et ! 


•  It  is  no  »  ascertained  tliat  Meikle,  the  trauslat<r 
•f  Cauioens,  was  the  author  of  tins  Jong. 


JOHN  liLi'f.  Boxr:E  J/^i-.l. 

JJfiN  Hat's  ^unrie  J-sssio  wa*  i  ,».ghter  of 
John  Hav,  E'A,  cr  Muru>  Is  of  Tf.edJale,  and 
late  Ci'untcas  Dow-^ger  of  Ilj.\bjrgh. — She  died 
at  Bioo:iib-..Is,  ucm  Kelso,  some  time  between 
the  y.'ai-i  i^'.O  s-ml  1740. 

Br  sr-,Do''b  winding  Tay  a  swain  was  recoiling 
Af'' crr'd  ki.  Oh  hey  !    maun  I  still  live  pining 
Aiycl  f'.ius  away,  and  daurna  discove' 
Tj  ir.y  Ix/unie  Hay  that  I  am  her  lover  ! 

N^s  tr.air  it  will  hide,  the  flame  waxes  stronger; 
If  she's  not  my  bride,  my  days  are  nae  langer  : 
Then  I'll  take  a  heart,  and  try  at  a  venture, 
Alayhe,  ere  we  part,  my  vows  may  content  her. 

She's  fresh  as  the  Sprin;;,  and  sweet  as  Aurorik, 
When  birds  mount  and  sing,  bidding  day  a  good- 
morrow  ; 
The  swaird  of  the  mead,  enamell'd  wi*  daisies, 
Looks  witl  er'd  and  de.id   when   twin'd   of  lie! 
8'rac<'«. 


116 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


But  if  she  appear  where  verdure  invites  her, 
The  fountains   run  clear,  and  flowers  smell  the 

swt-eter  ; 
Tis  heaven  t»  lie  by  when  her  wit  is  a-flowing. 
Her  smiles  and  brighteyes  set  my  spirits  a-glow- 

ing. 

The  mair  that  T  gaze,  the  deeper  I'm  wounded, 
Struck  duml)  wi*  amaze,  my  mind  is  confounded  ; 
I'm  a'  ill  a  fire,  dear  maid,  to  caress  ye, 
Far  a'  my  aesire  is  Hay's  bonnie  lassie. 


THE  BONNIE  BKUCKET  LASSIE. 

The  idea  of  this  son<j  is  to  me  very  original  : 
the  two  first  lines  are  all  of  it  that  is  old.  The 
rest  (if  the  son?,  as  well  as  those  songs  in  the 
Museum  marked  T,  are  the  works  of  an  obscure, 
tippling,  but  extranidinary  body  of  the  name  of 
Tytler,  commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Bcl- 
loon  Tytler,  from  his  having  projected  a  balloon  : 
A  mortal,  who,  though  he  drudges  about  Edin- 
burgh as  a  common  printer,  with  leaky  shoes,  a 
sky-lighted  hat,  and  knee-buckles  as  unlike  as 
George-by-the-Grace-of-God,  and  Solomon-the 
Son-of- David  ;  yet  that  same  unknown  drunken 
mortal  is  author  and  compiler  of  th.ree-fourths 
Elliot's  pompous  Encycliipedi*  Biitannica,  which 
he  composed  at  half  a  guinea  a  week  !• 

The  bonnie  brucket  lassie 

She's  blue  beneath  the  e'en  ; 
She  was  tlie  fairest  lassie 

That  danced  on  the  green  : 
A  lad  he  loo'd  her  dearly. 

She  (lid  his  love  return  ; 
But  he  his  vows  ha<  broken. 

And  left  her  for  to  mourn. 

*'  My  shape,"  she  says,  "  was  handsome, 

My  face  was  fair  and  clean  ; 
But  now  I'm  bonnie  brucket, 

And  blue  beneath  the  e'en  : 
Wy  eyes  were  bright  and  sparkling, 

Before  that  they  turn'd  blue  ; 
But  now  they're  dull  with  weeping. 

And  a',  my  love,  for  you. 

"  IMy  person  it  was  comely. 

My  shape,  they  said,  was  neat ; 
But  now  I  am  quite  chang'd, 

My  stays  they  winna  meet : 
A'  night  I  sleeped  soundly. 

My  mind  was  never  sad  ; 
But  now  my  rest  is  broken, 

Wi'  thinking  o'  my  lad. 

"  O  could  I  live  in  darkness, 
Or  hide  me  in  the  sea. 


•  Balloon  Tytler,  is  here  rcrerred  to. 


Since  my  love  is  unfai.hfu!. 

And  has  forsaken  me  ! 
No  other  love  I  suffer'd 

Within  mv  breast  to  dwet  s 
In  nought  1  have  offended, 

But  loving  hira  too  well." 

Her  lover  heard  her  mournitg, 

As  by  he  chanc'd  to  pass, 
And  press'd  unto  his  bosom 

The  lovely  brucket  lass  : 
"  My  dear,"  he  said,   "  cease  grieving, 

Since  that  your  love's  sae  true, 
My  bonnie  brucket  lassie 

I'll  faithful  prove  to  you." 


SAE  MERRY  AS  WE  TWA  HA'E  BEEN 

This  song  is  beautiful. — The  chorus  in  par- 
ticular  is  truly  pathetic. — I   never  could  Jean 

any  thing  of  its  author. 

.\  l.Ass  that  was  laden  with  care 
Sat  heavily  under  yon  thorn  ; 
I  listen'd  awhile  for  to  hear. 

When  thus  she  began  for  to  mourn  : 
Whene'er  my  dear  shepherd  was  there, 

The  birds  did  melodiously  sing. 
And  cold  nipping  winter  did  wear 
A  face  that  rcseud>led  the  spring. 
Sae  merry  as  we  twa  hue  been. 
Sue  merry  ns  we  twit  line  been. 
My  heart  it  is  like  fur  to  break, 
ir//c/j  I  think  (in  the  days  we  hae  teen. 

Our  flocks  feeding  close  by  his  side, 

He  gently  pressing  my  hand, 
I  view'd  the  wide  world  in  its  pride. 

And  laugh'd  at  the  pomp  of  command  ! 
My  dear,  he  would  oft  to  me  say, 

What  makes  you  hard-hearted  to  me? 
Oh  !   why  do  vou  thus  turn  away 

From  him  who  is  dying  for  thee? 
Sae  merry,  §-c. 

But  now  he  is  fir  from  my  sight, 

Perhaps  a  deceiver  may  prove. 
Which  makes  me  lament  day  and  nig^ 

That  ever  I  granted  my  love. 
Kt  eve,  when  the  rest  of  the  folk 

Were  merrily  seated  to  spin, 
(  set  myself  under  an  oak. 

And  heavily  sis;hed  for  hira. 
Sae  merry,  i^c. 


THE  BUSH  ABOON  TRAQUAIR. 

Tins  is  another  beautiful  song  of  Mr.  CraW 
ford's   composition.      In   the   neighbourhood   o( 
TriKjuair,  tradition  still  shews  the  old  "Bush;" 
which,  when  I  saw  it  in  the  year   1787,  wM 


SONGS. 


117 


"WinpotcJ  of  eijrlit  or  nine  raf^g^eil  birches.  The 
Earl  of  Traquair  has  pl;inteii  a  i:liiin|i  of  trees 
near  l)y,  which  he  calls   "  The  New  IJush. " 

Hear  nie,  ye  nymphs,  and  every  swain, 

I'll  tell  how  I'ejiijy  grieve*  nie  ; 
Tho*  thus  I  languish  anil  complain, 

Alas  !   slie  ne'er  lielieves  me. 
My  vows  and  sisjiis,  like  silent  air, 

Unheedeii  never  move  her  ; 
The  bonnie  bush  ahoon  Traquair, 

Was  where  1  first  did  love  her. 

That  day  she  sinil'd  and  made  me  glad, 

No  maid  seilii'd  ever  kinder  ; 
I  thougL*:  myself  the  luckiest  lad, 

So  swjetly  there  to  find  her. 
I  try'd  to  sooth  my  am'rous  flame, 

In  words  that  I  thuuijht  tender  ; 
If  more  there  pa>'s'd,  I'm  not  to  blame, 

I  meant  not  to  offend  her. 

Yet  now  she  scornful  flees  the  plain, 

The  fields  we  then  frequented  ; 
If  e'er  we  meet,  she  shews  disdain. 

She  looks  as  ne'er  a(  qn.iinted. 
The  bonnie  bu'-h  bloouj'd  fair  in  3lay, 

Its  sweets  I'll  ay  remember  ; 
But  now  her  frowns  make  it  decay. 

It  fades  as  in  December. 

Ve  rural  pow'rs,  who  hear  my  strains, 

Why  thus  should  Pesfgy  grieve  me? 
Oh  !   make  her  partner  iu  my  pains. 

Then  let  her  smiles  relieve  me  : 
If  not,  my  love  will  turn  despair. 

My  passion  no  more  tender; 
I'll  leave  the  bush  ahoon  Traquair, 

To  lonely  wild.s  L'U  wander. 


CROMLET'S  LILT. 

"  In  the  hitter  end  of  the  1 6th  century,  the 
Chishuhns  were  propiietors  of  the  estate  of 
Crondecks  (now  pns>es>e(l  by  the  Drunimonds). 
The  eldest  son  of  that  family  was  very  much 
Sttached  to  a  daughter  of  Sterling  of  Ardoch, 
conin.on'y  known  by  the  name  of  Fair  Helen 
of  Ardoch. 

"  At  that  time  the  opportunities  of  meeting 
betwixt  the  sexes  were  more  rare,  consequently 
m<ue  sought  after  than  now  ;  and  the  Scottish 
ladies,  far  from  piiding  themselves  on  extensive 
literature,  were  thought  sufficiently  book-learn- 
ed if  they  could  make  out  the  Scriptures  in  their 
mother  tongue.  Writing  was  entirely  out  of 
the  line  of  female  education  :  At  that  |)eriod 
the  most  of  our  y<iung  men  of  family  souijht  a 
fortune,  or  found  a  grave,  in  France.  Crom- 
lu',  when  he  went  abroad  ti  the  war,  was  o- 
bliged  to  leave  the  managenun.  of  hi»  corre*- 
pcndence  with   his  mistios  to  a  lay  bruth^i'  cf 


th'*  monastery  of  Dumhiain,  in  the  imniediata 
neighbourhood  of  Crouileck,  and  near  Ardoch. 
This  n\an,  uuf(Mtunate! ,',  was  deeply  sensible  i4 
Helen's  chai  i:is.  He  artfully  prepossesseii  her 
with  storirs  to  the  disailviiiitage  of  Cromlusj 
anil  by  misinterpreting  oi-  keeping  up  the  let- 
ters and  messages  intrusted  to  his  e.ire,  I*  en- 
tirely irritated  both  All  <'onnecti(m  was  broken 
olf  betwixt  them  :  Helen  wa»  inconsolable,  and 
Cromlus  has  left  behind  him,  in  the  ballad  call- 
ed Cromlet's  Lilt,  a  proof  of  the  elegance  of  his 
genius,  as  well  as  the  steadiness  of  his  love. 

"  When  the  Rrtftd  monk  thought  time  had 
sufficiently  softent  '.  Helen's  >urrow,  he  projMsed 
himself  as  a  lover:  Helen  was  obdurate;  but 
at  last,  overcome  by  the  persuasions  of  her 
brother  with  whom  she  lived,  aiul  who,  having 
a  fimily  of  thirty-one  chddren,  was  piobably 
very  well  jileased  to  get  her  off  his  hands,  she 
submitted,  rather  than  consented  to  the  cere- 
mony ;  but  there  her  compliance  ended  ;  and, 
when  forcibly  put  into  beil,  she  started  quite 
frantic  from  it,  screaming  out,  that  after  three 
gentle  taps  on  the  wainscoat,  at  the  bed  head, 
she  heard  Cromlus's  voice,  crying,  Helen,  He- 
len, vi'ind  vie.*  Cromlus  soon  after  coming 
home,  the  treachery  of  the  confidant  was  dis- 
covered,— her  m.iiriage  disannulled, — <ind  He- 
len became  lady  Cromlecks." 

N.  B.  Warg.  iMurray,  mother  to  these  tliirty- 
one  chddren,  was  daughter  to  Murray  of  Strewn, 
one  of  the  seventeen  sons  of  Tullybanline.  and 
whose  youngest  son,  conjmonly  called  the  Tutor 
of  Ardodi,  died  in  the  year  1715,  aged  HI 
years. 

SiKCE  all  thy  vows,  false  maid. 
Are  blown  to  air, 

And  my  ])()or  heart  betray'd 

To  s.id  despair. 

Into  some  wilderness. 

My  grief  I  will  expiess. 

And  thy  hard- hearted ness, 
O  cruel  fair. 

Have  I  not  graven  our  loves 

On  every  tree 
In  yonder  sjireading  gioves, 

Tl'.o"  false  thou  h«: 
Was  not  a  solemn  oath 
Plighted  betwixt  us  both. 
Thou  thy  faith,  I  my  trvith. 

Constant  to  be  ? 

Some  gloomy  place  I'll  find. 

Some  doleful  shade, 

Where  neither  sun  nor  wind 

K'er  entrance  had : 

Into  that  hollow  cave, 

There  will  1  sigh  and  rave. 

Because  thou  dost  behave 

So  faithlessly. 


•  Reticmtiei  nie. 


118                                          BURNS    WORKS. 

Wild  fruit  snail  be  my  moat, 

Restore  my  Peggy's  wonted  charms, 

I'll  drink  the  spring, 

Those  charms  so  dear  to  me  ! 

Cold  earth  shall  he  my  seat: 

Oh  !   never  rob  them  from  these  arcQ3| 

Fi)r  covering 

I'm  lost  if  Peggy  die. 

ril  have  the  starry  sky 

My  head  to  canojiy, 
Until  my  soul  on  hy 

Shall  spread  its  vr'iag. 

SHE  ROSE  AND  LET  ME  IN. 

I'll  have  no  funeral  fire, 

Nor  tears  for  me  : 

The  old  set  of  this  song,  which  is  still  to  be 

No  grave  do  I  desire, 

Nor  obsequies  : 

found  in  printed   collections,   is  much   prettier 

than  this  ;  but  somebody,  I  believe  it  was  Ram- 

The courteous  Rtd-breaat  he 

say,  took   it   into  his  head  to  clear  it  of  som« 

With  leaves  will  cover  rne, 

seeming  indelicacies,   and  made  it  at  once  mora 

And  sing  my  elegy 

chaste  and  more  dull. 

With  doleful  voice. 

The  night  her  silent  sable  wore. 

And  when  a  ghost  I  am, 

And  gloomy  were  the  skies  ; 

I'll  visit  thee, 

Of  glitt'ring  stars  appear'd  no  more 

O  thou  deceitful  danie, 

Than  those  in  Nelly's  eyes. 

Wliose  cruelty 

When  at  her  fither's  yate  I  knock'd, 

Has  kill'd  the  kindest  heart 

Where  I  had  often  been, 

That  e'er  felt  Cupid's  dart, 

She,  shrouded  only  with  her  smock, 

And  never  can  desert 

Arose  and  loot  nie  in. 

From  loving  thee. 

Fast  lock'd  within  her  close  embrace, 

She  trembling  stood  asham'd  ; 
Her  swelling  breast,  and  glowing  face. 

And  ev'ry  touch  inflam'd. 

MY  DEARIE,  IF  TIIOU  DIE. 

My  eager  passion  I  ohey'd, 

Resolv'd  the  fort  to  win  ; 

Attc/TUER  beautiful  song  of  Crawford's. 

And  her  fond  heart  was  soon  betray'd 

To  yield  and  let  me  in. 

Love  never  more  shall  tjive  me  pain, 

My  fancy's  fix'd  on  thee, 

Then,  then,  beyond  expressing, 

Nor  ever  maid  uiy  heart  shall  gain. 

Transj)orting  was  the  joy  ; 

IVIy  Pef^xy,  if  thou  die. 

I  knew  no  greater  blessing. 

Thy  heauty  <loth  such  pleasure  give, 

So  bless'd  a  man  was  I. 

Thy  love's  so  true  to  ine, 

And  she,  all  ravish'd  with  delight. 

Without  thee  I  can  never  live, 

Rid  me  oft  come  again  ; 

My  dt.irie,  if  thou  die. 

And  kindly  vow'd,  that  ev'ry  night 

She'd  rise  and  let  me  in. 

If  fate  shall  tear  thee  from  my  breast, 

How  shall  I  lonely  stray  ! 

But  ah  I  at  last  she  prov'd  with  b^unSf 

In  dreaty  dreams  the  night  I'll  waste, 

And  sighing  liat  and  dull, 

In  sighs,  the  silent  day. 

And  I  that  was  jis  much  concern'd. 

I  ne'er  can  so  nnn'h  virtue  find, 

Look'd  e'en  just  like  a  fool. 

Nor  such  perfection  see  ; 

Her  lovdy  eyes  with  tears  ran  o'er, 

Then  I'll  renounce  all  woman  kind, 

Repenting  her  ra-h  sin  : 

IMy  Peggy,  after  thee. 

She  sigli'd,  and  curs'd  the  fatal  boor 

That  e'er  she  loot  me  in. 

No  new-bln\vTi  heauty  fires  my  heart. 

\V  ith  Cupid's  riving  rage  ; 

But  who  cnu'd  cruelly  deceive, 

But  thine,  which  can  such  sweets  impart, 

Or  from  such  lieinty  part? 

Must  all  the  world  engage. 

I  lov'd  her  so,  I  could  not  leare 

'Twas  this,  that  lilse  th?  morning  sun, 

The  charmer  of  my  lu'art  ; 

Gave  joy  and  life  to  me  ; 

But  wedded,  and  conceal'd  our  cHme 

And  when  its  destin'd  day  is  done. 

Thus  all  was  well  again. 

With  Peggy  let  me  die. 

And  now  she  thanks  the  happy  tims 

That  e'er  she  lout  me  in. 

Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love. 

And  m  such  pleasure  share  ; 

You  who  its  riiililiil  (liiiies  iipj>rove. 
With  pity  view  the  fair  : 

J 

SONGS. 


GO  TO  THE  EWR-nuGirrs,  :\iarion. 

I  A>t  not  sure  if  tliis  olil  anil  ch.irminjj  -lir  l)c" 
if  tlio  Simrh,  as  is  (•(iiiiinnnly  s.iiil,  or  of  tlic 
Nortii  of  St-otldti(l. — Tlii-re  is  a  smiir  ;i|>|i,irfiitlv 
as  ntu-ioiit  as  Hu-L-IhinlUs,  jMiriiui,  wliicl'i 
•i'lsjs  to  tlic  s.inie  tune,  and  is  evidently  of  the 
North. — It  begins  thus:  — 

TiiE  Lord  o'  Gnrdiin  hid  three  doclitcrs, 

5!jry,  Mtri^et,  unil  Je.m, 
Tliey  Uiul  n.i  st.iy  at  honnie  Castle  Goidou, 

But  a«-a  to  Aherdteu. 


119 


Wn,r.  ye  jjo  to  the  ewe-hu^'hts  Marion, 
And  we.ir  in  tlie  sheep  wi"  nie  ; 

The  »un  shines  sweet,  iny  Marion, 
lint  n,ie  halFs.ie  sweet  as  thee. 

0  Marion's  a  bonny  l,i>s. 

And  the  b!yt!i  blinks  in  lier  e'e  ; 
And  f.iin  wad  I  ni.irry  M  irion, 
Giu  Marion  wad  uiairy  me. 

There's  jjowd  in  your  garters,  Marion, 

And  silk  on  your  white  !iause-bane  ; 
Fu'  fain  wad  I  ki^s  my  Marion, 

At  e'en  wi-.en  I  loaie  hiine. 
There's  braw  lads  in  E  irnsi  iw,  Marion, 

Wha  i:a|ie,  and  glower  with  tlieir  e'e, 
At  kii  k  wh.n  tluy  see  my  Alarion  ; 

But  nane  of  tiiem  lo'es  idie  nie. 

1  ve  nine  milk-ewes,  my  Marion, 

A  cow  and  a  brawi^y  i|uey, 
I'll  gie  them  a'  to  my  ^Alarion, 

Just  on  her  brid  il-day  : 
And  ye's  get  a  green  sey  apron, 

And  waistcoat  of  the  Lcmdon  brown, 
And  wow  !   but  ye  will  be  vap'ring. 

Whene'er  ye  gang  to  tl  e  town. 

Pm  young  and  stout,  my  Marion  ; 

Nane  dance  like  me  on  the  green  ; 
And  gin  ye  tiiistke  me,   Marion, 

I'll  e'en  draw  up  wi'  Jean  : 
Sae  pi.t  on  yonr  pearllns,  Marion, 

And  kyrtie  of  the  cranii^sie  ; 
And  soon  as  my  chiu  has  nae  bair  on, 

I  ehill  come  west,  and  sice  ye.  • 


LEWI.S  GORDON.f 

Ihis   air  is  a    pn<of  how  one  of  our    Scots 
tunes  comes  to  be  comj.osed  out  of  another.      I 


•  This  is  marke.1  in  ilie  T  a  TaJ.le  MlsrelUuy  as  an 
old  soni-  Willi  .i.liitions.— a;,/.  •" 

ihL'n  {'"'    '■'•."'i* /i'T'l"".   vonnpcr  brother  to  the 
hen  D„keo.   Gor.loii.  eoMimanled  ,i  .IcUichinent  for 
m<    lliev.iiicr.  uml  aaiiiitt.'l   hiinvjf  with  LTcat  i-il- 
»»<itrv  and  iuJuMHiit.     Me  d,e.l  in  ITol."  '' 


have  one  of  the  earliest  co]).es  of  the  song,  and 
it   has  jnetixed. 

Tune  of  Tarry  Woo. 

Of  whi<h  tune,  a  differect  se.t  has  insensibly 
varied  into  a  different  air.— To  a  Scots  critic, 
the  pathos  of  the  line, 

"  Tho'  his  back  be  at  the  wa'," 

—must  be  very  striking It  needs  not  a  Jaco- 

bite  prejudice  t,-  be  iiifected  with  this  s.ing.  The 
supposed  autho;  ii  "  Lewis  dordin'  was  a  Mr 
Geddes,  priest,  at  Slienval,  in  the  Ainzie. 

Oh  !  send  Lewie  Gordon  haine, 

.•\nd  the  la<l  I  winna  name  ; 

Tho'  his  back  be  at  the  wa'. 

Here's  to  him  that's  far  awa  ! 

Ok  hon  !  my  I£i,,hland  man. 
Oh,  my  honnt/  lli(jlthtiid  iinni  • 
Weel  woidd  I  my  truK-liive  kun, 
Aniang  ten  thonsajid  lliyhland  men. 

Oh  !   to  see  his  tartan-trews, 
Bonnet  blue,  and  laigh-heei'd  shoes, 
Philabeg  ahoon  his  knee  ; 
That's  the  lad  that  I'll  gang  wi'  ! 
O/i  hull,  Sfc. 

The  princely  youth  that  I  do  mean, 
Is  fitted  for  to  be  a  kin"  : 
On  his  breast  he  wears  a  star; 
You'd  tak  him  for  the  God  of  War 
O/t  hon,  §-c. 

Oh  to  see  this  Princely  One, 
Seated  on  a  royal  throne  ! 
Disasters  a'  would  disappear. 
Then  begins  the  Jub'Ice  ye^r  ! 

Oh  hon,  Sfc. 


Oil  ONO  CHRIO. 

Dr.  Ri.ACia.otK  informed  me  that  this  sod* 
was  composed  on  the  infamous  massacre  at 
Glencoe. 

Oh  !   was  not  I  a  weary  wight  ! 

Oh  !  ono  chri,  oh  !  ono  chri—~ 
Maid,  wife,  and  widow,  in  one  night  ! 
When  in  my  soft  and  yielding  anus, 
O  !  when  most  I  thought  him  free  from  harma 
Even  at  the  dead  time  of  the  night, 
They  broke  my  bower,  and  slew"  my  kni"ht. 
\yith  ae  lock  of  his  jet-black  hair,  ° 

I'll  tie  my  heart  for  everni-iir  ; 
Nae  sly-tongued  youth,  or  flitt'nng  swain. 
Shall  e'er  untye  this  knot  again  ; 
Thine  still,  dear  youth,  that  heart  shall  be. 
Nor  pant  for  aught,  save  heaven  and  thee.' 
<The  chorui  repeated  at  tht  end  of  each  line). 


120  BURNS    WORKS 

THE  BEDS  OF  SWEET  ROSES. 


This  song;,  as  far  as  I  know,  for  the  first 
time  appears  here  in  print. — When  I  was  a  boy, 
it  was  a  very  popular  song  in  Ayrshire.  I  re- 
member to  have  heard  those  fariatics,  the  Buch- 
anites,  sing  some  of  their  nonsensical  rhymes, 
which  they  dignify  with  the  name  of  lymns,  to 
this  air BuiiNS. 

As  I  was  a  walking 

One  morning  in  May, 
The  small  birds  sang  sweetly, 

The  flowers  were  bloomin'  gay, 
Oh  there  I  met  my  true  love, 

As  fresh  as  dawnin'  day, 
Down  amoRg  the  beds  of  sweet  roses. 

Fu'  white  was  her  liarefoot, 

New  bathed  in  the  dew  ; 
Whiter  was  her  white  hand, 

Her  ecn  were  bonnie  blue; 
^nd  kind  were  her  whispers, 

And  sweet  was  her  moo, 
Down  among  the  beds  o'  sweet  roses. 

My  father  and  my  mother, 

I  wot  they  told  me  true, 
That  1  liked'  ill  to  thrash. 

And  I  like  worse  to  plough  ; 
But  1  vow  the  maidens  like  me, 

I'or  1  kend  tlie  way  to  woo, 
Down  among  the  beds  of  sweet  roses. 


COKN  RIGS  ARE  BONNY. 

Mv  I'atic  is  a  lover  gay. 

His  mind  is  never  mudily. 
Ills  lireath  Is  sweetei   than  new  liay, 

His  face  is  fair  and  rndily. 
HiH  sliujie  is  liandMMiie,  miildle  size  ; 

He's  stately  in  his  wawking  ; 
The  sliiriing  of  his  cen  surprise  ; 

'Tis  lieaven  to  hear  him  tawking. 

La-^t  night  I  n:et  him  on  a  hawk. 

Where  vllow  ciirn  was  growing, 
There  mony  a  kimily  Word  he  spake. 

That  set  my  lieart  a-glowing. 
He  ki->M,  and  vow'd  he  wad  lie  mine. 

And  liio'ii  nit'  best  of  ony  ; 
That  gars  me  like  to  sing  sinsyne, 

O  com  ru/s  are  bnniiy. 

_et  miid.-n*  of  a  sil!y  minil 

Urfuse  wlijt  niai>t  they're  wanting, 
Biiicc  we  for  yielding  are  de-igu'd. 

We  clia>t«ly  should  be  granting  ; 
Tlien  I'll  iiMiiply  ami  many  I'ate, 

All'!  -vol-  u\\  ciuUei  iiiiny 
Wi*  (if>-  to  t..uz!i>  air  or  lite, 

W  bere  ■-•oiii  rij;->  are  bouny. 


All  the  old  words  that  ever  1  could  meet  with 
to  this  air  were  the  following,  which  seem  t« 
have  been  an  old  chorus. 

O  corn  rigs  and  rye  rigs, 

O  corn  rigs  are  bonnie  ; 
And  where'er  you  meet  a  bonnie  lass. 

Preen  up  her  cocker  n»uy. 


WAUKIN  O'  THE  FAULD. 

There  are  two  stanzas  still  sung  to  this  tune, 
which    I    take  to  be  the  origiual  song  w'nenoe 
Ramsay   composed    his   beautiful    song    of  tbt 
n<yiie  in  the  Gentle  Shepherd. — It  begins, 

0  will  ye  speak  at  our  town. 

As  ye  come  frae  the  fauld,  &c. 

I  regret  that,  as  in  many  of  our  old  songs,  the 
delicacy  of  this  old  fragment  is  not  equal  to  it* 
wit  and  humour. 

My  Peggy  is  a  yovmg  thing. 
Just  enter'd  in  her  teens. 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  sweet  as  May, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  always  gay. 
My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing. 

And  I'm  not  very  an  Id, 
Yet  well  I  like  to  meet  her  at 
The  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly, 
Whene'er  we  meet  alane, 

1  wish  nae  malr  to  lay  my  care, 
I  wish  nae  mair  of  a'  that's  rare. 

My  Peggy  sjieaks  sae  sweetly, 
To  a'  the  lave  I'm  cauld  ; 

But  she  gais  a'  my  spirits  glow, 
At  waukii.g  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly. 
Whene'er  I  whisper  love. 
That  1  look  down  on  a'  the  town. 
That  I  look  'li'wn  upon  a  crown, 
]\ly  I'eguy  smiles  sae  kindly. 

It  makes  me  blythe  and  ba'jld. 
And  naething  gi'es  me  sic  delight. 
As  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly. 

When  on  my  pipe  I  play; 
By  a'  the  rest  it  is  cmifest, 
3y  a'  the  rest,  that  she  sings  best. 
My  IVggy  sings  sae  saftly. 

And  in  lier  saiigs  aie  tald, 
Witli  innocence,  the  wale  of  sei;!^ 


SONGS. 


121 


MAGOin:  LAUDER. 

Tins  nl  I  sorii,',  so  prci^nant  with  Si-ottisli 
nairittif  and  ciitTwy.  is  iiiu-U  ri'lishcd  by  all 
ratiks,  notwitlistaiiiiinc;  ii.s  lnoad  u  it  an<l  pal- 
palilc  nllusidns.  —  Its  langiiasje  is  a  piecioiis  ino- 
Jel  iif  imitaritin  :  sly,  spris^hily,  and  fon^ihly  ex- 
pri'ssive.  —  M  is^jzit's  tongui."  \vms;s  out  tlie  nick- 
nnini'S  of  Rob  the  Pipur  with  all  the  ciiiek'ss 
lightsomt'iii'ss  of  iinri'straiiiuJ  gaiety. 

\ViiA  wad  na  be  in  love 

\\"i'  bonny  iMai,'<,'ie  Laudor? 

A  jiiper  ini't  hur  gaiin  to  Fife, 

And  spoiiM  what  was't  they  I'a'd  her  ;— 

Right  scornfully  slie  answei'd  hini, 

I5o<;onc,  you  hall.in>li.iki'r  ! 

Jig  on  your  s^ate,  you  bladilerskate, 

31y  name  is  JIaggie  Lauder. 

Masf^ie,  <]no*  he,  and  by  my  bigs, 
I'm  tidijin'  fain  to  sec  thee  ; 
Sit  ilo«ii  by  nie,  my  bonny  birdi 
In  ticith  I  winna  steer  thee  : 
For  I'm  a  ])i|Mr  to  mv  trade, 
My  iiame  Is  Rob  the  Ranter  ; 
The  la----es  loop  as  tliey  were  daft, 
Vhen  I  blaw  up  my  chanter. 

Piper,  quo'  ."Me;;,  hae  ye  your  bags? 

Or  is  your  drone  in  order  ? 

If  ye  be  Rob,  I've  heird  o'  you, 

Live  you  upo'  the  liorder  ? 

Th.e  lasses  a',  liaith  t.ir  and  near. 

Have  heaid  o'  Rob  the  Ranter  ; 

III  shake  my  foot  wi'  right  sjiide  will, 

Gif  you'll  blaw  up  your  chanter. 

Then  to  his  bapjs  he  flew  wi'  speed, 
About  the  drone  he  twisted  ; 
Meg  up  and  wallop'd  o'er  tiie  green, 
For  brawly  cimiil  she  tri>k    t. 
Weel  done!    tjuo'  he — play    ip  !   quo*  she; 
Weel  l)ohb'rl  !    quo'  Rob  the  llantcr ; 
Tis  worth  mv  while  to  pi  ly  indeed, 
^Vhen  I  hae  sic  a  d.incer. 

Weel  hae  ye  jilay'd  your  part,  (juo*  Meg, 
Your  cheeks  are  bke  the  crims(m  ; 
There's  nai.e  iti  Scotlaml  plays  sue  weel. 
Since  we  lo<t  Habliie  Simpson. 
I  ve  liv'd  in  Fife,  baith  maid  and  v/lfe, 
These  ten  years  aiid  a  quarter  ; 
G'.n    ye  ghi.uM  come  to  Knster  Fair, 
Speir  ye  fur  Maggie  Lauder. 


TRANENT  MUIR. 
Tu7,e—"  Killicrankie." 


"  TRANF.NT-MfiR"  Was  Composed  by  a  Mr. 
Skirvin,  a  veiy  woithy  re>|'ecf.ible  firmer,  near 


that  Lieutenant  Smith,  whom  he  inentions  iu 
the  n'nth  stanza,  came  to  llaild;ngt>in  after  the 
publicaticMi  of  the  song,  and  sent  a  challenge  to 
Skirvin  to  meet  him  at  H.uldington.  and  an- 
swer for  the  unworthy  manner  in  which  he  had 
noticed  him  in  his  song.  "  Gang  awa  back," 
said  the  honest  faiiiier,  "  and  tell  Mr.  Smith 
that  I  hae  na  leisuie  to  come  to  Haddington  ; 
but  tell  him  to  come  here  ;  and  I'll  t.ik  a  look 
o'  him  ;  and  if  I  think  I'm  fit  to  fecht  him,  I'l. 
fecht  him  ;  and  if  no — I'll  do  as  he  did, — i'fi 
rin  awa." — 


The  Chevalier,  being  void  of  fear, 

Did  inarch  up  Hirsle  brae,  man, 
And  thro'  Tranent,  e'er  he  did  stent, 

As  fast  as  he  could  gae,  man  : 
While  General  Cope  did  taunt  and  mock, 

Wi'  mony  a  loud  huzza,  man  ; 
But  e'er  next  morn  proelaim'd  the  cock. 

We  heard  another  craw,  man. 

The  brave  I  ivniel,  is  I  heard  tell, 

Led  Camerons  on  in  clouds,  man  ; 
The  morning  fair,  and  clear  the  air. 

They  loos'd  with  devilish  thuds,  man  : 
Down  guns  they  threw,  and  swords  they  drew 

And  soon  did  chace  them  aff,  man  ; 
On  Seaton-Crafts  they  buft  tlieir  chafts, 

Atid  gatt  them  riu  like  daft,  man. 

The  bluff  dragoons  swore  blood  and  'uoiu. 

They'd  make  the  rebels  run,  man  ; 
And  yet  they  flee  when  them  tliey  see, 

And  winna  fire  a  gmi,  man  : 
They  turn'd  their  back,  the  foot  they  brake, 

Such  terror  seii'd  them  a',  man  ; 
Some  wet  their  cheeks,  some  fvl'd  their  breck* 

And  some  for  fear  did  fa',  man. 

The  volunteers  prick'd  up  their  ears. 

And  vow  gin  they  were  crouse,  man  ; 
But  when  the  bairns  saw't  turn  to  earu'st, 

Tliey  were  not  worth  a  louse,  man  ; 
;\Iaist  feck  g.ide  hanu>  ;    (J  fy  for  shame  ! 

They'd  better  stay'd  awa',  man. 
Than  wi'  cockaoe  to  make  parade, 

And  do  nae  good  at  a',  man. 

Mentelth  the  great,*  when  hersell  sh— t, 

Un'wares  did  ding  him  o'er,  man  ; 
Yet  wad  nae  stand  to  bear  a  h and, 

But  aff  fou  fast  did  scour,  man  ; 
O'er  Soiitra  hill,  e'er  he  stood  still. 

Before  he  tasted  meat,  m  in  : 
Troth  he  may  brag  of  his  swift  nag, 

That  bare  him  alf  sae  fleet,  man. 


•  The  minister  of  I,nngformae>i'!,avoIimtc«r ;  who, 
hapiuMiiiig  to  eoiue  llie  iiif;*'!  I)i  tore  ili    l)inle,  upon  i 
II    I  ■•  ,   ,  111  r  lli;;hlaiul  (jelluif".  ea^'lli;  nature  ai  l'res:on,  threw  him 

UaJdington.      1  have  hea-il  the  auecdute  often,  |  over,  aiul  carried  liis  gun  as  a  trophy  to  Cope's  camp. 


122 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  Simpson  •  keen,  to  dear  the  een 

Of  rel)els  far  in  wranj;,  in.in. 
Did  never  stiive  wi'  pistuls  five, 

But  giJliip'd  wilh  tlie  tliiang,  man  : 
Ke  tiirnM  his  b.uk.  and  in  a  crack 

Was  de.inly  nut  of  sight,  man  ; 
And  thdiight  it  best  ;   it  was  nae  jsst 

Wi*  Highlanders  to  fight,  man. 

^langst  a'  the  gang  tiane  bade  the  bang 

But  twa,  and  ane  was  tane,  man  ; 
For  CaniplK'H  rade,  l)iit  Myrief  btiid, 

And  sail  he  |)aid  the  kain.f  man  ; 
Fell  sktlps  he  got,  was  war  than  shot 

Frae  the  sharp- edpj'd  claymore,  man  ; 
Frae  many  a  spnut  came  running  out 

His  reeking-het  red  gore,  man. 

But  Gard'nerg  hrive  did  still  behave 

Like  to  a  hero  bright,  man  ; 
His  courau^e  true,  like  him  were  few, 

That  still  despised  flight,  man  ; 
For  king  and  liws,  and  country's  cause, 

In  honour's  bed  he  lay,  man  ; 
His  life,  but  not  his  courage,  fled, 

While  he  had  breath  to  draw,  man. 

And  Major  Bowie,  that  worthy  soul. 

Was  brought  ilown  to  tlie  giriund,  man ; 
His  horse  being  sliot,  it  was  his  lot 

For  to  get  mony  a  wound,  man  : 
Lieutenant  Smitii,  of  Irish  birth, 

Frae  whom  he  cali'd  for  aid,  man, 
Being  full  of  dread,  lap  oVr  his  head, 

And  wadna  be  gainsaid,  man. 

He  made  sic  haste,  sae  spur'd  his  beast, 

'Tw.is  little  there  he  saw,  man  ; 
To  Berwick  rade,  and  safely  said, 

The  Scots  weie  rebels  a',  man  ; 
But  let  that  end,  for  well  'tis  kend 

His  use  and  wont  to  lie,  man  ; 
The  Teague  is  naught,  he  never  fau^ht. 

When  he  had  room  to  flee,  man. 


*  Another  voUinterr  Presbyterian  minister,  who 
»ai,1  he  would  cr.nv  iiier  the  re'jels  of  their  error  bv  the 
dint  111"  his  p;^tllls•.  haviii^,  for  tliat  |iiir;iose,  two  ni 
his  pockets,  tw.)  in  hi',  holsters,  and  ont  in  his  ijtlt. 

t  Mr.  Myriewas  astudeiu  of  physic,  from  Jamaica; 
he  entered  as  a  vohintter  in  Cope's  army,  aid  was 
misenbly  mangled  by  llic  broadsword. 

t  i-  e.   He  siiflered  severely  in  the  cause. 

II  James  Gardiner,  Colonel  of  a  regiment  of  hor'ie. 
This  t'entlfin  m's  conduct,  howevrr  celebrated,  does 
not  seem  to  ha\e  |iri needed  so  much  from  the  (,'ene- 
rous  ardour  of  a  nohlc  and  lieroie  mind,  as  from  a 
spirit  of  religious  <:Mihusia>iii,  .md  a  bifjoted  reli.Jice 
on  the  I'resbyteriau  doctrine  of  |)rc(ksinalion,  which 
rendered  it  ;i  matter  of  |iert'eel  mdillerence  whether  he 
left  the  field  or  leinaiiied  in  it.  being  d^•^erled  bv  his 
♦.roup,  he  was  kilx'd  by  a  Higlilaiulcr,  wiih  a  Lochaber 
axe. 

CnloncI  Gardiner  having,  when  a  gay  young  man, 
tt  Paris,  mode  an  as  i^uaimi  willi  a  ladv,  was,  a«  lie 
pretended,  not  iinly  deterred  from  keeping  his  an. 
poiutmeiii,  III, I  lli.ir.iu(!tily  leelainicd  from  all  such 
thoughts  111  future,  by  at.  apiiarilion.  bee  hii  Life  by 
Uuddndse. 


And  Caddell  drest,  aniang  the  rest. 

With  gun  and  good  claymore,  2G2I1, 
On  gelding  grey  he  roile  that  way. 

With  pistols  set  before,  man  ; 
Tlie  c'ause  was  good,  he'd  spend  his  bloody 

Before  that  he  would  yield,  man  ; 
But  the  night  before  he  left  the  cor. 

And  never  fac'd  the  field,  man. 

But  gallant  Roger,  like  a  soger. 

Stood  and  bravely  fought,  man  ; 
I'm  wae  to  tell,  at  last  he  fell. 

But  mae  down  wi'  him  brought,  man  : 
At  point  of  death,  wi'  his  last  breath, 

(Some  standing  round  in  ring,  man), 
Oil's  back  lying  flat,  he  wav'd  his  hat. 

And  cry'd,  God  save  the  king,  man. 

Some  Higliland  rogues,  like  hungry  dogs^ 

Neglecting  to  pursue,  man. 
About  they  fac'd,  and  in  great  haste 

Upon  the  booty  flew,  man  ; 
And  they,  as  gain,  for  all  their  pain, 

Are  dcck'd  wi  spoils  of  war,  man  ; 
Fow  bald  can  tell  liow  her  nainsell 

Was  ne'er  sae  pra  before,  man. 

At  the  thorn-tree,  which  you  may  see 

Bewest  the  meadow-mill,  man  ; 
There  mony  slain  lay  on  the  plain. 

The  clans  pursuing  still,  man. 
Sic  unco'  hacks,  and  deadly  whacks, 

I  never  saw  the  like,  man  ; 
Lost  hands  and  heads  cost  them  their  deada^ 

That  fell  near  Preston-dyke,  mm. 

That  afternoon,  when  a'  was  done, 

I  gacd  to  see  the  fray,  man  ; 
But  ha  J  I  wist  what  after  past, 

I'd  better  staid  away,  man  : 
On  Seaton  sands,  wi*  nimble  handi. 

They  pick'd  my  |)ockets  bare,  man; 
But  I  wijh  ne'er  to  drie  sic  fear. 

Fur  a'  the  sum  and  mair,  man. 


STREPHON  AND  L\DIA. 
Tunc—"  The  Gordon's  had  tlie  Guldirg  o't." 

The  following  account  of  this  son-f  I  1  jd 
from  Dr.  Blacklock. 

The  Strephon  and  Lydia  mentioned  in  tha 
song  were  perhaps  the  iovehe^t  coujile  of  their 
time.  The  gentleman  was  cmnmonly  known 
by  the  name  of  Beau  Gibson.  Tiie  lady  wa« 
the   Gentle  Jean,  celebrated   soiuewliere  in  Mr. 

Hamilton   of   Bangoiii's    |>oeiiis Having  fre- 

ijtiently  met  at  public  places  tlicy  bad  lot  incj 
a  lerljMoeal  attachment,  which  their  frien  !i 
thought  dangerous,  as  their  resources  were  by 
no  means  adequate  to  ti.eir  la-tes  and  habits  of 
life.  To  elude  the  bad  conseipiences  of  such  a 
connection,    Strephua   was  i>ent  abroad  with  « 


SONGS. 


l?'3 


eABLTiission,  and  jicnshcJ  in  Admiral  reinon's 
e.\pi'iliti()n  to  CuillKigeiia. 

The  author  of  the  sonj^  was  William  Wallace, 
Esq.  of  Cainihill,  in  Ayrshire. — Burns. 

Ai.r.  lovely  on  tlie  sultry  heach, 

Exjjirinfj  Strephon  lay, 
No  hand  the  cordial  draught  to  reach, 

Nor  rhear  the  gloomy  way. 
Ill-fated  youth  !    no  |)areiit  ni;;h. 

To  catch  tl.y  fleeting  breath, 
No  hride,  to  fix  thy  swimming  eye. 

Or  smooth  the  face  of  death. 

Far  distant  from  the  mournful  scete, 

Thy  parent"  sit  at  ease, 
Thy  Lydia  rifles  all  the  i)lain. 

Anil  all  the  spring  to  please. 
Ill-fated  youth!    Iiy  fault  of  liiend. 

Not  force  of  foe  dcpress'd, 
'''hou  fali'st,  alas!    thyself,  thy  kind. 

Thy  country,  unredress'd  ' 


IM  O'ER  YOUNG  TO  MARRY  YET. 

The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old. — The  rest  if 
q  such  as  it  is,  is  mine  — Burns. 

I'm  o'er  young,  I'm  o'er  young, 
I'm  o'er  young  to  mairy  yet  ; 
I'm  o'er  young,  'twad  he  a  sin 
To  take  rae  frae  my  mammy  vet. 

There  is  a  stray,  characteristic  verse,   which 
ought  to  be  restored. 

My  minnie  coft  me  a  new  gown. 

The  kirk  maun  hae  the  gracing  o't ; 

Ware  I  to  lie  wi'  you.  kind  Sir, 
I'm  feared  ye'd  spoil  the  lacing  o't. 
I'm  o'er  young,  &c. 


MY  JO.  JANET. 

Johnson,  the  publisher,  with  a  foolish  deli- 
cacy, refused  to  insert  the  last  stauza  of  thi- 
aumorous  ballad. — Burns. 

Shtket  Sir,  for  yo-ir  courtesie, 

NVhen  ye  come  by  the  liass  tlien, 
For  the  luve  ye  bear  to  me, 

Buy  me  a  keeking-yla^s,  then 

Keck  into  the  draic-uell, 

Janet,  Janet ; 
And  there  ye' II  see  your  lionny  sell, 
My  Jo,  Janet. 

Keeking  in  the  draw-well  clear. 
What  if  1  should  fa'  in, 


S)no  i'  my  kin  will  say  and  eweOTj 

I  drown'd  mysell  for  sin. — 
Hand  the  letter  be  the  liroe, 

Janet,  Janet, 
Hand  the  better  be  the  hr<te. 

My  Jo,  Janet. 

Good  Sir,  for  your  courtesie. 

Coming  through  Aberdeen,  ths% 
For  the  luve  ye  bear  to  me. 

Buy  ine  a  |)air  of  sheen,  then.— 
Clout  the  auld,  the  new  are  dear, 

Jam-t,  Janet  ; 
Ae  pair  may  gaiti  ye  hafu  year, 
JSIy  Jo,  Janet. 

But  what  if  (lancing  on  the  green, 

And  skip[)ing  like  a  maukin. 
If  they  should  see  my  clouted  shoon, 

Of  me  they  will  be  taukin'.^ 
Dance  ay  laiyh,  and  late  at  e'en, 

Janet,  Janet  ; 
Syne  a   their  fauts  jvill  ni>  l,c  seen. 
My  Jo,  Janet. 

Kind  Sir,  for  your  courtesie. 

When  ye  gae  to  the  Cross,  then. 
For  the  luve  ye  bear  to  me. 

Buy  me  a  pacing-horse,  then.— 
Pace  vpo'  yuur  sj)iniiinc/-uheel, 
Janet,  Janet  ; 
Pace  vpo'  your  splnniny-uheel, 
My  Jo,  Janet. 

My  spinning-wheel  is  auld  and  stiff, 

The  rock  o't  winua  stand,  Sir, 
To  keep  the  temper-pin  in  tiff. 

Employs  right  aft  my  hand,  Sir.-» 
Mak  the  best  o't  that  ye  can, 

Janet,  Janet ; 
But  like  it  nciLf  tcule  a  man. 

My  Jo,  Janet. 


GUDE  YILL  CO.MES,  AND  GUDE 
YILL  GOES. 

This  song  sings  to  the  tune  called  The  lot. 
torn  iif  thv.  puucli  bout,  of  wliicii  a  vejv  goo^ 
copy  may  be  found  in  M'  (•'iLbu7isCullt:ctiuK.~-m 

BuilNS. 

Tune—"  The  Happy  Farmer." 

O  (jiide  yill  comes,  and  yiide  yill  goes, 
(jutle  yill  gars  me  sell  my  hose. 
Sell  my  hose,  anil  pawn  my  shoon, 
For  gude  yill  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 

I  HAD  sax  owsen  in  a  pleugh, 
.\nd  tlu'y  drew  teugh  ami  weel  encugh  } 
I  diank  them  a'  ane  by  ane, 
For  gude  yill  keeps  my  heart  abooa. 
Gude  yill,  ij-c. 

I  had  forty  sliiHin  in  a  clout, 
Uude  yill  gart  me  |jyke  tlit«a  out  ; 


124 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


That  gear  should  moule  I  thought  a  siu, 
Gude  jill  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 
Glide  yill,  S^'c. 

The  meikle  pot  upm  my  back, 
Unto  the  vill-hduse  I  diil  pack  ; 
It  nitlted  a'  \vi'  the  heat  o'  the  moon, 
Gude  yill  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 
Gude  y'dl,  ^-c. 

Gude  yill  hands  me  bare  and  busy, 
Gars  me  moop  \vi'  tlic  servant  hizzie. 
Stand  in  the  kirk  when  I  liae  done, 
Gude  yill  keeps  my  heart  aboou.  • 
Gude  yill,  §"r. 

I  wish  their  fa'  may  be  a  shallows, 
Winna  gie  gude  yill  to  gude  fellows. 
And  kei  p  a  soup  'lill  the  altcrnoun, 
Gude  yill  keeps  my  heart  almon. 

O  yude  yill  comes,  and  gude  yill  goes, 
Glide  yill  gars  we  sell  my  liuse. 
Sell  my  /lOse,  and  jxiwn  my  sIiDon, 
Gude  yiU  keeps  my  heart  aboon. 


WERE  NA  MY  HEART  LIGHT  I  WAD 
DIE. 

Lord  Hait.f.s,  in  the  notes  to  his  collection  of 
ancient  Scots  poems,  says  that  this  song  was  the 
composition  of  a  Lady  Grissel  Baillie,  daughter 
of  the  ftrst  Earl  of  JJarchniont,  and  wife  of 
George  Baillie,  of  Jerv:swuod I^urns. 

There  was  aaes  a  ^lay,  and  she  Ino'd  na  men. 
She  biggit  '  :r  bonny  bow'r  down  in  yon  glen  ; 
But  now  she  cries  dool  !   and  a  well-a-day  ! 
Come  down  the  green  gate,  and  oome  here  away. 
Jiut  now  she  ci  ies,  ^'C. 

When  bonny  young  Jcdiny  came  o'er  the  sea, 
He  said  he  saw  naitliing  sae  lovely  as  me  ; 
He  hecht  me  baith  riujisand  muny  braw  things  ; 
And  were  na  my  heart  ight  I  wad  die. 
JJe  hec/it  me,  Sfc. 

tie  had  a  wee  titty  that  loo  .1  na  me. 

Because  I  was  twice  as  bonny  as  she  ; 

She  rais'il  such  a  j-otlier  'twixt  him  and  his  mo- 
ther. 

That  were  na  my  heart  light,  I  wad  die. 
She  ruis'd,  §-t'. 

The  day  it  was  set,  and  the  bridal  to  he, 
The  wife  took  a  dwam,  and  lay  down  to  die  ; 
Bhc   niain'd  and  she  grain  d  out  of  dolour  and 

pain, 
Till  lie  you'd  he  never  wad  see  nie  again. 

She  iiiuin'd  tjC. 

•  'Ibc  hand  of  Biin)«  h  visible  here.  The  lit  and 
1th  viTKcii  oulv  are  the  orijiiual  uiick.  J 


His  kin  was  for  ane  of  a  higher  degree. 
Sad,  What  had  he  to  ilo  with  the  like  of  me  i 
Albeit  I  was  bonny,  I  was  na  for  Johny  : 
And  were  na  my  heart  light,  I  wad  die. 
Albeit  I  teas,  §v. 

They  said,  I  had  neither  cow  nor  cafiF, 
Not  dribbles  of  drink  rins  throw  the  drafl^ 
Nor  pickles  of  meal  rins  throw  the  miU-ee; 
And  were  na  my  heart  light,  I  wad  die. 
Nor  pickles  of,  kc 

His  titty  she  was  baith  wylie  and  slee, 
She  spy'd  me  as  I  came  o'er  the  lee ; 
And  then  she  ran  in  and  made  a  loud  din. 
Believe  your  ain  een,  an  ye  trow  na  me. 
A.n.d  then  she,  §"C. 

His  bonnet  stood  ay  fou  round  on  his  brow  ; 
His  auld  ane  looks  ay  us  well  as  some's  new ; 
But  now  he  lets't  wear  ony  gate  it  will  hiug, 
And  casts  himself  dowie  upon  the  corn-bing. 
Hut  nuw  he,  Sfc. 

And  now  he  gaes  '  dandering'  about  the  dykes 
And  a'  he  dow  do  is  to  hund  the  tykes  : 
The  live-lang  night  he  ne'er  steeks  his  ee, 
And  were  na  my  heart  light,  1  wad  die. 
The  live-laiig,  ^c. 

Were  I  young  for  thee,  as  I  hae  been. 
We  shou'd  hae  been  galloping  down  on  yon  greeOf 
And  linking  it  on  the  lily-white  lee  ; 
And  wow  gin  I  were  but  young  fur  thee  ! 
And  linking  8fc. 


MARY  SCOTT,  THE  FLOWER  OF 
YARROW. 

Mr.  Robertson,  in  his  statistical  account  of 
the  palish  of  Selkirk,  says,  that  Mary  Scott,  the 
Flower  of  Yarrow,  was  descended  from  the  Dry 
hoiie,  and  married  into  the  Harden  family.  Her 
daughter  was  mairied  to  a  predecessor  of  the 
present  Sir  Francis  Elliot  of  Stobbs,  and  of  the 
late  Lord  Heathtield. 

There  is  a  circumstance  in  their  contract  cf 
marriage  that  merits  attention,  as  it  strongly 
marks  the  ])redatory  spiiit  of  the  times. — The 
fatlier-in-law  agrees  to  keep  his  daughter,  for 
some  time  .ifter  the  marriage;  for  which  the 
son-in-law  binds  himself  to  give  him  the  profit* 
of  the  first  Michaelmas-moon. — Burns. 

Happy's  the  love  which  meets  return, 
When  in  solt  Haines  souls  equal  burn; 
But  words  are  wanting  to  discover 
The  torments  of  a  hopeless  lover. 
Ye  registers  of  beav'ii,  relate. 
If  looking  o'er  the  ridl>  of  fate, 
Did  you  there  see  me  mark'd  to  mar/ow 
Mary  Scott  the  flower  of  Yarrow  i 


All  no !   licr  form's  too  heav'nly  fair, 
FTtT  love  tlie  gods  above  must  share  ; 
While  ninrtah  witli  (Icspaii-  explore  her, 
And  at  distance  due  adore  her. 
O  lovely  maid  !   my  doubts  bes^uile, 
Revive  and  bless  me  with  a  smile  : 
Alas  !   if  not,  you'll  soon  debar  a 
Sighing  swain  the  banks  of  Yarrow 

Pe  hush,  ye  fears,  I'll  not  de-^pair  ; 
My  .Maiy's  tender  as  she's  fair  ; 
Then  I'll  go  tell  her  all  mine  anguish, 
She  is  too  good  to  let  me  languish  : 
With  success  crown'd,  I'll  not  envy 
The  folks  who  dwell  above  the  sky  ; 
When  Mary  Scott's  become  my  marrow, 
We'll  make  a  paradise  in  Yarrow. 


SONGS.  125 

THE  MUCKIN'  O*  GEORDIE'S  BYRE. 

The  chorus  of  this  song  is  old Tlie  rest  i« 

the  work  of  Balloon  Tytler.' — BuKNs. 

Tune—"  The  Muckin'  o'  Geordie's  Byre." 

The  muckin'  o'  Geordie's  byre, 

And  the  shool  an'  the  graip  sae  clean. 
Has  gar'd  nie  weet  my  cheeks. 
And  greet  wi'  baith  my  een. 
It  was  ne'er  mi/  ftther's  will, 
i^'or  yet  mi/  mit/ier's  desire, 
lit  e'er  I  slioiihl  fi/h  mij  fingers 
Wi'  muckin'  o'  Geordie's  byre. 


That 


was 
Sol- 
ack- 


tiie  iiigiilaxd  queen. 

The  Highland  Queen,  music  and  poetry, 
composed  by  a  Mr.  M'Vicar,  purser  of  the 
bay  man  of  war. — This  I  had  from  Dr.  B 
lock. — BuuNs. 

Tu'w—"  The  Highland  Queen.", 

No  more  my  song  shall  be,  ye  swains. 
Of  purling  streams  or  flowrie  plains: 
More  pleasing  beauties  now  inspire, 
And  rhoebus  deigns  the  warbling  lyre. 

Divinely  aided,  thus  I  mean 
To  celebrate,  to  celebrate, 

To  celebrate  my  Highland  Queen. 

In  her  sweet  innocence  you'll  find 
With  freedom,  truth  and  virtue  join'd  : 
Strict  honour  fills  her  spotless  soul. 
And  gives  a  lustre  to  the  whole. 

A  match'ess  shape  and  lovely  mein 
All  centre  in,  all  centre  iii, 

All  centre  iu  my  Highland  Queen. 

No  sordid  wish  or  trifling  joy 
Her  settled  calm  of  mind  destroy  : 
From  pride  and  affectation  free. 
Alike  she  smiles  on  you  and  me. 

The  brightest  nymph  that  trips  the  green 
1  do  pronounce,  I  do  pronounce, 

I  do  pronounce  my  Highland  Queen. 

How  blest  the  youth,  whose  gentle  fate 
Has  destined  to  so  fair  a  mate, 
With  all  those  wondrous  gifts  in  store. 
To  which  each  coming  day  brings  more, 

Nj  man  more  happy  can  be  seen 
Possessing  thee,  possessing  thee, 

Posiessing  thee,  my  Highland  Queen. 


The  mouse  is  a  merry  beast. 

The  moiidiwort  wnnts  the  een. 
But  the  warld  shall  ne'er  get  wit, 
Sae  merry  as  we  hae  been. 

It  was  ne'er  jnt/  fat/ier'i  will, 
Nor  yet  my  mi  titer  s  desire. 
That  e'er  I  sluml-l  fyle  my  finrjeia 
WV  muckin'  u'   Geordie's  byre. 


macpherson's  farewell, 

ALSO    KNOWN  AS 

MACPHERSON'S  RANT. 

He  was  a  daring  robber  in  the  beginning  of 
this  (eighteenth)  century — was  condemned  to 
be  hanged  at  Inverness.  '  He  is  said,  when  un- 
der  sentence  of  death,  to  have  composed  this 
tune,  which  he  called  his  own  Lament,  or  Fare- 
well. 

Gow  has  published  a  variation  of  this  fine 
tune,  as  his  own  composition,  which  he  calls 
"  The  Piiucess  Augusta." — Bi;kns. 

I've  spent  my  time  in  rioting, 

Debauch'd  my  health  and  strength: 
I've  pillaged,  plundered,  murdered. 

But  now,  alas  !   at  length 
I  ni  brought  to  punishment  direct  • 

Pale  rie  ith  draws  near  to  me  ; 
This  end  I  never  did  project 

To  hang  upon  a  tree. 

To  hang  upon  a  tree,  a  tree, 

That  cursed  unhappy  death  j 
Like  to  a  wolf  ro  worried  bf. 

And  choaked  in  the  breath  : 
My  very  heart  would  surely  break 

When  this  I  think  upon. 
Did  not  my  courage  singular 

Bid  i)ensive  thoughts  begone. 


■  A  8ins>ilarly  lcanic<l  but  unhappv  person.  He 
live.  .It  to  ,  earlv  a  sage  of  the  w„r|,l:  before  thera 
was  toleratmn  m  Bntain.  wh.ch  he  was  obhged  to  quit 
I  ,J5)  because  of  his  dem<>or;4tical  writiiiiTsI  when  he 
i vImI  "\iT  "  S^'""  ="  "  "''''■■^Paper  ediior.  1  le  also 
•here.  ""^  Temperance  .Societies  any 


126 


BURNS    WORKS. 


Ko  man  on  earth,  tnnt  (Iraweth  breath, 

]\!ore  courage  hud  than  I  ; 
I  (luicd  my  foes  unto  their  (die. 

And  would  not  i'roni  them  fly. 
This  grandeur  stout,  I  did  keep  out, 

Like  Hector,  manfully  : 
Then  wonder  one  like  me  so  stout 

Should  hang  upon  a  tr.>e. 

The  Eg)'ptian  band  I  did  comnuind, 

With  courage  more  by  far, 
Than  ever  did  a  general 

His  soldiers  in  the  war. 
Being  feared  by  all,  both  great  and  small, 

I  liv'd  most  joyfullie  : 
Oh,  curse  upon  this  fate  o'  mine, 

To  hang  upon  a  tree. 

As  for  my  life  I  do  not  care. 

If  justice  would  take  place, 
And  bring  my  fellow-plunderers 

Unto  the  same  disgrace  : 
But  I'eter  Brown,  that  notour  loon. 

Escaped  and  was  made  free : 
Oh,  curse  upon  this  fate  o'  niine, 

To  hang  upon  a  tree. 

Both  law  and  justice  buried  are. 

And  fraud  and  guile  succeed  ; 
The  guilty  pass  unpunished. 

If  money  intercede. 
The  Laird  o'  Graunt,  that  Highland  Sauct, 

His  mighty  majestic, 
He  pleads  the  cau>e  of  Peter  Brown, 

And  lets  JIacpherson  die. 

The  destiny  of  my  life  contrived. 

By  those  whom  I  obliged. 
Rewarded  me  much  ill  for  good. 

And  left  me  no  refuge  : 
But  Braco  Duff,  in  rage  enough, 

He  first  laid  hands  on  me  ; 
And  if  thiit  death  would  not  prevent. 

Avenged  would  I  be. 

As  for  my  life,  it  is  but  short, 

When  I  shall  be  no  more  ; 
To  part  with  life,  I  am  content. 

As  any  heretofore. 
Therefore,  good  people  all,  take  heed, 

This  warning  take  by  me — 
Accoiillug  to  the  lives  you  lead, 

Rewaidcd  you  shall  be.» 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLY. 

Thk  chorus  of  this  is  old ;  the  two  stanzas 
ire  mine. 


Up  in  the  morninc;'s  no  for  mC) 

Up  in  t/ie  morning  early ; 
When  a  the  hills  are  cover  d  wV  snoOt 
I'tn  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Cold  blaws  the  wind  frae  east  to  west, 

The  drift  is  driving  sairly  ; 
Sae  loud  and  shrill's  I  hear  the  blast, 

I'm  sure  it's  winter  fairly. 

Burns. 


•  riurns'  own  set  of  the  Lament,  appears  Ijkcr  the 

ontiiviil  1  fl'iisions  of  the  high-spirited  c:  ^.^jnjU,  tlian 
KlMi  homily 


UP  IN  THE  MORNING  EARLV 

BY  JOHN    HAMILTON. 

Caui.d  1)1, iws  the  wind  frae  north  to  soutiv 

Tlie  drift  is  driving  sairly. 
The  sheep  are  courin'  in  the  heuch : 

O,  sirs,  its  winter  fairly. 
Now  up  in  the  mornin's  no  for  me. 

Up  in  the  mornin'  early  ; 
I'd  rather  gae  supperless  to  my  bed 

Than  ri^e  in  the  moiniu'  early. 

Loud  roars  the  blast  amang  the  woods. 

And  tirls  the  branches  barely  ; 
On  hill  and  house  hear  how  it  thuds. 

The  frost  is  nipping  sairly. 
Now  up  in  the  mornin's  no  for  me. 

Up  in  the  mornin'  early; 
To  s:t  a'  nicht  wad  better  agree 

Than  rise  in  the  mornin'  early. 

The  sun  peeps  ower  yon  southland  tilla 

Like  ony  timorous  carlie, 
Just  blinks  a  wee,  then  sinks  again. 

And  that  we  find  severely. 
Now  up  in  the  mornin's  no  for  me, 

t^p  in  in  the  mornin'  early  ; 
Allien  snaw  blaws  in  at  the  chimly  cheek* 

Wha'd  rise  in  the  mornin'  early. 

Nae  linties  lilt  on  hedge  or  bush ; 

Poor  things  they  suffer  sairly. 
In  cauldrife  quarters  a'  the  night, 

A'  day  they  feed  but  sparely. 
Now  up  in  the  mornin's  no  forme, 

Up  in  the  mornin'  early  ; 
A  pennyless  purse  I  wad  rather  dres 

Than  rise  in  the  mornin'  early. 

A  cozie  house  and  canty  wife. 

Aye  keep  a  body  cheerly  ; 
And  pantries  stou'd  wi'  meat  and  drink> 

They  answer  uitco  i-arely. 
But  up  in  the  mornin's  no  for  nte, 

Uj)  irr  the  mornin'  early  ; 
The  gowan  maun  glint  on  bank  and  lirae^ 

When  I  rise  in  the  mornin'  early 


SONGS. 


127 


GALA-WATER. 

I  HAVE  heard  a  cuacludiag  verse  suag    to 

these  wonls — it  is, 

An'  ay  she  came  at  e'cnin  fa*, 

Am  iiifj  the  yeliuw  broom,  sae  eerie, 

To  seek  the  snooil  o'  silk  she  tint  ; — 

She  fau  ua  it,  but  gat  her  dearie. — BuftNs. 

The  original  song  of  Gala-water  was  thus  re- 
cited by  a  resident  in  that  very  pastoral  district. 

Bonnie  lass  of  Gala-water  ; 

Biaw,  braw  lass  of  Gala-water  ! 
I  would  wade  the  streitn  sae  deep, 

For  yc3  bi  aw  lass  of  Gala-water. 

Braw,  braw  lads  of  Gala-water  ; 
O,  braw  lads  of  G.ila-water  ! 

I'll  kilt  my  coat  aboon  my  knee, 

And  fo.low  my  love  thro*  the  water. 

Sac  fair  her  hiir,  sae  brent  her  brow, 
Sae  bonnie  blue  her  een,  ray  dearie  ; 

Sae  white  her  teeth,  sae  sweet  her  mou*, 
I  often  kiss  her  till  I'm  wearie. 

O'er  yon  h  mk,  and  o'er  yon  brae, 
O'l  r  yon  moss  amang  the  heather  ; 

ni  kilt  my  coat  almon  my  knee. 
And  follow  my  love  thro'  the  water 

Dowc  amang  the  broom,  the  broom, 
Down  ammg  the  liroom,  my  dearie  ; 

The  lassie  lo-t  her  silken  snood. 

That  gart  her  greet  till  she  was  wearie. 


DU.MBARTON  DRUMS. 

Ttiis  is  the  last  of  the  West  Highland  airs  ; 
ond  from  it,  over  the  whole  tract  of  country  to 
the  contiiies  of  Tweedside,  there  is  hardly  a 
tune  or  song  tliat  one  can  say  has  taken  its  ori- 
gin from  any  place  or  transaction  in  that  part  of 
Scotland. — The  oldest  .\yrshire  reel,  is  Stcw- 
arlon  Litsses,  which  wxs  made  by  the  fither  of 
the  present  Sir  Walter  Montgomery  Cunning- 
ham, alias  Lord  Lyie  ;  since  which  period  there 
has  indi'cd  been  local  music  in  that  country  in 
great  jilenty. — Juhnie  Faa  is  the  only  old  song 
which  I  coidd  ever  trace  as  belonging  to  the  ex- 
tensive county  of  Ayr. — BuiiNS. 

The  poet  has  fallen  under  a  mistake  here  : — 
the  drums  here  celebrated  were  not  those  of  the 
town,  or  garri:<on  of  Dumbarton  ;  but  of  the 
rej;iment  commanded  by  Lord  Dumbarton  —  a 
ravaiior  of  the  house  of  Douglas — who  signalized 
him-^elf  en  the  Jacobite  side  in  I6S5. — The  old 
song  was  a»  follows  :  — 

Dcmbarton's  drums  heat  bonny,  O, 
Wiien  ihev  mind  me  of  uiy  dear  Johnie,  O. 


How  iiiippy  am  T, 

When  my  soldier  is  by, 
^V^l!le  he  kisses  and  blesses  his  Annie,  O  ! 
'Tis  a  soldier  alone  can  delight  me,  O, 
For  his  graceful  looks  do  invite  me,  O  : 

\Viiile  guarded  in  his  arms, 

I'll  fear  no  war's  alarms, 
Neither  danger  nor  death  shall  e'er  fright  me,  O 

My  love  is  a  handsome  laddie,  O, 
Genteel,  but  ne'er  fopjjish  nor  gaudy,  O  : 

Tl.o'  commissions  are  dear, 

Yet  ril  buy  him  one  this  year  ; 
For  he  shall  serve  no  lon;^er  a  cadie,  O. 
A  scddicr  has  honour  and  bravery,  (), 
Unacquaijited  with  rogues  and  their  knavery,  Ot 

He  minds  no  other  thing  • 

But  the  ladies  or  the  king  ; 
For  cv'ry  other  care  is  but  slavery,  O. 

Then  I'll  be  the  captain's  lady,  O  ; 
Farewell  all  my  friends  and  my  daddy,  O  : 

I'll  wait  no  more  at  home. 

But  I'll  follow  with  the  drum, 
And  whene'er  that  beats,  I'll  be  ready,  O. 
Dumbarton's  drums  sound  bonny,  O, 
They  are  sprightly  like  my  dear  Johnie,  O  : 

How  happy  shall  I  he. 

When  on  my  soldier's  knee. 
And  he  kisses  and  blesses  his  Annie,  O  ' 


FOR  LACK  OF  GOLD. 

The  country  girls  in  Ayrshire,  instead  of  tba 
line 


She  me  forsook  for  a  great  duke, 


say, 

For  Athole's  duke  she  me  forsook; 

which  I  take  to  be  the  original  reading. 

These  words  were  composed  by  the  late  Dr. 
Austin,  physician  at  Edinburgh. — He  had 
courted  a  lady,*  to  whom  he  was  shortly  to 
have  been  married  :  but  the  Duke  of  Athnie 
hiving  seen  her,  became  so  much  in  love  with 
her,  tliat  he  made  proposals  of  mirria^je,  wliich 
Were  accepted  of,  and  she  jilted  tlie  Doctor.—. 
Burns. 

dr.  austin. 

Tune—"  For  Lack  of  Gold." 

For  lack  of  gold  she  has  left  me,  O  ; 
And  of  all  that's  dear  she's  bereft  me,  Oj 
She  me  forsook  for  Athoie's  duke. 
And  to  endless  wo  she  has  left  me,  O. 
A  star  and  garter  have  more  art 
Than  youth,  a  true  and  faitlJul  heart  ; 


•  Jean,  daughter  of  John  Diummond,  of  Megg 
inch,  KsQ. 


128 


BURNS'  WOKKS. 


Fi)t  PDiptv  titles  \vp  tnust  jinrt  ; 

Foi  jjlittt'riiig  jJiDW  she  has  left  me,  O. 

Nn  criipl  fair  shall  ever  move 
Mv  iiijiirM  neiiif  ;if;.iin  tri  love; 
Thri)'  (listarit  clii)i;ites  T  must  rove, 
Since  Ji'iinv  she  has  left  nie,  O. 
Ye  jjnweis  ;il)(ive,  I  to  \<)ur  care 
Resign  my  faithless  lovely  fair  ; 
Your  choicest  hlessui'^s  he  her  sharei 
Tho'  she  has  ever  left  me,  O  ! 


MILL,  MILL  O. 

The  original,    or   at  least   a  song  evidently 
prior  to  Ramsay's,  is  still  extant. — It  runs  thus  : 

T/ie  ?nin,  mill  O,  nnri  the  kill,  kill  O, 
Anil  the  ciK/fiin  o'  Perjrii/s  nhetl  O, 

The  suck  and  the  siive,  and  a'  she  did  leave, 
And  danc'd  the  milhr's  reel  O, 

As  I  cam  down  yon  waterside, 

And  hy  yon  shellin-hill  O, 
There  I  spied  a  honnie  honnie  lass, 

And  a  lass  that  I  lov'd  rit'ht  wcel  O. — • 


. RCRNS. 


MILL,  JIILL  O. 

Beveatit  a  green  shade  I  find  a  fair  maid 

Was  sleeping  sound  and  still-O, 
A'  lowing  wi'  love,  my  fancy  did  rove, 

Around  her  with  good  will-0  : 
Her  bosom  I  press'd,  but,  sunk  in  her  rest, 

She  stir'd  na  my  joy  to  «])ill-0  ; 
While  kincliy  she  slept,  close  to  her  I  crept, 

And  kiss'd,  and  kissd  her  my  fill-O. 

Oblig'd  by  command  in  Flanders  to  land, 

T'  emjjloy  my  courage  and  skill-O, 
Frae  'er  quietly  I  stiw,  hoist'd  sails  and  awa. 

For  wind  blew  fair  on  the  hill-0. 
Twa  years  brought  me  hame,  where  loud-frasing 
fame 

Tahl  me  with  a  voice  right  shrill-O, 
My  lass,  like  a  fool,  had  mounted  the  stool, 

Nor  ken'd  wha'd  doue  her  the  ill-0. 

Mair  fond  of  her  charms,   with  my  son  in  her 
arms, 

A  fcrlying  speer'd  how  she  feIl-0  ; 
Wi'  the  tear  in  her  eye,  quoth  she,  let  me  die, 

Sweet  Sir,  gin  I  can  tell-0. 


*  The  remaining  two  stanzas,  thougli  pretty  enough, 
partake  rather  ton  much  of  the  mile  simplicity  ot  ihc 
"■  Uldcn  time"  to  be  admitted  here. — KU. 


Love  gae  the  command,  I  took  !-.er  bv   he  ixc^ 

And  bad  her  a'  fears  expel-O, 
And  nae  mair  look  wan,  for  I  was  the  man 

Wha  had  doue  her  the  deed  x  /seil-O. 

My  bonnie  sweet  lass,  on  the  gowany  grass. 

Beneath  the  shilling-hill-O, 
If  I  did  offence,  I'se  make  ye  amends, 

Before  I  leave  Pcfjgy's  niill-0. 
O  !   the  mill,  mill-0,  and  the  kill,  klll-O, 

And  the  cogging  of  the  wlieel-O, 
The  sack  and  the  sieve,  a'  tluie  ye  man  leave 

And  round  with  a  sosrer  reel-O 


WALY,  WALY. 

In  the  west  country  I  have  heard  a  dlfFerent 

edition   of  the   second   stanza Instead   of  tbi 

four    lines,    beginning    with,     ''   When   cixJile 
shtlls,"  §T.  the  other  way  ran  thus  :^ 

O  WHEREFORE  need  I  busk  my  head, 
Or  wherefore  need  I  kame  my  hair, 

Sin  my  fause  luve  has  me  forsook. 
And  says  he'll  never  luve  me  mair. — 

Burks. 


0  WAl.v  waly  up  tlie  bank, 
And  waly  waly  down  the  brse. 

And  waly  waly  by  yon  burn-side, 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  to  gse, 

1  leint  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thought  it  was  a  trustie  trie  ; 
But  first  it  bow'd,  and  syne  it  brake. 
And  sae  my  true  love  did  lyghtlie  me. 

O  waly  waly  gin  love  be  bonnie 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new; 
But  when  its  auld  it  waxeth  cauld, 

And  fades  awa'  like  muming-dew. 
O  wherefore  shu'd  I  busk  my  head  ? 

Or  wherefore  shu'd  I  kame  my  hair? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he'll  never  loe  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-seat  shall  be  my  bfv', 

The  sheits  shall  neir  be  fyl'd  by  me: 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  love  has  forsaken  me. 
Marti'nias  wind,  whan  wilt  thou  blaw. 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  atf  the  trie? 
O  gentle  death,  whan  wilt  tlu  a  cum  ? 

For  of  my  life  1  am  wearie. 

'Tis  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 
Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie  ; 

'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 
But  my  love's  beat  t  thrown  cauld  to  mtk 

Whan  we  came  in  by  Glasgowe  town. 
We  weic  a  comely  sight  tu  see  ; 


SOJNGS. 


]29 


Mf  (ovp  was  dad  i'  tli'  bl,u-k  velvet, 
And  I  iiiyscll  in  fianiasii. 

But  had  I  wist  hcfoie  I  kisst, 

Tlicit    ove  hail  lict'ti  sae  ill  to  win, 
I  luid  Idckt  my  lii-art  in  a  c.vu  of  gowd, 

And  |iiiui  d  it  wi'  a  siller  pin. 
Oh,  (ill  I    if  my  yniiiiii  hahe  wrre  hnrne, 

And  set  uiJtin  the  luiisc's  kiiee. 
And  I  niysi'il  wore  dead  and  ttiine, 

For  a  maid  a;;ain  lie  never  be  ! 


TODLEN  IIAJIE. 

This  is,  perli:ip<!,   tlie  first  bottle  song   that 
ever  w;ls  composed — Burns. 

WiiFN  I've  a  saxpcMce  under  my  thumb. 

Then  I'll  uet  ciedit  in  ilka  town  : 

But  ay  when  I'm  ]!oor  they  bid  uie  gae  by; 

O  !    p'lverty  parts  good  company. 
Ti'dlun  /lame,  toil/cn  liaiiie, 
Coudtui  my  hove  come  todlen  home  ? 

Fair-fa'  the  goodwife,  and  send  her  good  sale. 
She  gi'i'-^  lis  white  bannocks  to  diiiik  her  ale, 
Svne  if  l.er  tippony  chance  to  be  sma', 
Wi'll  tak  a  E;ood  scour  o't,  and  ca't  awa'. 

Todlen  hame,  todlen  /mnie. 

An  round  as  a  tuep,  come  todlen  hame. 

My  kimmer  and  I  lay  down  to  sleep. 

And  twa  piiitstoups  at  our  bed-feet  ; 

A.id  ay  wiien  we  waken'd,  we  drank  them  dry  : 

What  think  ye  of  my  wee  kimmer  and  I  ? 

Todlen  hut,  and  todlen  ben. 

Sue  round  as  rny  louve  comes  todlen  hame. 

Leeze  me  on  liquor,  my  todlen  dow, 

Ye're  ay  sae  good  humour'd  when  weeting  your 
niou  ; 

When  sober  sae  sour,  yo'II  fis;ht  wi'  a  flee. 

That  'tis  a  biyth  sijjht  to  the  bairns  and  me. 
When  todlen  home,  todlen  hame. 
When  round  as  a  neep  ye  cone  todlen  hame. 


CAULD  KAIL  IN  ABLKDEEN. 

This  'Ong  is  by  the  Duke  of  Gordcu — The 
verses  aie, 

There's  canid  kail  in  Aberdeen, 

And  castocks  in  Strabogie  ; 
When  ilka  lad  maun  hae  his  lass, 

Then  fye,  gie  me  n\y  cogic. 
My  coyie.  Sirs,  my  cojie,  Sirs, 

I  cannot  want  my  coyie  : 
Jtciulna  r/ie  my  tliree-yirr'd  stoup 

For  a   the  quenes  on  li  igie. 


There  s  .lohnie  Smith  has  !jot  a  wife 
That  scrimps  him  o'  his  C(>t;ie, 

If  she  were  mine,  upon  my  life 
I'd  doiik  lier  in  a  boijie. 

My  cvgie,  Sirs,  Sfc. — Burns. 


CAULD  KAIL  IN  ABERDEEN. 

There's  ranld  kail  in  Aberdeen, 

And  castocks  in  Stra'bogie  ; 
(jin  I  but  hae  a  bonny  htss, 
Ye'ie  welcome  to  your  cogie  : 
And  ye  may  sit  u|)  a'  the  night. 
And  drink  till  it  be  braid  day-light  ; 
Gie  me  a  lass  baith  clean  and  tight, 
To  dance  the  Keel  of  Bogie. 

In  cotillons  the  French  excel  ; 

John  Bull  loves  couritra-dances  ; 

The  Spaniards  dance  fandangos  well  ; 

iMynhcer  an  allcmande  prances  : 

In  foursome  reels  the  Scotch  delight, 

Tiie  threesome  inaist  dance  wond'rous  JlgEl  ; 

But  twasiime's  ding  a'  out  o'  sight, 

Dauc'd  to  the  Reel  of  Bogie. 

Come,  lads,  and  view  your  p::rtner»  well. 
Wale  each  a  blythsome  rogie  ; 
I'll  tak  this  lassie  to  niysel. 
She  seems  sae  keen  and  vogie  ! 
Now  ])iper  lad  bang  up  the  spring  ; 
The  conntia  fashion  is  the  thing. 
To  prle  their  mou's  e'er  we  begin 
To  dance  the  Reel  of  Bogie. 

Now  ilka  lad  has  got  a  lass, 
Save  yon  auld  doited  fogie  ; 
And  ta'en  a  fling  upo'  the  grass. 
As  thev  do  in  Stra*l)ogie  : 
But  a'  the  hisses  look  sae  fain, 
We  cann.i  think  oursel's  to  bain, 
For  they  maun  hae  their  came  again 
To  dance  the  Reel  of  Bogie. 

Now  a*  the  lads  hae  done  their  best, 

Like  true  men  of  Stra'bogie  ; 

We'll  sto])  awhile  and  tak  a  rest. 

And  tipple  out  a  cogie  : 

Come  now,  my  lads,  an<l  tak  your  glaM, 

And  try  ilk  other  to  surpasn, 

In  wishing  health  to  every  lost 

To  dance  the  Reel  of  Bogie. 


WE  RAN  AND  THEY  RAN. 


The  author  of   We  ran  ami  Ihry  ran,  &n4 
i/ipy  7-(/«   and  we  ran,   Sfc.   wxi  the  late  Rev 
Murdoch  M  l.etina.i,  luiuiatcr  at  Crathie,   0*». 

side. — BuiiNS. 
M2 


ISO 


BURNS'  WORKS 


Theie's  some  sav  that  vre  wan, 

Some  say  that  they  wan, 
Some  say  that  nane  wan  at  a',  man ; 

But  one  thinp;  I'm  sure, 

That  at  Sheriff  Muir  • 
A  battle  there  was,  which  I  saw,  man  ; 

And  we  rat,  anil  they  ran,  and  tkty  ran, 
anil  we  ran,  and  tee  ran,  and  they  ran  awa\ 
num. 

Brave  Arpyle  •)•  and  Belhaven,  \ 

Not  like  frighted  Leven,  § 
Which  Rothes  ]|  and  Haddington^  sa',  man  j 

For  they  all  with  Wightman  ** 

Advanced  on  the  right,  man, 
Whiie  others  took  flight,  being  ra',  man. 
jind  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  8fc. 

Lord  Roxburgh  -{-f  was  there. 

In  order  to  share 
With  Dougl.is,  ^1  whe  stood  not  in  awe,  man, 

Volunteerly  to  ramble 

With  lord  Loudon  Campbell,  ||  || 
Biave  Hay  §§  did  suffer  for  a',  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  run,  §•& 

Sir  John  Schaw,  ^^  that  great  knight, 

Vv'i'  broid-sword  most  bright, 
On  horseback  he  briskly  did  charge,  man  ; 

An  hero  that's  bold, 

None  could  him  with-hold. 
He  stoutly  encounter'd  the  targemen. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  Sfc, 

For  the  cowardly  Whittim,  *'* 

For  fear  they  should  cut  him, 
Seeing  glittering  broad-swords  wi'  a  pa',  man, 

Au(\  that  in  such  thrang, 

Made  Baird  edicang,  f  f  f 
And  fiom  the  brave  clans  ran  awa',  man. 
And  ice  ran,  and  they  ran,  Sj'c. 


•  The  battle  of  Dumblain  or  ShcrinTmiiir  was  fought 
the  l^ih  (if  November  !71,i,  between  the  Karl  of  Mar, 
for  the  Chevalier,  and  the  Duke  of  Arpyle  for  tlie  pcv 
vernineiit.  lioth  suies  olaiincd  the  victory,  the  lifi 
winf;  of  either  army  bciiifj  routed.  The  capture  of 
I'reston,  it  is  very  remarkable,  happened  on  the  same 
day. 

t  .Tiihn  (Camjibell)  iM  Dukeof  Argyle,  commander, 
in-rhiifor  I  le^^nveruniciU  force*; ;  a  nobleman  of  great 
tflleiil<  and  integrity,  much  respected  by  all  parties: 
died  171.J. 

%  Jolui  (Hamilton)  Lord  Relhaven  ;  served  as  n  vo- 
lunteer; .'ind  had  the  ciimm:ind  nf  a  troop  of  horse 
raised  by  the  county  of  Haddington:  perished  at  sea, 
17-'l. 

S   David  (I.esly)  Tarl  of  I.even ;  fur  the  governm.ent. 

II  Ji>hn  (I.esly)  Karl  of  Rotlies;  fur  IliegDveriiuient. 

H  'I'll  mas  (Hamilton)  Earl  of  Haddington;  for  the 
govcnm  cut. 

♦*  Majorr.cneral  Joseph  Wightm.m. 

1t  John  (Kerl  first  Duke  of  Roxburgh;  for  the  go 
ir.c-nt. 

Jt  Archibald  (notiplas)  Duke  of  nouglas. 

lill  tluch  (Camiilu'll)  Kail  cf  l.midon. 

^^S  Arclubil.l  E.ui  of  Hay,  bmthir  to  the  Duke  of 
Hreyle.     He  was  dangerously  wounde<l.  | 

ill  An  odicer  in  Ihc  iroopOf  gentleman  volunteers. 

»»*Maj()r-j,'incral  Thomas  \Vhithani. 

♦H   •  c  Aiit  <lu  ctimi>. 


Brave  Mar  •  and  Panmure  + 

Were  firm  1  am  sure, 
The  latter  was  kidnapt  awa',  man. 

With  brisk  men  about. 

Brave  Harry  \  retook 
His  brother,  and  laught  at  them  a*,  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  |rc. 

Grave  IMarshall  []  and  Lithgow,  § 

And  Glengary's^  pith  too, 
Assisted  by  brave  Loggie-a-man,  •• 

And  Gordons  the  bright 

So  boldly  did  fight. 
The  redcoats  took  flight  and  awa',  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  §-c. 

Strathmore  f  f  and  Clanronald  f  f 
Cry'd  still,  advance,  Donald  ! 

Till  both  these  heroes  did  fa',  man  ;  |l  || 
For  there  was  such  hashing. 
And  broad-swords  a  clashing. 

Brave  Forfar  §§  himself  got  a  da',  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  Sfc. 


*  John  (Erskine)  Earl  of  Mar,  commander.in-chiel 
of  tlie  Chevalier's  army;  a  nobleman  of  great  spirit, 
honour,  and  abilities.  He  died  at  Aix-la-C'hapelie  in 
1752. 

t  James  (Maulc)  Earl  of  Pan:nurc;  died  at  Paris, 
17-'3. 

4.  Honourable  Harry  Maule,  brother  to  the  Eaii. 
The  circumstance  here  alluded  to  is  thus  related  in  the 
Earl  of  Mar's  printed  account  of  the  engagement : — 
"  The  prisoners  taken  by  us  were  very  civilly  used, 
and  none  of  them  stri)it  Some  were  altow'd  to  return 
to  Stirling  upon  their  parole,  Ac.  .  .  'J'he  fc.v  prison, 
ers  taken  by  the  enemy  on  oni  left  were  most  of  them 
stript  and  wounded  after  taken  The  Earl  of  Par.- 
mnre  being  first  of  Ihc  prisoners  wounded  after  t.Tken. 
They  having  refused  his  parole,  he  was  left  in  a  vil- 
lage, and  by  the  hasty  retreat  of  the  enemy,  upon  the 
approach  of  our  army,  was  rescu'd  by  his  brother  and 
his  servants  " 

II  George  (Keith)  Far]  Marischall,  then  a  vouth  at 
college  He  <iicd  at  hs  governmenr  of  Ncnfihalel  in 
1771.  His  brother,  the  celebrated  Marshall  Keith,  was 
with  him  in  this  battle. 

^  James  (Livingston)  Earl  of  Calendar  and  Linlith. 
gow :  attainied. 

^  Alexander  M 'Donald  of  Olengary,  laird  of  a  clan ; 
a  brave  and  spirited  chief:  attainied. 

**  Thomas  Druininond  of  Logie-Almond  ;  com- 
manded the  two  battalions  of  Druuimoiali.  [le  was 
wounded. 

ft  John  (Lyon)  Earl  of  Strathmore;  "  a  man  of 
good  parts,  of  a  most  amiable  ilisposition  and  charae- 
ter." 

rt  Ranald  M'Donald,  Captain  of  Clan  Hanald. 
A'.  11.  The  Captain  of  a  clan  was  rne  who,  bet!:g  next 
or  near  in  blood  to  the  Chief,  heeded  them  in  his  nu'.in 
cy  or  absence. 
'  II II  "  We  have  lost  to  our  regret,  the  E.irl  of  Strath, 
more  and  the  Captain  of  Clan  llanald."  Karl  of  Mar's 
Letter  to  the  Governor  of  Perth.  Again,  printed  ac- 
count : — "  We  eann'i  find  above  t':L>  of  our  !;-.(  n  in  all 
kiU'd,  among  whom  were  the  Karl  nf  Straihirore  [audi 
the  Captain  ot  Clan  llanald,  both  nnich  lamented. 
The  latter,  "  for  his  good  parts  and  gentle  accomplish- 
ments, was  look'd  upon  .-is  Ihc  nii>,-l  g;jlianl  and  gener. 
ous  young  genllemau  among  the  c'ans.  .  .  .  He  wai 
lamented  bv  both  parlies  that  liiiew  hun." 

His  serv.ant,  who  lay  on  the  field  w.itchiiig  his  ociil 
body,  being  asked  next  d.iy  who  iliat  w.-.s,  answered. 
He  was  a  man  yesterday. — iiosurli's  Juiirne,.  to  the  He- 
brides, p.  .).')U. 

f^  Archibald  (Douglas)  '!art  of  Eorfar,  who  com- 
manded a  regiment  in  the  Luke's  army.  He  is  siid  tf 
have  been  shot  in  the  knee,  ami  to  have  had  ten  01 
twelve  cuts  in  his  head  from  tlic  bro.id  swords.  H« 
ditnl  a  few  days  after  of  his  wounds. 


SONGS. 


13' 


Lonl  Perth  *  stood  the  storm, 

Scafiiith  f  but  liikcAvanii, 
Kilsyth  I  and  Strathallan  |j  not  sla',  :nan  ; 

And  Hamilton  §  pK'd 

Tlic  men  were  not  bied, 
For  he  had  no  fancy  to  fa',  man. 

Atid  we  ran,  and  tluy  ran,  §•<•, 

Brave  generous  Southesk,  \ 

Tdehaiin  **  was  brisk, 
Wliose  ither  indeed  would  not  dra',  man, 

Into  llie  same  yoke, 

Wliich  serv'd  for  a  cloak. 
To  keep  the  estate  'twixt  them  twa,  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  iheij  ran,  Sfc. 

Lord  RoUo  -j-j-  not  fear'd, 

Kiiitoie^J  and  his  beard, 
Pitshgo  11  li  and  O^'ilvie  §§  a',  man, 

And  brothers  Balfours,  ^^ 

They  stood  the  first  show'rs, 
Clackmannan  and  Burleigh  ••*  did  cla',  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  tkeij  ran,  §-c. 

But  Clep])an  f  f  f  acted  pretty, 

And  Strowan  the  witty,  \^\ 
A  poet  that  pleases  us  a",  man  ; 

For  mine  is  but  rliime. 

In  respect  of  what's  fine, 
Or  what  he  is  able  to  dra',  man. 

And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  §'c. 


•  James  Marquis  of  Drummond,  son  of  James 
(Dnuniiionil)  DuKe  of  Perth,  was  li  utenant-sencral 
of  horse,  and  •'  behaved  with  great  gallantry."  He 
was  attiiiiteJ,  but  escaped  to  France,  where  he  soon 
after  (tied. 

t  William  (Mackenzie)  Earl  of  Scaforth.  He  was 
sttaintcil,  anil  <lie(l  in  IT-Jn. 

t  William  (LiviMg-.ioii)  Viscount  Kilsyth  :  attaintcil. 

II  William  (Drnmmond'  Viscount'  Stratluillan  ; 
whose  sense  of  loyalty  could  scarcely  equal  the  spirit 
and  activity  he  manifested  in  the  cause.  He  was  ta- 
ken prisoner  in  this  hattU',  which  he  survived  to  per- 
ish in  the  still  more  fatal  one  of  Culloden.muir. 

§  Lieutenant-general  Geoige  Hamilton,  command- 
ing under  the  tarl  of  Mar 

^  James  (Carnegie)  Karl  of  Southesk  ;  was  attaint- 
ed, and,  escaping  to  I'ranee,  died  there  in  17'-'y. 

*»  William  (Murray)  Marquis  of  Tulliljardin,  eldest 
son  to  the  Duke  of  Atliolc.  Having  been  attaiutiil, 
he  was  taken  at  sea  in  llid,  and  died  soon  after,  of  a 
flux,  in  the  Tower. 

tt  Itobert  (Itollo)  Lord  Rollo;  "  a  man  of  singular 
merit  and  great  integrity  :"  died  In  175S. 

Jt  William  (Keith)  Earl  of  Kintore. 

nil  Alexander  (Forbes)  Lord  Pitsligo;  "a  man  of  good 
pans,  great  honour  aiid  spirit,  and  universally  beloved 
and  esteemed."  He  was  engaged  again  in  the  artair  of 
171-i,  for  which  he  was  attainted,  and  died  at  an  ad- 
vancikl  age  in  ITfi;.'. 

<j\  James  Lord  Ogilvie,  eldest  son  of  David  (OgiU 
vie)  Earl  of  .\irly.  He  was  attainted,  but  afterwards 
pardoned.  His  father,  nut  dra'ing  into  Ih.,:  jameyoke, 
:aveil  the  estate. 

HU  Some  relations  it  is  supposed  of  the  Lord  Bur- 
leigh. 

•««  Robert  (B  dfour)  Lord  Burleigh.  He  was  at- 
tain'ed.  and  died  in  1757. 

t+t  Major  William  C'lephane,  adjutant-general  to 
Ihe  Marquis  of  Drummond. 

XXX  .\lexand  r  Robertson  of  Struan;  who,  having 
Experience  I  every  vicissitude  of  life,  with  a  stoical 
finnness.  ij:ed  in'  peace  17'19-  He  was  an  excellent 
Oct,  anrf  hi"!  left  eUgies  worthy  of  TibuUut. 


For  Huntley  •  and  Sinclair   \ 

They  both  play'd  the  tinclair, 
With  consciences  iikick  like  a  era*    matt. 

Some  Auf^iis  and  Fileiiien 

Tliey  r.in  for  their  life,  man, 
And  ne'er  a  Lot's  wife  there  at  a',  mao. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  §-c. 

Then  Laurie  the  traytor, 

Wlio  betray'd  his  master, 
His  king  and  his  country  and  a',  man, 

Pretending  Mar  might 

Give  order  to  tight, 
To  the  right  of  the  army  awa',  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  ifc. 

Then  Laurie,  for  fear 

Of  what  he  might  hear, 
Took  Drnmmond 's  best  horse  and  awa',  an^ 

Iiiste.id  o'  going  to  Perth, 

He  crossed  the  Firth, 
Alongst  Stirling-bridge  and  awa',  man. 
^r.d  wt  ran,  and  they  ran,  §"c. 

To  London  he  [iiess'd, 

And  there  he  address'd, 
That  he  behav'd  best  o'  them  a',  man  ; 

Anfl  there  without  strife 

Got  settled  for  life, 
An  hundred  a  year  to  his  fa',  nian- 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  §T. 

In  Buriowstounness 

He  resides  wi'  disgrace, 
Till  his  neck  stand  in  need  of  a  dra',  mi^ 

And  then  in  a  tether 

He'll  swing  frae  a  ladder, 
[And]  go  utr  the  stage  with  a  pa',  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  |rc. 

Rob  Roy  stood  watch 

On  a  lull  f.ir  to  catch 
The  booty  for  ought  that  I  sa*,  man. 

For  he  ne'er  advanc'd 

From  the  place  he  was  stanc'd. 
Till  nae  mair  to  do  there  at  a',  man. 
And  tee  run,  and  they  ran,  SfC. 

So  we  a'  took  the  flight, 

And  Moui)ray  tin."  wright ; 
But  Lethain  the  smith  was  u  bra'  vaxHf 

For  he  took  the  gout, 

M'hich  truly  was  wit, 
By  judging  it  time  to  withdia',  man. 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  Sfc, 

And  trtinv  ct  IM'Lcan, 
^\'hose  brecks  were  not  clean, 


•  Alexander  (Gordon)  Marquis  of  Huntlev,  eldest 
son  to  the  Duk'-  of  Gordon,  who,  accordinig  to  the 
usual  policy  of  his  country,  (of  which  we  here  meet 
with  several  other  instances),  reniained  neutral. 

t  John  Sincbir,  Esq.  commonly  called  Master  ot 
.Sinclair,  eldest  son  of  Henry  Lord  Sinclair;  was  at- 
talnteil,  but  afterwards  paid  ncd,  and  died  in  17.M>. 
The  estate  was  preserved  of  cout««). 


132 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Thro'  misfortune  he  happen'd  to  fa*,  man, 

Bv  saving  his  neck 

Ilis  trumpet  did  break, 
Came  aflF  without  musick  at  a*,  man.* 
And  we  ran,  and  they  ran,  Sfc. 

So  there  such  a  race  was, 

As  ne'er  in  that  place  was, 
And  as  little  chase  was  at  a',  man  ; 

Frae  ither  tliey  •  run' 

Without  touk  o'  drum 
They  did  not  make  use  of  4  pa',  man. 

And  we  ran,  and  thei-  ran,  and  they  ran, 
and  we  ran,  and  we  ran,  and  they  ran  awa, 
men. 


BIDE  YE  YET. 

There  is  a  beautiful  song  to  this  tune,  be- 
ginning, 

Alas,  my  son,  you  little  know — ■ 

which    is    the    composition    of   a    Miss    Jenny 
Graham  of  Dumfries Burns. 

Alas!    my  son,  vou  little  know 
The  sorrows  tliat  from  wedlock  flow  : 
Farewell  to  every  day  of  ea^^e, 
V^Len  vou  have  gotten  a  wife  to  please. 
Sue  hide  you  yi:t,  and  hide  you  yet. 
Ye  little  ktn  wlidfs  to  hctide  you  yet ; 
The  half  of  that  u-ill  yane  ynu  yet. 
If  a  wayward  wife  uhtain  yuu  yet. 

Your  e.^perience  is  but  small. 
As  yet  you've  met  with  little  thrall  ; 
The  black  cow  on  your  foot  ne'er  trud. 
Which  gars  you  sing  alang  the  road. 

Sue  hide  ynu  yet,  ^'c. 

Sometimes  the  rock,  sometimes  the  rrel, 
Or  some  piece  of  the  spiiiniiig-wlu'cl, 
She  will  drive  at  you  wi'  good  will, 
And  then  she'll  send  you  to  the  de'il. 

Aae  hide  you  yet,  SfC. 


*  The  particulars  of  this  anecdote  no  vvlicre  appear. 
The  hero  is  svjpijoscit  to  be  thi'  r^ymv  J i/in  M'Lnnt, 
trump':/,  who  wa<  sent  from  Lord  Mir,  tlieii  at  I'ertli, 
with  a  letter  to  the  Duke  of  Argvlr,  at  Sinliiij;  camp, 
on  the  50th  of  Octdber.  f'Jt  i  'ia'nwl  Ldiers  1730. 
Two  co|iies,  howcviT,  printcil  not  long  alter  1715, 
reail,  "  And  trumpet  Mnrhif." 

hi  17X-'  tlie  son  of  this  Tnimprter  Marinr  tolil  the 
Earl  (if  Haddinotun  (then  Lord  lininiii^;)  th.it  llie  first 
circuit  he  ever  attended,  as  one  of  his  Maje>ty's  house- 1 
nold  trumpeters,  wis  the  Norlhcrn.  in  the  \car  ITKi,  a-  ' 
longwithold  l.ord  Miuto.  I'hat  the  reason  ofhis(;oin!» 
there  wa<,  that  the  circuit  immediately  lucceding,  hfs 
fathei  had  been  so  liarasscd  iu  every  town  he  went 
through,  by  the  people  sinRiiig  his  verse,  "  .4iid  trum- 
pt  Marine,  wlifxe  hritks,"  dv.  of  this  son<;,  ihat  lie 
swore  h^  would  never  go  again  ;  and  aitualiv  resigned 
Ui«  "i'.uaiion  in  favour  of  his  ion.—Campbeii's  Hiitory 
</  Potti  y  in  Scotland.  1 


When  I  like  you  was  young  tad.  free, 
I  valued  not  the  proudest  she  ; 
Like  yon  I  vainly  boasted  then. 
That  men  alone  were  born  to  reign. 

Sae  hide  you  yet,  §•«. 

Great  Hercules  and  Sampson  too, 
Were  stronger  men  than  I  or  you ; 
Yet  they  were  baffled  by  their  liears, 
And  felt  the  distaff  and  the  sheers. 

Sae  bide  you  yet,  §•«. 

Stout  gates  of  brass,  and  well-built  walls. 
Are  oroof  'gainst  swords  and  cannon-balls 
But  nought  is  found  by  sea  or  land, 
That  can  a  wayward  wife  withstand. 

'^  le  hide  you  yet,  |ro 


i^/DE  YE  YET. 

OLD  SET. 

Gin  I  had  a  wee  house  and  a  canty  wee  fit* 
A  bonny  wee  wifie  to  praise  and  admire, 
A  bonny  wee  yardie  a>ide  a  wee  burn  ; 
Fareweel  to  the  bodies  that  yammer  and  cntrntM 
Sae  hide  ye  yet,  and  hide  ye  yet. 
Ye  little  ken  what  may  hetide  ye  yet^ 
Some  bonny  wee  body  may  he  mii  lutf 
And  I'll  he  canty  wi'  thinking  at. 

M'hen  I  gang  afield,  and  come  home  at  e  ea, 
I'll  get  my  wee  wifie  fou  neat  and  fou  clean  J 
Aiul  a  bojiny  wee  bairne  upon  her  knee, 
That  will  cry,  papa,  or  daddy,  to  ine. 

Sae  hide  ye  yet,  Sfc. 

And  if  there  happen  ever  to  be 
A  diff'rence  atween  my  wee  wifie  and  me. 
In  hearty  good  humour,  although  she  be  teas'^ 
I'll  kiss  her  and  clap  her  until  she  be  pleas'd. 
^cie  bide  ye  yet,  §-c. 


THE  ROCK  AND  THE  WEE  PICKI^ 
TOW. 

BV  ALKXANDER   UOSS. 

Tkeke  was  an  auld  wife  an'  a  wee  pickle  tow, 

An'  she  wad  gae  try  the  spinning  o't, 

She  louted  her  dow!i,  an'  her  rock  took  a  low, 

Ajid  that  was  a  bad  beginning  o't  : 

She  sat  an'  she  grat,  an'  she  flet  and  she  flang. 

An'  she  threw  an*  she  blew,  an'  she  wrigl'd  aa' 

wrang. 
An'  she  choked,   an*  boaked,  an'  cry'd  like  tt 

mang, 
Al.is  !   for  the  dreary  spinning  o't. 

I've  wanted  a  sark  for  these  ei^ht  years  an  t«Oj 
An'  this  was  to  be  the  beginiiiii;;  o't. 


SONGS. 


133 


But  T  vow  I  »li  ill  wiint  it  for  as  lang  again, 

Or  ever  1  try  the  spinning  o't ; 

For  never  since  ever  they  ca'd  me  as  they  ca' 

me, 
[)icl  sic  a  mis'iaj)  an'  misantcr  befi'  me, 
Ijiit  ye  shall  hae  leave  bi'ah  to  Ii.iug  me  an' 

(irinv  nie. 
The  neist  time  I  try  the  spinuiog  o't. 

I  hae  ki'cpeil  my  house  for  these  three  score  o' 

\  ears. 
All'  av  1  kept  free  o*  the  spinning  o't, 
But  how  I  was  sarkeil  f>-.ul  fi'  them  that  spcers, 
For  it  mliiils  me  upo'  the  beginning  o't. 
But  our  women  are  now  a  days  grown  sae  lira*. 
That  ilka  an  maun  hae  a  sark  an'  some  hae  twa, 
The  warlds  were  bettor  when  ne'er  an  awa' 
Had  a  r:;^;  but  ane  at  the  beginning  o't. 

Foul  fa'  her  that  ever  advis'd  me  to  spin, 

That  had  been  so  Ian-;  a  beginning  ii't, 

I  miijht  well  have  ended  as  i  did  begin, 

Nor  have  got  sick  a  sk.iir  with  the  spinning  o't. 

But  they'll  say,  she's  a  wyse  wife  that  kens  her 

ain  weerd, 
I  thought  on  a  d.iv,  it  should  never  be  speer'd, 
IIow    loot   ye    the   low  take  your  rock   be  the 

beard, 
When  ye  yeed  to  try  the  spinning  o't  ? 

The  spinning,  tlie  spinning  it  gars  my  heart  so'n, 

When  I  think  upo'  tlie  beginning  o't, 

I  thought  ere  I  dieil  to  have  aiies  made  a  web, 

B'jt  still  I  had  wecrs  o'  the  spinning  o't. 

But  had  I  nine  (lathers,  as  I  hae  but  three, 

The  safest  and  soundest  advice  I  cud  gee, 

Is  that  they  frae  spinuLog  wad  keep  tiicLi-  hands 

free, 
For  fear  of  a  bad  beginning  o't. 

Yet  in  spite  of  my  counsel  if  they  will  needs  run 

The  dreaiysome  risk  of  the  spinning  o't, 

Let  them  seek  out  a  lytht  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 

And  there  veiiture  o'  the  beginning  o't: 

But  to  do  as  1  dill,  alas,  and  awow  ! 

To  busk  up  a  rock  at  the  cheek  of  the  low, 

Says,  that  I  had  but  little  wit  in  my  pow, 

And  as  little  ado  with  the  spinning  o't. 

But  yet  after  a',  there  is  ae  thing  that  grieves 
My  heirt  to  think  o'  the  lieginning  o't, 
Mad  I  won  the  length  but  of  ae  pair  <>'  sleeves, 
Then  there  h  id  been  wmd  o'  the  spinning  o't  ; 
This  I  wad  ha'  wa>licn  an'  bleecli'il  like  the  snaw, 
And  o'  my  twa  gardies  like  moggans  wad  ilraw. 
An'  then  fouk  wad  say,  that  auld  Girry  was  bra', 
An'  a'  was  ujion  her  ain  spinning  o't. 

But  gin  I  will  shog  about  till  a  new  spring, 
I  t'hiiiild  yet  hae  a  bunt  of  the  sjiinnin^  o't, 
A  nuitchkin  of  linsfcd  I'd  i'  the  \eid  fling. 
For  a'  the  wan  chausie  Iwginnin;;  o't. 
I'li  gar  my  ain  Tiiniiiie  gae  down  to  the  how. 
An   «-ut  me  a  "ock  of  a  widderslunes  grow. 


Of  good  ranty-tree  for  to  carry  my  to\r, 

An'  a  spindle  of  the  same  for  the  twining  o't. 

For  now  when  I  mip .  v~  .      tt't't  Maggy  Grim 
This  morning  just  a^       ■»  heijinniig  <»  i. 
She  was  never  ci'il    — ancy,  i,ut  canny  an'  sliin. 
An'  sae  it  has  fiir'd       my  spinning  o't  • 
r>ut  in'  my  new  rock  were  anes  cutted  an'  dry, 
I'll  a'  Maggies  can  an*  lier  cantraps  ilefy, 
All*  but  onic  snssii   the  spinning  1*11  try, 
An'  ye's  a*  hear  o    the  beginning  o't. 

Quo'  Tibby,  licr  dather,  tak  tent  fit  ye  say, 
The  nevuc  a  ragg  we'll  be  seeking  o't. 
Gin  ye  anes  begin,  ye'll  taiveals  night  an*  day, 
Sae  it's  vain  ony  mair  to  be  speaking  o't. 
Since  lambas  I'm  now  gaing  thirty  an'  twa, 
An'  never  a  dud  sark  had  I  yet  gryt  or  sma*. 
An*  what  war  am  I?    1  m  as  warm  an'  as  bra, 
As  thrumniy  tail'd  Meg  that's  a  spinner  o't. 

To  labor  the  lint  land,  an'  then  luiy  the  seed, 
An'  then  to  yoke  iiie  to  the  harrowing  o't, 
An'  syn  loll  ainon't  an*  pike  out  ilka  vi'ecd. 
Like  fwine  in  a  sty  at  the  farrowing  o't ; 
Syn  powiiig  and  rijiling  an'  steeping,  an'  then 
To  gar's  gae  an'  spread  it  upo'  the  cauld  plain, 
An'  then  after  a'  may  be  labor  in  vain, 
When  the  wind  and  the  weet  gets  the  fusion  o*t. 

Rut  the'  it  shoulil  anter  the  weather  to  byde, 
Wi*  beetles  We're  set  to  the  drubbing  o't. 
An'  then  frae  our  fingers  to  gniilge  atf  the  hide, 
With  the  wearisome  wark  o'  the  rubbing  o't. 
An*  syn  ilka  tail  maun  be  heckl'd  out  throw, 
The  lint  putten  ae  gate,  anither  the  tow, 
Syn  on  a  rock  wi't,  an'  it  taks  a  low. 
The  back  o'  luy  hand  to  the  spinning  o't. 

Quo'  Jenny,  I  think  'oinan  ye're  i'  the  right. 
Set  your  leet  ay  a  spar  to  the  spinning  o't. 
We  may  tak  our  advice  frae  our  ain  mither'i 

fright 
That  she  gat  when  she  try'd  the  beginning  o't. 
But  they'll  say  that  auld   fouk  are  twice  baiina 

indeed, 
.■\.n*  sae  she  has  kythed  it,  hut  there's  nae  need 
To  sickan  an  amshack  that  we  drive  our  heail, 
As  langs  we're  sae  skair'd  iVa  the  spinning  o't. 

Quo'    Nanny    the   younijest,    I've    now    heard 

you  a", 
An*  dowie's  your  doom  o*  the  spinning  o't, 
Gin  ye,  fan  the  cows  tlings,  the  cog  cast  awa', 
Ye  m.iy  see  wheie  ye'U   lick   up  your  winning 

o't. 
But  I  see  that  but  spinning  I'll  never  be  bra', 
1  But  gae  by  the  name  <d'  a  dilp  or  a  da, 
I  Sae  lack  where  ye  like  I  shall  aives  shak  a  fa', 
Afuie  1  be  dung  with  the  sjiiuning  o't. 

'  For  well  I  can  i:i;nd  rre  when  black  Willie  BcL 
Had  Tibbie  tli-re  just  at  the  winning  o't, 
What  blew  up  the  bargain,  she  kens  v.eli  hersell, 
Was  the  want  uf  the  kn^ck  of  the  spinning  o't. 


134. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


An'  novv,  poor  'omaiij  for  ouglit  that  I  ken, 
She  may  never  get  sic  an  offer  again, 
But  pine  away  bit  an'  hit,  like  Jenkin's  hen. 
An'  naething  to  wyte  but  t!ie  spinning  o't. 

But  were  it  for  naething,  but  just  this  alane, 

I  shall  yet  hae  about  o'  the  spinning  o't. 

They  may  cast  me  for  ca'ing  me  black  at  the 

bean, 
But  nae  cause  I  shun'd  the  beginning  o't. 
But,  be  that  as  it  hapijen*,  I  care  not  a  strae. 
But  nane  of  the  lads  shall  hie  it  to  >ay. 
When  they  come  till  woo,  she  kens  naething 

avae, 
Nor  has  onie  ken  o'  the  spinning  o't. 

In  the  days  they  ca'd  yore,  gin  auM  fouks  Lad 

but  won. 
To  a  suikoat  hough  side  for  the  winning  o't. 
Of  coat  raips  well  cut  by  the  cast  o'  their  bun, 
Tbov  never  sought  mair  o'  the  spinning  o't. 
A  pair  of  grey  hoggeis  well  clinked  ber.ew, 
Of  nae  other  lit  but  the  hue  of  the  ew, 
With  a  pair  of  rough  rullions  to  scuff  thio'  the 

dew. 
Was  the  fee  they  sought  at  the  beginning  o't. 

But  we  maun  hae  linen,  an'  that  maun  hae  we, 
An*  how  get  we  that,  but  the  spinning  o't? 
How  can  we  hae  face  tor  to  setk  a  i<ryt  fee, 
Except  we  can  help  at  tlie  winning  o't  ? 
An'   we   maun    hae   pearlins   and    niabbies   an' 

cocks. 
An*  some  other  thing  that  the  ladies  ca'  smoks, 
An'  how  get  we  that,  gin  we  tak  na  our  rocks, 
And  pow  what  we  can  at  the  spinning  o't  ? 

'Tis  need'ess  for  us  for  to  tak  our  remaiks 
Frae  our  niither's  niscooking  the  spinning  o't. 
She  never  kend  ought  o'  tiie  gueed  of  the  sarks, 
Frae  this  aback  to  the  beginning  o't. 
Twa  thrt-v.  "^ll  of  plaiden  was  a'  that  was  sought 
By   oui    auid    waild   bodies,    an'   that   boot   be 

bought, 
For  in  ilka  town  sickan  things  was  nae  wrought, 
So  little  they  kend  o'  the  spinning  o't. 


HOOLY  AND  FAIRLY. 

It  is  remark-worthy  that  the  song  of  ILiohj 
inil  J-'itir!;/,  in  all  the  old  editions  of  it,   is  cal 
ed    T/ic  Drunken    W'ift  o    Giiltou-aij,    which 
ocahzes  it  to  that  country — Burns. 

THE  DIIUNKEN  WIFE  o'   CALLOWAY. 

Oh  !   what  had  I  to  do  for  to  marry? 
My  wife  chi'  drinks  naething   but  sack  and  Ca- 
nary, 
(  to  her  friends  ronipl  lin'd  right  eaily, 
<)  !   1)1  u  my  wife  inul  dr'nili  lux  hi  iiml  fdir.ii, 

11,1  ly  iinil J'aiili/.  hniili/  ami  fniihiy 
'J  I   (lift  nil)  nif'c  iiaJ  iJinJt  I  »•..     •.ml  J.ihlii. 


First  she  drank  cruit.'nie,   and  syne  she  dranlf 

garie  ; 
Now  she  has  druken  my  bonny  grey  marie, 
That  carried  me  thro'  a'  the  dubs  aud  the  larit 
O  !  gin,  §-c. 

She  has  druken  her  stockins,   sa  has  she  het 

shoon. 
And  she  has  druken  her  bonny  new  gown  ; 
Her  wee  bit  dud  sark  that  co'erd  her  fu'  rarely 
O  !  gin,  Sfc. 

If  she'd  drink  but  her  ain  things  I  wad  na  mucl; 

care, 
But  she  drinks  my  claiths  I  canna  weel  spare. 
When  I'm  wi'  my  gossips,  it  angers  me  sairly, 
O  !  gin,  Sfc. 

My  Sunday's  coat  she's  laid  it  a  wad. 
The  best  blue  bonnet  e'er  w:is  on  my  head  ; 
At  kirk  and  at  market  I'm  covei'd  but  barely, 
O  !  gin,  Sfc. 

The  verra  gray  mittens  that  gaed  on  my  ban's. 
To  her  neebor  wife  she  has  laid  them  in  pawns ; 
RIy  bane-headed  staff  that  I  lo'ed  sae  dearly, 
O  !  gin,  §-c. 

If  there's  ony  siller,  she  maun  keep  the  purse  ; 
If  I  seek  but  a  baubee  she'll  scauld  and  she'll 

cuise. 
She  gangs  like  a  queen — I  scrimped  and  sparely, 
O  I  gin,  §-c. 

I  nevfr  was  given  to  wrangling  nor  strife. 
Nor  e'er  did  nfuse  her  the  cnmfoits  of  life  ; 
Ere  it  come  to  a  war  I'm  ay  for  a  parley. 
O  !  gin.  Sec. 

A  pint  wi'  her  ciimmeis  I  wail  her  all(>w, 
But  when  she  sits  down  she  ii  Is  herself  fou  ; 
And  when  she  is  fou  she's  unco  camstarie, 
O  !  gin,  §-c. 

Wien   she  comes  to  the  street  she    roars  and 

she  rants. 
Has   nae  fear  o'    her   neebors,    nor   minds   tht 

h.ouse  wants  ; 
She  rants  up  some  fool-sang,   like  "  Up  y'ef 

heart,   C/iarlie.^' 

O  I  gin,  §-c. 

And  when  she  comes  haine  she  lays  on  the  Iad» 
She  ca's  the  l.isses  baith  liniinirs  and  jads, 
And  1,  mv  ain  sell,  an  anlil  cuckold  carlie, 
O  !  gin  n>!/  tdfe  viul  liriii/t  /inali/  and  Juinif, 

Hiuily  (iiiil  f'liirig,  Imtily  uml  J'niily, 
O  !  yin  my  wife  wad  drink  houly  and  fairly. 


SONGS 


\3b 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  SONG. 

BV  THE    REV    J,    SKISNEn. 

Tim^— "  Dumbarton  Dnimj." 

O!   wiiv  sliimld  old  as^e  so  miicli  wound  us  I* 
Tneic  is  n.'tliinfj  in  it  all  to  conlound  us  ; 

For  liovv  h.i])]iy  now  um  1, 

With  my  >'ld  will-  sittinn  by. 
And  our  liaiiiis  and  our  oys  j   all  around  us  ; 

For  hotc  hupj/i/  now  am  I,  §-c. 

We  lieijan  in  tlio  warld  wi*  naetliinir, 
And  WL-'ve  joag'd  on.  and  toil'd  for  the  ae  thing; 
We  made  use  of  what  we  had, 
And  our  thankful  hearts  were  glad  ; 
When  we  g<it  the  hit  meat  and  the  c-laithinj;, 
We  made  use  of  what  we  had,  S^c. 

We  have  liv'd  all  our  life-time  contented, 
Sinjc  the  day  we  hecame  first  acquainted: 

It's  true  we've  lieen  liut  punr, 

And  we  are  so  to  this  hour  ; 
But  we  never  yet  lepin'd  or  lamented. 

It's  true  ict'fe  been  but  puin,  §-c. 

When  we  had  any  stock,  we  ne'er  vauntJt, 
Nur  did  we  hioi;  our  hoiils  wlieu  we  wantit ; 

But  we  alway«  gave  a  share 

Of  the  little  we  cou'd  spare, 
When  it  pleas'd  a  kind  Heaven  to  <rrant  it. 

But  we  alu-ai/s  gave  a  share,  i"c. 

We  never  laid  a  scheme  to  he  wealtliy, 
By  means  that  were  cunning  or  stealthy; 
But  we  always  ha<l  the  hliss, 
(And  what  furtliei'  could  we  wiss\ 
To  be  jileus'd  with  ourselves,  a  id  be  healthy. 
Hut  ice  always  had  the  bliss,  §c. 

What  tho'  we  cannot  boast  of  our  guineas, 
We  have  plenty  of  Joikic*  unil  Jeauies  ; 

And  these,  I'm  certain,  are 

Mort   iesirahle  by  far 
Thatj  a  I)  ig  fidl  of  po(M-  yellow  sleenies. 

And  ttieae,  I'm  certain,  are,  §-c. 

We  have  seen  many  wonder  aad  ferlv, 
Of  changes  that  almost  are  yearly, 

Among  rit  h  folks  ui)  and  down, 

Both  in  coiiutry  and  in  town, 
Who  now  live  but  -criniply  and  barely, 

A)iiij!.^  —'"h  fil/ts  tiji  and  down,  §-c. 

Then  why  should  peojile  brag  of  prosperity  ? 

A  straiten'd  life  we  see  is  no  rarity  ; 
Indeed  we've  been  in  want. 
And  our  living's  been  but  scant, 

I'ct  we  never  were  re(iu<'eil  to  need  charity. 
Ir. deed  we've  been  in  witnt,  §-c. 


•  This  tune  requires  O  to  be  .-iililed  at  the  end  of 
ftnci-.  i<(  the  Ion;;  I  iies,  but  in  leading  tlie  louti  tlie  O 
l!flio:l.r  oiriiti.  d. 

t  O.i/i — Ur.-uni-cliildren. 


In  this  Louse  we  first  came  together, 
Where  we've  limg  been  a  father  and  inither. 

And  tho'  not  of  st(uie  and  lime. 

It  will  last  us  all  our  time  ; 
And,  I  hoi)e,  we  shall  ne'er  lu.d  anither. 

And  t/w'  n  I  of  stone  and  lime,  ^c. 

And  when  we  leave  this  poor  habitation. 
We'll  dejiart  with  .1  good  comuicLilutioa  ; 
We'll  go  hand  in  hand,  I  wiss, 
To  a  better  louse  than  this. 
To  make  room  for  the  next  gciuistion. 

Then  uh>/  sliaiild  uhl  ai/e  si>  much  wound  ut 
There  is  notliintj  in  it  all  to  confound  us  t 
For  how  hojipy  now  am  I, 
With  my  old  wife  sitting  by. 
And  our  bairns  and  out  oys  all  around  us. 


TAK  YOUR  AULD  CLOAK  ABOUT  VE. 

A   PART  of  this  old   song,    according   to  th« 
English  set  of  it,   is  quoted   in  Sliakspea.u.  •— • 

BUKNS, 

In  winter  when  the  rain  rain'd  cauld, 

And  fnjst  and  snaw  on  ilka  hill, 
And  Boieas,  with  his  blasts  sae  bauld, 

Was  tlireatning  a'  our  ky  to  kill  : 
Then  Bell  iiiy  wife,  wlia  loves  na  strife, 

She  said  to  me  right  hastilv. 
Get  up,  goodiii m,  save  Cromv's  life, 

Aud  tak  your  auld  cloak  about  ye. 

My  Cromie  is  an  useful  cow, 

And  she  is  cume  o;  a  good  kyne  ; 
Aft  has  >lie  Wit  tiie  bairns'  mun. 

And  I  am  lait!i  that  she  shou'd  tyne. 
Get  up,  gooiliiiaii,  it  is  fun  time, 

The  sun  shines  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 
Sloth  never  made  a  gracious  entl, 

Go  tak  your  auld  cloak  about  ye. 

My  cloak  was  anes  a  good  grey  cloak 

When  it  was  fitting  for  my  wear  ; 
But  now  It's  scaiitiv  worth  a  i;roat, 

Foi   I  liave  win  n't  this  thirty  ye<r; 
Let's  »pend  the  gear  that  we  have  Won, 

We  little  ken  the  d.iy  we'll  die  : 
Then  I'll  be  proud,  since  I  have  sworn 

1  o  have  u  new  cloak  about  me. 


•  In  the  drinking  scone  in  Othello:  Ugoeingg,*. 

King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peer, 

His  lircivlu-s  iMst  him  but  a  nown ; 
He  held  thcin  sixjience  all  too  dear, 

Witli  tint  he  called  (he  tailor  lown. 
He  was  a  wight  oI'IiihIi  renown. 

And  thou  art  but  of  low  ilc^ree; 
Tis  pride  that  pul.s  the  countrv  down, 

'I'lieu  take  thine  auld  cloak  about  thf  e. 

The  old  song  fiom  «hieh  these  stanzas  were  takec 
was  recovered  by  Dr.  Percv,  am'  prwerved  by  him  9 
lus  Hi'liQuet  of  Ancitnt  Poetru. 


136                                        BURNS' 

WORKS. 

III  days  when  our  king  Robert  rang, 

"  Yestreen  I  lay  in  a  well-ma.Je  I)ed, 

His  treu's  they  cost  but  haff  a  crown ; 

And  my  good  lord  beside  me  ; 

He  said  they  wire  a  groat  o'er  dear. 

This  night  I'll  ly  in  a  tenant's  barn. 

And  call'd  tlie  taylor  thief  and  luun. 

Whatever  shall  betide  me." 

He  was  the  king  that  wore  a  crown, 

And  thou  the  man  of  laigh  degree, 

Come  to  your  bed,  says  Johny  Fai, 

'Tis  pride  [)uts  a*  the  country  down, 

Oh  !   come  to  your  beil,  my  deny; 

Sac  tak  thy  auld  cloak  about  thee. 

For  I  vow  and  swear  by  the  hilt  of  my  swor"i 

That  your  loid  shall  nae  mair  come  near  ye 

Every  kind  his  its  ain  laugh, 

Ilk  kind  of  corn  it  has  its  hool, 

"  I'll  go  to  bed  to  mv  J.ihny  Fai, 

I  think  the  warld  is  a'  run  wrung, 

And  I'll  go  to  bed  t  j  my  deary  ; 

■\Vlien  ilka  wife  her  man  wad  rule  ; 

For  I  vow  and  swear  by  what  past  yestreen, 

Do  ye  not  s-ee  Roh,  Jock,  and  Hab, 

That  my  lord  shall  nae  mair  coine  near  me 

As  they  are  girded  gaiUntly, 

While  I  sit  hurklen  in  the  ase ; 

"  rU  mak  a  hap  to  my  Jnhny  Faa, 

I'll  liave  a  new  tloak  about  me. 

And  I'll  maU  a  hap  to  my  deary  ; 

And  he's  get  a'  the  coat  gaes  round, 

Goodman,  I  wate  'tis  thirty  years, 

Aud  my  lord  shall  nae  mair  come  near  me. 

Since  we  did  ane  anither  ken  ; 

And  we  have  had  between  us  twa, 

And  when  our  lord  came  home  at  e'en. 

Of  lads  and  bonny  lasses  ten  : 

And  speir'd  for  his  fair  lady, 

Now  they  are  women  grown  and  men. 

The  tane  she  cry'il,  and  the  other  reply' J, 

I  v/ish  and  pray  well  may  they  be  ; 

She's  awajj'  wi'  the  gypsie  laddie. 

And  if  you  prove  a  good  husband. 

E'en  tak  your  auld  cloak  about  ye. 

"  Gae  sadille  to  mo  the  black,  black  steed* 

(jae  saddle  and  mak  him  ready  ; 

Beil  my  wife,  she  loves  na  strife  ; 

Before  that  l  either  eat  or  sleep. 

But  she  wad  guide  me,  if  she  can, 

I'll  gae  seek  my  fair  laily." 

And  to  maintain  an  easy  life, 

I  aft  maun  yield,  tho'  I'm  gnndman  . 

And  we  were  fifteen  well-made  mea, 

Nought's  to  be  won  at  woman's  hand, 

Altho'  we  Were  nae  bunny  ; 

Unless  ye  give  her  a*  the  plea  ; 

And  we  were  a'  |)ut  down  for  ane. 

Then  I'll  leave  a!f  where  I  began, 

A  fair  young  wanton  lady. 

And  tak  my  auld  cloak  about  me. 

TO  DAUNTON  ME. 

JOIINY  I-AA,  OU  THE  GYPSIE 

LADDIE. 

TiiF,  two  following  old  stanzas  to  this  tuiM 

have  some  merit  : — Bukns. 

The  people  in  Ayrshire  begin  this  song — 

li)  d.uinton  me,  to  daunton  mo. 

The  gypsies  cam  to  my  Lord  Cassilis'  yett. 

()  ken  ye  wlut  it  is  that'll  diunton  me  ?— 

There's  eighty  eight  and  eiglity  nine. 

Tliey  have  a  great  many  more  stanzas  in  this 

And  a'  that  I  hae  born  sinsyne, 

song   than  1  ever  yet  saw  in  any  printed   copy. 

There's  cess  and  press  and  Presbytrie, 

The  castle  is  still  remaining  at  iMaybole,   wlieie 

I  tliink  it  \\  ill  do  meikle  for  to  dauuton  me. 

his    lordship  shut   up  his  wayward  spouse,   and 

kept  her  for  lile Burns. 

But  to  wanton  me,  to  wanton  me. 

O  ken  ye  what  it  is  that  wad  wanton  me?— 

Thk  gy|)siis  came  to  our  good  lord's  gate. 

To  see  gude  corn  upon  the  rigs. 

And  wow  but  they  sang  sweetly  ; 

.\nd  banlshmetit  amang  the  Wbigs, 

Tliey  sang  sae  sweet,  and  sae  very  complete, 

And  right  restored  where  rig!     .,u..  oo, 

Tliat  down  came  the  fair  ladle. 

1  think  it  W(mld  do  meikle  for  to  wanton  m& 

And  she  came  tripping  down  the  stair, 
Aud  X   her  mjid*  before  her  ; 

As  soon  as  they  saw  her  weelfar'd  face. 
They  coo-l  the  glauier  o'er  her. 

TO  DAUNTON  ME. 

There  is  an  old  set  of  the  sotig  :   not  politi 

"*  Gar  tak  fr  i  me  this  gay  mantile. 

cal,  but  very  indej)endent.      It  runs  thus  ;— - 

And  bring  to  nic  a  plaidie  ; 

For  if  kith  and  kia  aiid  a'  had  sworn, 

TiiK  blude  red  rose  at  Yule  may  blaw. 

'              VJl  follow  the  gypsie  laddie. 

The  kiuimer  lilies  blume  m  snaw. 

.        _  _J 

iiMlV^ 


PAltrrEDBY-yFIlAVID  Wllr 


K.®  IB  OKI    (StK.-^'- 


SONGS. 


ISl 


rhc  fro't  inay  fioeze  the  ileepe-t  »oa, 
But  an  iiiilil  in.in  shall  never  il.iunton  mc. 
To  il.iiintoii  1110,  ami  nie  sae  V'luiii:, 
Wi'  liis  faiisc  lie.irt  anil  fl.itteiiii'  tiinjue, 
That  is  the  tliiiii;  ye  ne'er  shall  see, 
Fo.  an  aiild  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 

For  a'  his  nie.il,  fur  a'  his  riiaut, 
For  a'  his  fresh  heef,  anil  his  saut, 
For  a'  his  gowil  anil  white  monie, 
Aa  auld  niau  sha  1  never  dauntun  ine. 
Tu  dauntun  nie,  iic. 

riis  gear  may  huy  him  kye  and  yowcs. 
His  gear  may  liny  him  glens  «nd  knowes, 
Hut  nie  he  sh  ill  not  Imy  nor  fee, 
For  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 
To  daunton  me,  &c 

He  liirples  twa  fauM  as  he  dow. 

Wi'  his  teothless  gali,  and  his  bald  pow, 

A.nd  the  rheum  rins  down  frae  his  red  blue  e'e, 

But  an  auld  man  shall  never  daunton  me. 


THE  BONNIE  LASS  JIADE  THE  BED 
TO  aiE. 

"  The  Ronnie  Liss  made  the  Red  to  mo," 
was  com|)i)-eil  <in  an  amour  of  Charles  II.  when 
skulking  in  the  North,  ahout  Abordi.-en,  in  the 
time  of  the  usurpitioii.  He  formed  une  petite 
affiilre  with  a  daughter  of  the  House  of  Port- 
Ittham,  who  was  the  luss  that  made  lite  bed  tu 
him  : — two  verses  of  it  are, 

I  kiss' I)  hor  lijjs  sae  rosy  red, 

While  the  tear  stood  l>linkin  in  her  e'e  ; 
I  said  my  lassie  dinna  crv, 

For  ye  ay  shall  lu.ik  the  hod  to  me. 

She  took  iier  initlior's  winding  sheet. 

And  o't  she  made  a  s,irk  to  me  ; 
BIytbc  and  merry  may  she  be, 

The  liss  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 

Burns. 


I  HAD  A  HORSE  AND  I  HAD  NAE 
.MA  HI. 

This  story  was  founded  on  fact.  A  John 
Hunter,  ann-stoi  to  a  very  respectable  farming 
family  who  live  in  a  jilice  in  the  parish,  I  think, 
of  Galston,    oalK-d    liair-mill,    was   the   luekli'ss 

hero  that  /tud  u  hnrsi-  ami  had  tide  iiiair For 

tome  little  yuuthtui  tollies  he  found  it  necessary 
to  make  a  retreat  to  the  Wost-Highlaiids,  wheie 
he  feed  himself  to  a  ILijIdand  Luird,  for  that 
is  the  expression  of  all  the  oral  editions  of  the 
song  I  ever  heard. — The  present  Mr.  Hunter, 
who  told  me  the  .inecdote,  is  the  gieat-giaud- 
ehild  to  our  hero.  —  liuttNS. 


I  HAD  a  horse,  and  I  had  nao  mair, 

I  gat  him  frae  my  d  iddy  ; 
My  jnirse  was  light,  and  my  heart  wa«  Mu'r 

Rut  my  wit  it  was  fu'  reidy. 
And  s.ie  I  thought  me  on  a  tiinCj 

Outwittfiis  of  my  diuldv, 
To  foe  mysel  to  a  l.iwland  laird, 

Wiia  had  a  bonnie  lady. 

I  wrote  a  letter,  and  thus  began, 

"  Madam,  be  not  oli'einled, 
I'm  o'er  the  lugs  in  love  wi'  you, 

And  care  not  tho'  ye  keiid  it: 
For  1  get  little  frae    he  liird. 

And  far  less  frae  my  daddy, 
And  I  would  blythdy  be  the  man 

Would  strive  to  please  my  lady." 

She  read  my  letter,  and  she  lougb, 

"  Ye  needna  been  sae  blate,  niaa  ; 
You  inight  hae  come  to  me  yonrsel. 

And  tauld  me  o'  your  state,  maa  : 
Ye  might  hae  come  to  me  yoursel, 

Outwittens  o'  ony  body, 
And  made  Jnhn  Guu-kstoii  of  the  ladrdj 

And  kiss'd  his  bonnie  ladj. " 

Then  she  pat  siller  in  my  |)iirse. 

We  drank  wine  in  a  coggie  ; 
She  feed  a  man  to  rub  my  horse, 

And  wow  !  but  I  was  vogie. 
Rut  I  gat  ue'er  sa  sair  a  flog. 

Since  I  came  frae  my  daddy. 
The  laird  came,  rap  rap,  to  the  yett. 

When  I  was  wi'  his  lady. 

Then  she  pat  me  below  a  chair, 

.\nd  liapp'd  me  wi'  a  plaidie  ; 
But  I  was  like  to  swail  wi'  foar, 

Aiid  wish'd  ine  wi'  my  daddy. 
The  laird  went  out,  he  saw  na  nie, 

I  went  when  1  was  leady  : 
I  promis'd,  but  1  ne'er  gade  back 

To  kiss  his  bonnie  l.idy. 


AULD  ROBIN  GRAY. 

Tins  air  was  formerly  called  The  Brirft- 
ijrao'n  preits  whm  llie  sun  r/itiius  <tiiwn.  The 
words  are  by  Lady  Ann  Liudsiiy. — BuRNS. 

When  the  sheep  are   in  the  fauld,   and  the  kv  at 
hame, 

And  a'  the  warld  to  sl.ep  are  gane  ; 
The  waes  of  my  heart  fd    in  show'is  frae  mycc, 

When  my  gudeman  lyes  so..i«d  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  loo'd  me  wet ,   and   he  sought  me 
for  his  bi  ide, 
But  saving  a  crown  he  hail  n:ieth.ing  bsside  ; 
Tu  make  that  crown  a  |iimud,   my  .  aime  gutit 
to  sea, 
And  the  crown  and  the  puund  were  baith  foi 
uae 


138 


BURNS    WORKS. 


He  liad  r.ae  been  awa  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When   my  indther  she  fell  sick,   and  the  cow 
was  srown  awa  ; 

My  father  lirak  hi<  arm,  and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea, 
And  auld  Rubin  Gray  came  a  courtint"  me. 

My  father  coudna  work;  and  my  mother  cotidna 
spin, 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  coud- 
na win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintaiii'd  them  baith,   and  wi*  tears 
in  his  ee, 
Said,   "  Jenny,  for  their  sahcs,  O  marry  me." 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back, 
But  the   wind    it  l)iew  high,  and  the  ship  it 
%vas  a  wraik  ; 

The  ship  it  was  a  wrack,  why  didna  Jenny  die, 
And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  waes  me? 

My  father  argued  sair,   tho'  my  mither  didna 
f-peak, 
She  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like 
to  break  ; 
So  they  giVd  hiin  my  hand,   tho*  my  heart  was 
in  the  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  is  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hcdna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four. 

When  sitting  sue  rnournfuliy  at  tjie  dour, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wiaith,  fur  I  coudna  think  it  he. 
Till  he  sriiil,    "  I'm  come  back  for  to  marry 
thee." 

0  sair  did  we  gieet,  and  mickle  did  we  say, 
We    took    but  ae  kiss,    and   we  tore  ourselves 

away, 

1  wish  I  were  de;id  !    but  I'm  no  like  to  die, 

And  why  do  I  live  to  say,  waes  me  ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist.  and  I  earena  to  spin, 

I  d  irna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ; 

But  Til  do  my  best  a  gudcwife  to  be, 
For  aidd  Robiu  Grav  is  kind  unto  me. 


UP  AND  WAR\  A'  WILLIE. 

The  expression,  "  Up  ami  warn  a'  WilJie,'" 
alludes  to  the  Crantari  oi  warning  of  a  High 
.and  Clan  to  aims.  Not  understanding  tins, 
the  Lowlanders  in  the  west  and  south  say,  "  Uji 
end  waur  them  «',  &c.  This  edition  of  the 
song  I  got  fn.ir  Tom  Niul,'  of  ficetious  fame, 
in  Edinburgh. 

Up  nud  iviirn  a',    Willie, 

Will  n,  iriirn  a   , 
T'l  ht'iir  my  canty  [liyhhind  sang, 
lielate  the  thiny  I  saw,    IF/^/c— Burns. 


•  Torn  Kifl  was  a  carpenter  in  KdiKbumh,  niid  liveil 
flucHv  t)y  r.uiliin^  .■„l|ii,s.  He  ..as  a  s.)  ITcmitor,  o. 
LIcrk.  inonc  oril„.cluircli.-s.  Ileln.l  a  l'<m),I  stro;  n 
voice,  aii.l  ivHsR,t.a:ly.|,siMiKMivlic(l  bv   hi- powers  of 

^Z^  Ul'lil'r  """""'""'  "'^"'"  °'' '"'«'"«  ^"^'  ""^ 


Vv'hen  we  gaed  to  the  braes  o'  Mar, 

And  to  the  wapon-shaw,  Willie, 
Wi'  true  design  to  serve  the  king. 
And  banish  whigs  awa,  Willie. 
Up  and  warn  a',  Willie, 
W^arn,  warn  a'  ; 
For  lords  and  lairds  came  there  bedeea. 
And  wou  but  they  were  braw,  Wilbe 

But  when  the  standard  was  set  up, 

Right  fierce  the  wind  did  blaw,  Willie; 
The  royal  nit  upon  the  tap 

Down  to  the  ground  did  fa',  Willia, 
Up  and  \^-arn  a',  Willie, 
Warn,  warn  a'  ; 
Then  second-sighted  Sandy  said, 
We'd  do  nae  gude  at  a',  Willie. 

But  when  the  army  join'd  at  Perth, 

The  bravest  e'er  ye  saw,  Willie, 
We  didna  doubt  the  rogues  to  rout, 
Restore  our  king  and  a',  Willie. 
Up  and  warn  a'.  Willie, 
Warn,  warn  a' ; 
The  pipers  playd  frae  right  to  left, 
O  whirry  whigs  awa,  Willie. 

But  when  we  raarcli'd  to  Sherra-muir, 

And  there  the  rebels  saw,  Willie, 
Brave  Argyle  attack'd  our  right. 
Our  flank  and  front  and  a',  Willie. 
Up  and  warn  a',  Willie, 
Warn,  warn  a'  ; 
Traitor  Huntly  soon  gave  way, 
Seaforth,  St.  Clair  and  a',  Willie. 

But  brave  Glengary  on  our  right, 

The  rebels'  left  did  claw,  Willie  ; 
He  there  the  greatest  slaughter  made 
That  ever  Donald  saw,  Willie. 
Up  and  warn  a'  Willie, 
Warn,  warn  a'  ; 
And  Whittam  s — t  h's  hreeks  for  fear< 
And  fast  did  rin  awa,  Willie. 

For  he  ca'd  U3  a  Highland  mob. 

Anil  soon  he'd  slay  us  a'  Willie, 
But  we  chas'd  him  back  to  Stilling  Drig, 
Dragoons  and  foot  and  a',  Willie. 
Up  and  warn  a',  Willie, 
Warn,  warn  a'  ; 
At  length  we  rallied  on  a  hill, 

And  briskly  up  did  draw,  Willie. 

But  when  Argyle  did  view  our  line, 

And  them  in  order  saw,  Willie, 
He  streight  gaed  to  Dumblane  again, 
And  back  his  left  did  draw,  Wilhe 
Up  and  warn  a',  Willie, 
Warn,  warn  a'  ; 
Then  we  to  Atichteraider  march'd. 
To  wait  a  better  W,  Willie. 

Now  if  ye  spear  wha  wan  the  djv. 
I've  tell'd  vou  what  I  saw.   W  'lit. 


SONGS. 


isq 


We  b»ith  dill  fipiht  and  haith  did  beat, 
And  bailli  <iid  lin  awa,  Willie. 
Up  and  warn  a',  Willie, 
Warn,  warn  a'  ; 
For  seooiul-sighted  Sandie  said, 

We'd  do  nae  gude  at  a',  Willie. 


THE  BLYTIISOME  BRIDAL. 

I  FIND  tlie  Bli/tfisome  Bridal  in  James  Wat- 
ion's  Collection  of  Sc<>ts  Poems,  printed  at 
Edinburgh  in  1706. 

Tills  song  has  hiitnou.  and  a  felicity  of  ex- 
pression worthy  of  Rimsay,  with  even  mure 
than  his  wonted  broadness  and  sprij-htly  lan- 
guage. The  Witty  Catalogue  of  Names,  with 
their  Historical  Epithets,  are  done  in  the  true 
Lowland  Scottish  taste  of  an  age  ago,  when 
every  householder  was  nicknamed  either  from 
'onie  prominent  part  of  his  character,  pel  son, 
■)r  lands  and  housen,  which  he  rented.  Thus — 
*'  Skupe-Jitted  Rob."  "  Thrnwn-moud  Rah 
o'  the  nubs."  "  Roarin  Jxch  i'  the  Swair." 
"  Slaverin'  Simyiiie  o'  Ti)ds/iati:"  "  Soiiple 
Kate  o'  Ircnyray,"  &:c.  &c. — BuilNS. 

Fv  let  us  all  to  the  bridal. 

For  there  will  be  lilting  there  ; 
For  Jockie'sto  be  married  to  Maggie, 

The  la>s  wi'  thegauden  hair. 
And  there  will  be  lang-kail  and  pottage. 

And  bannocks  of  barley-meal, 
And  there  will  be  good  sawt  herring, 
To  relish  a  cog  of  good  ale. 
1  y  let  us  till  to  the  brin'al. 

For  there  will  be  liltinp  there. 
For  Joc/iit's  til  be  inurry'd  tn  I\Taggie, 
The  lass  with  the  yauden  liair. 

And  there  will  be  Sandie  the  sutor. 

And   '  Wdl'  with  the  meikle  mow  ; 
.\n(l  there  will  be  Tam  the   '  bluter,' 

With  Andrew  the  tinkler,  I  trow. 
And  there  will  be  bow-legged  Robbie, 

With  thunibless  Katie's  gnoilnian  ; 
And  there  will  be  blue-chieked  Dowbie, 

And  Lawrie  the  laird  of  the  land. 
Fy  let  us  all,  §*c. 

And  there  will  be  sow-libber  Patle, 

And  plouckie-fac'd  Wat  i'  the  mill, 
Ca|iper-iios'd  Francie,  and  Gibbie, 

That  wons  in  the  how  of  the  hill ; 
And  there  will  be  Ali^ter  Sibbie, 

Wha  in  with  black  Bes-^y  did  moo!. 
With  siieevling  Lillie,  anil  Tibbie, 

The  lass  that  stands  aft  on  the  stool. 
Fy  let  us  all,  ^c. 

4nd  Madsje  that  was  buckled  to  Steenie, 
And  colt  him  [grey)  bieeks  to  his  arse, 
Wha  after  was'  haiigit  for  stealing. 
Great  mercy  it  happened  nd  wunw : 


And  there  will  be  gleed  Geordle  Janncrs^ 
And  Kirsh  wi'  the  lilv-white  leg, 

Wha   '  gade*  to  the  south  for  niamiers, 
And  bang'd  up  her  wame  in  JNIuns  Meg. 
Fy  let  us  all,  SfC. 

And  there  will  be  Judan  Maciawrie, 

And  blinkin  daft  Rarbra   '  Macleg,* 
Wi' flae-lugged,  sharny-fac'd  Lawrie, 

And  shangy-nioii'd  haliicket  Meg. 
And  there  will  be  h,ip[ier-ars'd  Nansy, 

And  fairy-fac'd  Flowrie  be  name. 
Muck  JLulie,  and  fat-hipped  Lizle, 

The  lass  with  the  gauden  waine 
Fy  let  us  all,  &e. 

And  there  will  be  girn-again  Gibbie, 

With  his  glakit  wife  Jennie  Bell, 
And  Misleshiiiu'd  Miingo  Macapie, 

The  lad  that  was  skip|)er  hiinsel. 
There  lads  and  lasses  in  pearlings 

Will  feast  in  the  heart  of  the  ha', 
Os  sybows,  and  ryfarts,  and  carlings. 

That  are  baith  sodden  and  raw. 
Fy  let  us  all,  §-e. 

And  there  will  be  fadges  and  brachen. 

With  fouth  of  good  gappoks  of  skate, 
Pow-siidie,  aiid  drammock,  and  crowdie. 

And  callour  nout-feet  in  a  plate  ; 
And  there  will  be  partans  and  buckies, 

Speldens  and  whytcns  enew, 
And  singed  sheep-heads,  and  a  haggize. 

And  scadli|)s  to  sup  till  ye  spew. 
Fy  let  us  all,  8fC. 

And  there  will  be  lapper'd-milk  kebbucks, 

And  sowens,  and  failes,  and  b«ps, 
With  swats,  and  well-scraped  i)auiiel;es. 

And  brandy  in  stoops  and  in  caps; 
Anil  there  will  be  meal-kail  and  cai>tocks, 

With  skink  to  sup  till  ye  rive ; 
And  losts  to  rost  on  a  brander, 

Of  flouks  that  were  taken  alive. 
Fy  let  us  all,  §t. 

Scrapt  haddocks,  wilks.  dilse,  and  tangles, 

And  a  mill  of  good  snishing  to  pile; 
When  weary  with  eating  and  drinking. 
We'll  rise  up  and  dance  till  we  die. 
Then  fy  let  us  all  to  the  brid.d. 

For  there  will  be  Ultin;)  there  ; 
Fur  Jnckie^s  to  be  tnarry^d  tn  Miiygy. 
The  lass  with  the  gauden  hair. 


O  CAN  YE  LABOUR  LEA,  YOUNG 
MAN. 

This  eong  has  long  been  known  among  th» 
inlubitants  of  Nithsilale  and  GaJIoway,  where 
it  is  a  great  favourite.  The  first  Verse  should 
be  resitored  to  ib;  orijpnal  state. 


140                                        BURNS  WORKS. 

I  FEED  a  lad  at  Roodsniass, 

We're  tall  as  the  oak  on  the  mount  of  the  valCj 

Wi'  si\ler  pennies  three  ; 

As  swift  as  the  roe  which  the  hound  doth  assail, 

Wlien  lie  came  home  at  l\Iartinmass, 

As  the  full-moon  in  autumn  our  shields  do  ap 

He  c'ouhi  nae  labour  lea. 

pear. 

0  i-aniia  ye  labour  lea,  young  lad, 

Minerva  would  dread  to  encounter  our  spear. 

O  eaniia  ye  lal)our  lea  ? 

Such  our  love,  §"c. 

ludeed,  quo'  he,  my  hand's  out — 

An'  «ip  his  graith  packed  he. 

As  a  storm  in  the  ocean  when  Boreas  blows, 

So  are  we  cnrag'd  when  we  rush  on  our  foe*  ; 

This   old   way  is  the  truest,   for  the  t<;rms, 

We  sons  of  the  mountains,  tremendou-*  as  rocks 

Jino'lwass  is  the  hirino;  fair,  and    Hallowmass 

Dash  the  force  of  our  foes  with  our  thundering 

the  Jimt  of  the  half  year Burns. 

strokes. 

Such  our  love,  §-c. 

I  FEED  a  man  at  Martinmas^, 

Wi'  arle-pennies  three  ; 

Quebec   and   Cape   Breton,   the    pride   of  old 

But  a'  the  faute  I  had  to  him, 

France, 

He  coiild  nae  labour  lea. 

In  their  troops  fondly  boasted  till  we  did  ad- 

O am  ye  labour  lea,  young  ntiin, 

vance  ; 

O  am  ye  labour  tea  ? 

But  when  our  claymores  they  saw  us  produce, 

Gae  back  the  i/ate  ye  came  again, 

Their  courage  did  fail,  and  they  sued  for  a  truce. 

Ye'se  never  scorn  me. 

Such  our  love,  Sfc. 

0  cl.ippin's  gude  in  Febarwar, 
An'  tissins  sweet  in  May  ; 

But  what  signiSi'S  a  young  man's   ove 
An't  diniia  last  for  ay. 

In  our  realm  may  the  fury  of  faction  long  cease, 
Jlay  our  councils  be  wi>e,  and  our  commerce 

increase  ; 
And  in  Scotia's  cold  climate  may  each  of  us  find, 
That  our  friends  still  prove  true,  and  our  beau- 

O can  ye,  S,-c. 

O  kissin  is  the  key  of  luve, 

ties  prove  kind. 

An  (-lappin  is  the  lock. 

Then  we'll  defend  our  liberty,  our  country 

An'  niakiu-of's  the  best  thing 

and  our  laws. 

That  e'er  a  young  thing  got. 

And  teach  our  late  posterity  to  fight  i* 

O  can  ye,  Sfc. 

Freedom' s  cause. 

That  they  like  our  ancestors  bold,  !(c. 

IN  THE  GARB  OF  OLD  GAUL. 

WOO'D  AND  i\I.\TtRIED  AND  A' 

Tins  tune  was  the  composition  of  General 

Rcid,  an<l  caUed  by  him    Tlie  Uiy/ilatid,  nr  i2<l 

Wiio'd  and  married  and  a\ 

fiei/inK-iit  s   xMarch.     The   words    are    by    Sir 

Woo'd  and  married  and  a'. 

Harry  Ersklnt- Burns. 

Was  she  not  very  weel  off. 

Was  woo'd  and  married  and  ol  I 

In   the  garb  of  old   Gaul,   wi'  the   fire   of  old 

Ilonie, 

The  bride  came  out  o'  tlie  byre. 

From  the  heath-covcr'd  mountains  of  Scotia  we 

And  0  as  she  (lighted  her  cheeks, 

come. 

"  Sirs,  I'm  to  i;e  married  the  night. 

Where  the  Romans  endeavour'd  our  country  to 

And  lias  nouthcr  blanket  nor  sheets ; 

gain, 

IIa<  noutlier  blankets  nor  sheets, 

But  our  ancestors  fought,  and  they  fought  not 

Nor  scarce  a  coveilet  too  ; 

in  vain. 

The  bride  that  has  a'  to  borrow. 

Such  our  love  of  liberty,  our  country,  and 

Has  e'en  riffht  meikie  ailo." 

our  laws, 

Woo'd  and  married,  jr. 

That  like  our  ancestors  of  old,  we  stand 

by  Frci  darn's  cause  ; 

Out  spake  the  bride's  father. 

We'll  bravdi/  f'jht  ike  heroes  hold,  fur 

As  lie  came  in  fiae  the  pleugh, 

honour  anil  uji/iluuse, 

"  0  had  yere  tongue,  my  (laughter. 

And  defy  the  French,  witk  all  their  art. 

And  yese  get  gear  enoufjh  ; 

to  utter  our  laws. 

The  Ktirk  that  stands  i'  the  tether, 

And  our  bra'  basin'd  yade. 

No  efTominatc  customs  our  sinews  unbrace, 

Will  carry  ye  hame  yere  cirn  ; 

No  luxurious  tallies  enerv.ite  our  race, 

What  wad  ye  be  at  ye  jade  ?" 

Our  louii-Miuiiding  pipe  bears  the  tiue  martial 

ir<j(/6.'  and  niumed,  {». 

strain. 

'»o  do  We  the  old  Scdttish  valour  retain. 

Outspake  the  bride's  mitlier. 

Such  our  love,  S^c. 

"  What  deil  needs  a'  this  pride  ? 

SONGS 


141 


)  h.id  nae  a  pl.ick  !n  my  poiica 

That  ni/lit  I  was  a  liride ; 
My  gown  was  liiisy-woolsy, 

And  ne'er  a  s:irk  ava, 
Anil  ve  !iae  ril)b()ns  ami  biisltlas 

Bl.iir  tnan  ane  or  twa." 

^^'ou'J  (Old  mnrried,  |fc. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  quo'  Willie, 

"  Tho'  we  be  scant  o'  claiths, 
We'll  i-ieep  the  nearer  thegither, 

And  we'll  smoor  a'  the  fleas  ; 
SimnuT  is  coming  on, 

Anil  we'll  get  teats  o'  woo  ; 
And  we'll  get  a  lass  o'  our  ain, 

And  she'll  spin  claiths  anew." 

Woo'd  and  married,  §"C. 

Outspike  the  bride's  I)rither, 

As  he  came  in  \vi'  the  kye, 
"  Puir  Willie  hud  ne'er  hae  ta'en  ye. 

Had  he  kent  ye  as  weel  as  I  ; 
For  you're  baitli  proud  and  saucy, 

And  no  for  a  puir  man's  wife, 
Gin  I  canna  get  a  better, 

I'se  never  take  ane  i'  my  life." 

Woo'd  and  married,  Sfc, 

Outspake  the  bride's  sister, 

As  she  eame  in  frae  the  byre, 
"  O  gin  I  were  but  married. 

It's  a'  that  I  desire ; 
But  we  puir  folk  maun  live  single. 

And  do  the  best  we  can  ; 
I  dinna  care  what  I  should  want. 
If  I  could  but  get  a  man." 
Woo'd  and  married  and  a', 

Wuo'd  and  married  aiid  a'. 
Was  she  not  very  weel  aff, 

Was  woo'd  and  married  and  a'. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST. 

A  SUCCESSFUL  imitation  of  an  old  song  is 
really  attended  with  less  difficulty  than  to  con- 
vince a  blockhead  that  one  of  these yeii  d''esprits 
is  a  forgery.  This  fine  ballad  is  even  a  more 
palpable  iniitation  than  Hardiknute,  The 
manners  indeed  are  old,  but  the  language  is  of 
yesterday.  Its  author  must  very  soon  be  dis- 
covered.— Burns. 

BT  JANK  ELLIOT. 

I've  heard  a  lilting 
At  the  ewes  milking. 
Lasses  a'  lilting  before  the  break  o'  day, 
Bui  uow  I  hear  moaning 
On  ilka  green  loaning, 
Since  our  brave  forresters  are  a'  wed  ixrsj. 

At  buchts  in  the  morniug 
Vae  blythe  lads  are  scorning  ; 


The  It^scs  are  lonelv,  dowic  and  V7ae  i 

Nae  d.ilfin,  niic  gTibl)iiig, 

Rut  sighing  and  sabhing. 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin,  and  hies  her  away. 

At  e'en  in  the  glon;ing 
Nae  swankies  are  roammg, 
'Mang  stacks  with  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play  ; 
For  ilk  ane  sits  diearie, 
Lamenting  her  dearie, 
The  flow'rs  o'  the  forest  wh'  are  a*  wed  away. 

In  har'st  at  the  shearing 
Nae  blythe  lads  are  jeering. 
The  Bansters  are  lyart,  and  runklcd,  and  grey ; 
At  fairs  nor  at  preaching, 
Nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching. 
Since  our  bra  foresters  are  a'  wed  away. 

O  dule  for  the  order  ! 
Sent  our  lids  to  the  border  ! 
The  English  f(ir  anes,  by  guile  wan  the  day  : 
The  flow'rs  of  the  f  irest 
Wha  aye  shone  the  foremost. 
The  prime  of  the  land  lie  cauld  in  the  clay 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  THE  FOREST. 

BY  MRS.   COCKBURN. 

I've  seen  the  smiling  of  fortune  beguiling, 
I've  tasted  her  favours,  and  felt  her  decay  ; 

Sweet  is  her  blessing,  and  kind  her  caressing, 
But  soon  it  is  fled — it  is  fled  fur  away. 

I've  seen  the  forest  adorned  of  the  foremost, 
With  flowers  of  the  fairest,  both  pleasant  and 
gay: 
FuU  sweet  was  their  blooming,    their  scent  the 
air  perfuming, 
But  now  they  are  wither'd,  and  a'  wede  awae 

I've  seen  the  morning,  with  gold  the  hills  a- 
durning. 
And  the  red  storm  roaring,  before  the  parting 
day  ; 
I've  seen  Tweed's  silver  streams,  glittering  in 
the  sunny  beams. 
Turn  drumly  and  dark,  as  they  rolled  on  their 
way. 

O  fickle  fortune.'  why  this  cruel  sporting? 
Why  thus  perjilex  us  [loor  sons  of  a  day  ? 
Thy  frowns  cannot  fear  me,    thy  smiles  cannot 
cheer  me. 
Since  the  flowers  of  the  forest  are  a'  wedt 
awae. 


142 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


TIBBIE  DUNBAR. 

yVifjr— "  Johnny  M'GiU." 

This  tune  is  slid  to  be  tlie  composition  of 
Jolin  M'Glil,  fidJler,  in  Girvan.  He  called  it 
after  his  own  name Burns. 

0,  v/iLT  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ; 

O,  wilt  thou  go  wi'  me,  sweet  Tibbie  Dun- 
bar ; 
Wilt  tliou  ride  on  a  horse,  or  be  drawn  in  a  car. 

Or  walk  by  my  side,  O  sweet  Tibbie  Dunbar  ? 

I  careni  thy  diddie,  his  lands  and  his  money, 
I  carena  thy  kin,  sae  high  and  sae  lordly  : 

But  say  thou  wilt  hae  me  for  better  for  waur. 
And   cmne  iu  thy  coatie,   sweet  Tibbie  Dun- 
bar ! 


THIS  IS  NO  MINE  AIN  HOUSE. 

The  first  half  stanza  is  old,  the  rest  is  Ram- 
say's.    The  old  words  are  : — Bjrns. 

O  THIS  is  no  mine  ain  house. 

My  ain  house,  my  ain  house ; 
This  is  no  mine  ain  house, 

I  kon  by  the  biggin  o't. 

There's  bread  and  cheese  are  my  door-cheeks, 
Are  my  diKir-cheeks,  are  my  door-cheeks  ; 

There's  br'.Mil  and  cheese  are  my  door-cheeks  ; 
Aud  [jan-cakes  the  riggin  o't. 

This  is  no  my  ain  wean. 

My  ain  wean,  my  ain  wean ; 
This  is  no  my  ain  wean, 

I  ken  by  the  greetie  o't. 

ni  t:ik  the  curchie  aff  my  head, 

Aff  my  head,  aflf  my  head  ; 
I'll  tik  the  curchie  atf  my  head, 

And  row't  about  the  feetie  o't. 

The  tune  is  an  old  Highland  air,  called  S/ruan 
truish  iritli  ,/ian. 


THE  GABERLUNZIE-MAN. 

The  Gaberlunzic-Man  is  supposed  to  ■lom- 
jr.cmiirate  an  iiifrigue  of  James  the  Fifth.  Rlr. 
Callander  of  Craigforth,  published  some  years 
ago,  an  editiun  of  Christ's  Kirk  on  the  Green, 
anil  the  (Sahcrli/nzie-Mun,  with  notes  critical 
iii.l  historical.  James  the  Fifth  is  said  to  have 
been  fond  of  Gosford,  in  Aberlady  Parish,  and 
that  it  was  suspected  by  his  coteniporaries,  tliat 
in  his  fre(iiiciit  excursions  to  that  part  of  the 
country  ln'  had  other  purposes  in  view  besides 
golfing   and    archery.      Three   favourite   Iwliea 


Sandilands,  Weir,  and  Oliphant,  v^one  of  them 
resided  at  Gosford,  and  the  others  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood), were  occasionally  visited  by  their 
royal  and  gallant  admirer,  which  gave  rise  to 
the  following  satirical  advice  to  his  Majesty, 
from  Sir  David  Lindsay,  of  the  Mount,  Lord 
Lyon. 

Sow  not  your  seed  on  Sandi/lands, 
Spend  not  your  strength  in  Weir, 
And  ride  not  on  an  Elephant, 
For  spoiling  o'  your  gear. — BuRXS. 


Thi!  pawky  auld  carle  came  o'er  the  lee, 
Wi'  many  good  e'ens  and  days  to  me. 
Saying,  Goorlwife,  for  your  couitesie, 

Will  ye  lodge  a  silly  poor  man  ! 
The  night  was  cauld,  the  carle  was  wat. 
And  down  ayont  the  ingle  he  sat  ; 
My  daughter's  shoulders  he  'gan  to  clap, 

And  cudgily  ranted  and  sang, 

O  wow  !  quo'  he,  were  I  as  free. 
As  first  when  I  saw  this  country, 
How  blvth  and  merry  wad  I  be  ! 

And  I  wad  never  think  lang. 
He  grew  canty,  and  she  grew  fain  ; 
But  little  did  her  auld  minny  ken 
What  thir  slee  twa  togither  were  say'n, 

When  wooing  they  were  sae  thrang. 

And  O  !    quo'  he,  ann  ye  were  as  black 
As  e'er  the  crown  of  my  dady's  hat, 
'Tis  I  wad  lay  thee  by  my  back. 

And  awa'  wi'  me  thou  shou'd  gang. 
And  O  !   quo'  she,  anu  I  were  as  white. 
As  e'er  the  snaw  lay  on  the  dike, 
I'd  dead  nie  braw,  and  lady  like, 

And  awa'  with  thee  I'd  gang. 

Between  the  twa  was  made  a  plot  ; 
They  raise  awee  before  the  cock, 
And  wilily  they  shot  the  lock. 

And  fust  to  the  bent  are  they  gane. 
Up  the  morn  the  auld  wife  raise. 
And  at  her  leisure  put  on  her  claise  ; 
Syne  to  tlie  serv.mt's  bed  she  gaes, 

To  speer  fur  the  silly  poor  man. 

She  gaed  to  the  bed  where  the  beggar  lay, 
The  strae  was  cauld,  he  was  away, 
She  clapt  her  hand,  cry'd  Waladay, 

For  some  of  our  gear  will  i)e  gane. 
Some  ran  to  coffers,  and  some  to  kists. 
But  nought  was  stown  that  cou'd  be  mist, 
She  d.iiic'd  her  lane,  cry'd.  Praise  be  blest, 

I  have  lodg'd  a  leal  poor  man. 

Since  nathing's  awa',  as  we  can  learn, 
The  kiru's  to  kirn,  and  milk  to  cAirx, 
Gae  butt  the  hou^,  lass,  aud  w/ken  my  baim 
And  bid  her  come  quickly  ben. 


SOXGS. 


US 


rhe  sn-rvaut  ^jml'.'  where  the  d.ni^hter  lay, 
Tlie  -h(.fi.<  wi!t  ciU.M,  she  was  away, 
Ami  ta<t  to  !icr  f;;i(ii!\y;fe  <j;,ii\  say, 
Slio's  alFwitli  the  GaLt'rluiaie-.uan. 

O  fy  par  rid..',  ami  fy  sjir  rin; 

And  h:i«ite  ye  liii;!  thfst-  triytors  acain  ; 

For  she's  be  burnt,  and  he's  be  slam, 

The  wearifu'  Oaberlunzie-man. 
Rome  ra(h'  n-io'  hi)r>e,  some  ran  a  fit, 
Tlie  wife  was  wiuui,  and  out  o'  her  wit : 
Slie  cnu'd  n  i  sjan;:;,  nor  yet  eoii'd  slie  «lt, 

ISut  ay  slie  cuis'd  and  she  ban'd. 

Mean  time  far  hind  out  o'er  the  lea, 

Fu'  snuff  in  a  i^ien,  where  iiane  cou'd  see. 

The  twa,  with  kindly  sport  and  glee, 

Cut  frae  a  new  cheese  a  whang  : 
The  |)rivin;j  was  good,  it  pleas'd  them  baith, 
To  h>'e  her  for  ay,  he  gae  her  his  aith  ; 
Quo'  sl:e,  to  leave  thee  I  will  be  laith, 

My  winsome  Gaberlunzie-man. 

O  kend  my  niinny  I  were  wi'  you, 
llisanlly  wad  she  crook  her  mou, 
Sic  a  poor  man  she'd  never  trow. 

After  the  Galierlunzie-man, 
Jly  dear,  quo'  he,  ye're  yet  o'er  young, 
And  ha'  nae  Icar'd  the  beggar's  tongue, 
To  follow  me  frae  town  to  town. 

And  carry  the  Gaberluuzie  on. 

Wi'  cauk  and  keel  I'll  win  your  bread, 

And  ppindlei  and  whorles  for  thetn  wha  need, 

Wliilk  is  a  gentle  trade  indeed. 

To  carry  the  Gaherlunzie — O. 
I'll  bow  my  leg,  and  crook  my  knee, 
And  draw  a  black  clout  o'er  my  eye, 
A  cripple  or  blind  they  will  ca'  rae. 

While  we  shall  be  merry  and  sing. 


jonnie  coup. 

This  satiiical  song  was  composed  to  comme- 
morate General  Cope's  defeat  at  Preston-Pans, 
in  l7io,  when  he  marched  against  the  clans. 

The  air  was  the  tune  of  an  old  song,  of  which 
I  have  heard  some  verses,  but  now  only  remem- 
ber the  title,  which  was, 

W'ill  ye  go  to  the  coals  in  the  morning. 

BUKNS. 


Coup  sent  a  letter  frae  Dunbar, 

Chsrlie,  meet  me  an  ye  dare, 

A.'id  I'll  learn  you  the  art  of  war, 

tf  you'll  meet  wi'  me  in  the  morning. 

Ilti/  Jonnie  Coup,  are  ye  waking  yet  9 
Or  are  your  diuins  a-heatlng  yet? 
If  ye  were  u-uk'ing  T  won'd  wait 
To  gang  to  the  coals  i'  the  morning. 


When  Charlie  lonk'd  the  letter  upon. 
He  drew  his  sword  the  scalibird  from, 
Come  follow  roe,  my  merry  merry  men. 
And  we'll  meet  wi"  Coup  i'  the  morning, 
Jley  Jonnie  Coup,  Sfc. 

Now,  Jonnie,  be  as  good  as  vour  word. 
Come  let  us  try  both  fire  and  sword. 
And  dinna  rin  awa'  like  a  frighted  bird. 
That's  chas'd  frae  it's  nest  in  the  morning 
Ucy  Jonnie  Coup,  S^c, 

When  Jonnie  Coup  he  heard  of  this. 
Me  thought  it  waclna  be  amiss 
To  hae  a  horse  in  readiness. 
To  die  awa'  i'  the  morning. 

Hey  Jonnie  Coup,  Arc 

Fy  now  Jonnie  get  up  and  rin, 
The  Highland  bagpipes  makes  a  din. 
It's  best  to  sleep  in  a  hale  skin. 
For  'twill  be  a  bluddie  morning. 

Jley  Jonnie  Coup,  §*e. 

X^Hien  Jonnie  Coup  to  Berwick  came. 
They  spear'd  at  him,  where's  a'  your  men. 
Tlie  deil  confounil  me  gin  I  ken. 
Fur  I  left  them  a'  i'  the  mornir.g. 

Hey  Jonnie  Coup,  §•«. 

Now,  Jonnie,  trouth  ye  was  na  blate, 
To  come  wi'  the  news  o'  your  ain  defeat. 
And  leave  your  men  in  sic  a  strait, 
So  early  in  the  morning. 

Iley  Jon/lie  Coup,  ^c. 

Ah  !   faith,  co'  Jonnie,  I  got  a  fleg. 
With  their  claymores  and  philabegs. 
If  I  face  them  again,  deil  break  my  icg^, 
So  I  wish  you  a  good  mornituj. 

Hey  Jonnie  Ccup,  ifc. 


A  WAUKRIFE  MINNIE. 

I  PICKED  up  this  old  song  and  tune  from  a 
country  girl  in  Nithsdale. — I  never  met  w::th  it 
elsewhere  in  Scotland. — Burns. 

Wha  RE  are  you  gaun,  my  boncie  lasa, 

Wliere  are  you  gaun,  my  hiauie, 
She  answer'd  me  right  saucilie. 

An  errand  fur  my  niiniiie. 

O  whare  live  ye,  my  bonnie  !«», 

O  whare  live  ye,  my  liinnie. 
By  yen  burn-side,  gin  ye  maun  kea. 

In  a  wee  house  wi'  uiy  niintic. 

But  I  foor  up  the  glen  at  eea, 

To  see  my  bonnie  lassie  ; 
And  lang  before  the  gr.iy  mom  ciua, 

She  was  na  bnuf  sae  sauci^ 


iU 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


0  weary  fa'  tlie  waukrife  cock, 
And  the  foumart  liy  liis  crawin  ! 

Tie  wauken'd  the  aiild  wife  frae  her  sleep, 
A  wee  blink  or  the  ilawin. 

Aq  angry  wife  I  wat  she  raise, 

And  o'er  the  bed  she  brought  her  ■ 

And  «'i'  a  mickle  hazia  rung 

She  wade  her  a  weel  pay'd  dochter 

O  fare  thee  weel,  my  bonnie  lass  ! 

O  fare  thee  weel,  my  hinnie  ! 
Thou  art  a  gay  and  a  himnie  lass, 

But  thou  hast  a  waukrife  minnie.* 


TULLOCHGORUM. 

This,  first  of  songs,  i<  the  master-piece  of 
my  old  trienil  Skinner.  He  was  passing  the  day 
at  the  town  of  El'on,  I  think  it  was,  in  a  friend's 

house    whose    name    was    JMontgomery Mrs. 

Montgomery  observing,  en  passant,  'that  the 
beautiful  reel  of  Tulloch'ionim  wanted  words, 
she  begged  them  of  I\Ir.  Skinner,  who  gratified 
her  wishes,  and  the  wishes  of  eveiy  lover  of 
Scotlish  song,  in  this  most  e.xce^lent  ballad. 

These  particulars  I  hid  from  the  author's 
son.  Bishop  Skinner,  at  Aberdeen Burns. 

Come  gie's  a  sang,  Montgomery  cry'd, 
And  lay  your  disputes  all  aside. 
What  signifies'!  for  folks  to  chide 

For  what  was  done  before  them  : 
Let  Whig  and  Toiy  all  agiee, 

Wing  and  Tory,  Whig  and  Tory, 
AA  hig  and  Tory  all  agree. 

To  diop  their  Whig-raig-raorum. 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 
To  spend  the  night  wi'  mirth  and  glee, 
And  cheerfid  slug  alang  wi'  me 

The  Reel  e'  Tullochgorum. 

O,  Tulluchgorum's  my  delight, 

It  gars  us  a'  in  ane  unite. 

And  ony  sumph  that  keeps  up  spite,       • 

In  conscience  I  abhor  him  ; 
For  biythe  and  cheerie  we'll  be  a', 

Blythe  and  cheerie,  biythe  and  cheerie, 
Biythe  and  cheerie  we'll  be  a', 
And  make  a  happy  quorum, 
For  Iilyihe  and  cheerie  we  11  be  a'. 
As  lang  as  we  hae  breath  to  draw. 
And  dance  till  we  be  like  to  fa" 

The  Reel  o'  Tullochgorum. 


What  needs  t'fere  be  sae  great  a  fraise, 
Wi'  dringing  dull  Italian  lays, 
I  wadna  gie  our  ain  Strathspeys 

For  half  a  hunder  score  o'  thenv 
They're  dowf  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Dowf  and  dowie,  iiuwf  and  dowie^ 
Doivf  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Wi'  a'  their  variorum  ; 
They're  dowf  and  dowie  at  the  best. 
Their  allegros  and  a*  the  rest. 
They  canna  please  a  Scottish  taste, 

Compar'd  wi'  Tullochgorum. 

Let  warldly  worms  their  minds  oppreei 
Wi'  fears  o*  want  and  double  cess. 
And  sullen  sots  themsells  distress 

Wi'  keeping  up  decorum  : 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit. 

Sour  and  sulky,  sour  and  sulky, 
Sour  and  sulky  shall  we  sit 

Like  old  phlloso|)hnrum  ! 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit, 
Wi'  neither  sense,  nor  mirth,  nor  wit. 
Nor  ever  try  to  shake  a  fit 

To  the  Reel  o'  Tullochgorum  ' 

May  choicest  blessings  ay  attend 
Each  honest,  open-hearted  friend, 
And  calm  and  quiet  be  his  end. 

And  a'  that's  good  watch  o'ei  hitn| 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 

Peace  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty. 
Peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 

And  dainties  a  great  store  o'  thcai ; 
May  peace  and  pleuty  be  his  lot, 
Unstain'd  by  any  vicious  spot. 
And  may  he  never  want  a  groat. 

That's  fond  o'  Tullochgorum' 


Rut  for  the  sullen  frumpish  fool, 
That  loves  to  be  oppression's  tool, 
May  envy  gnaw  his  rotten  soiJ, 

And  discontent  devour  him  ; 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 

Dool  and  sorrow,  dool  and  sorrow, 
Dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
And  nane  say,  wae's  me  for  him  ! 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
Wi'  a' the  ills  that  come  frae  France, 
Wha  e'er  he  be  that  winna  dance 
The  Reel  o'  Tullochgorum. 


JOHN  O'  BADENYON. 


■EU. 


•Ii^on  V       '  '      I   r-'  .V""'  "  "-""=  »"|>i.'rn)r  lo  some  o 
Jiose  recovered  by  Burns,  which  ii  worthy  of  notit^' 


"  O  tlinugli  thy  h^ir  was  gowilcn  weft 
An   thyjips  o"  <Ira,ii)oiR  (nmiie. 

Thou  hast  gotten  tl  e  clog  ili.it  winna  clmc 
tor  a  you're  waukrife  mimiie." 


This  excellent  song  is  also  the  compositHW 
of  my  worth.y  friend,  old  Skinner,  at  LiasharU 

BuilNS. 

When  first  I  cam  to  be  a  man 

Of  twenty  years  or  so, 
I  thought  myself  a  handsome  youth. 
And  fain  the  world  would  know  ; 


•^ 

~i 

SONGS.                                                     145 

In  btst  attire  I  sfept  iiliioad. 

What  next  to  do  I  musM  a  whilCi 

Witli  6i)irit>  bi'i-k  and  j;ay, 

Still  hoping  to  suicerd, 

AiiH  hert)  and  there  and  cveiy  wlicre 

I  jiitch'd  on  hook!)  for  company. 

Was  like  a  nuiin  in  M.iy  ; 

And  gravely  try'd  to  re.id  : 

No  i-are  I  h.id  nor  fear  ot  want, 

I  bought  and  borrow'd  every  whei  >. 

But  lanihled  up  and  down, 

Arid  stiiily'd  night  and  <l.iy, 

And  for  a  liiaii  1  might  liave  past 

Nor  miss'd  what  deau  or  doctor  wrote 

In  country  or  in  town  ; 

That  happen'd  in  my  way  : 

I  still  was  ple.isM  where'er  I  went, 

Philosophy  I  now  e^teeiii'd 

And  when  I  was  alone, 

The  ornament  of  youth, 

T  tnn'd  my  jiipe  and  pleas'd  myself 

And  carefully  through  many  a  page 

Wi'  John  o'  Badenyou. 

I  hunted  after  truth. 

A  thousand  various  scheines  I  try'd, 

Now  in  the  days  of  youthful  prime 

And  yet  was  ])leas'd  with  none, 

A  mistress  I  iiuist  tiiid, 

I  threw  tlieiii  by,  anil  tun'd  my  pipe 

For  liive,  I  heard,  s;ave  one  an  air, 

To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

And  ev'n  improved  the  mind  : 

On  Fhillis  fair  above  the  rest 

And  now  ye  youngsters  every  where. 

Kind  fortune  tixt  my  eyes. 

That  wish  to  make  a  show, 

Her  piertiui,'  beauty  strucl.-  my  heart. 

Take  heed  in  time,  nor  funrlly  hope 

And  she  became  my  clioioe  ; 

For  happiness  bclaw  ; 

To  Cupid  now  with  hearty  prayer 

What  you  may  fancy  jileasure  here, 

1  (ifitr'd  many  a  vow  ; 

Is  but  an  empty  name, 

And  danc'd  and  sung,  and  sigh'd,  and  swore. 

And  yir/s,  and  J'riendx,  and  bonks,  and  80, 

As  other  lovers  do  ; 

You'll  find  them  all  the  same  ; 

Hut,  when  at  last  I  breath'd  my  flame, 

Then  be  advised  and  warning  take 

I  found  her  cold  as  stone  ; 

Fiom  such  a  man  as  me  ; 

I  left  the  girl,  and  tnn'd  my  pipe 

I'm  neither  Pope  uor  Caidinal, 

To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

Nor  one  of  high  degree  ; 

You'll  meet  displeasure  every  where  . 

)Mien  love  had  thus  my  heart  beguil'd 

Then  do  as  I  have  done,                                                ' 

With  foolish  hopes  and  vain  ; 

E'en  tune  your  pipe  and  please  yourselves 

To  frietid^/iip's  port  I  steer'd  my  course, 

With  John  o'  Badeuyon. 

And  laugli'd  at  lovers'  pain  ; 

A  friend  1  got  by  lucky  chance, 
'Twas  somethmg  like  divine, 

An  honest  friend's  a.  precious  gift, 
And  such  a  gift  was  mine  ; 

THE  LAIRD  OF  COCKPEN. 

And  DOW  whatever  might  betide, 

Here  is  a  verse  of  this  lively  old  song  tha 

A  happy  man  was  I, 

used  to   be   sung   after   these   printed    ones-  — 

In  any  strait  1  knew  to  whom 

BUUNS. 

1  freely  might  apply  ; 

A  strait  soon  came  :    my  friend  I  try'd  ; 

0,  WHA  has  lien  wi'  our  Lord  yestreen  / 

He  heard,  and  spnrn'd  my  moan  ; 

O,  wha  has  lien  wi'  our  Lord  yestreen  ? 

1  hy'd  me  home,  and  tuu'u  my  pipe 

In  his  soft  down  bed,  O,  twa  fowk  were  the  sted, 

To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

Au'  whare  lay  the  chamber  maid,  lassie,  ye* 

treen  ? 

Methought  I  should  be  wiser  next, 
And  would  d  puttiot  turn, 

Began  to  doat  en  Johnnv  Wilkes, 

And  cry  up  Parson  llorne.* 

COCKPEN. 

Their  manly  spirit  I  adniir'd. 

0,  WHEN  she  came  ben  she  bobbed  fu*  law. 

And  prais'd  their  uoble  zeal, 
Who  had  with  flaming  tongue  and  pen 

JIaiiitaiu'd  the  public  weal; 
But  e'er  a  month  or  two  had  past, 

0,  when  she  came  ben  she  bobbed  fu'  law. 

And  when  she  came  ijen  she  kiss'd  Cockpen, 
And  syne  deny'd  she  did  it  at  a'. 

I  found  myself  betray'd, 
'Twas  stIfinA  party  after  all, 

And  was  na  ('ockpcn  right  saurie  with  n% 
And  was  na  Ci'ckpen  right  siueie  with  a', 

For  a'  the  stir  they  made  ; 
At  last  I  saw  thv  factious  knaves 
Insult  the  very  throne. 

in  leaving  the  daughter  of  a  Lord, 
And  kissiu  a  collier  lassie,  an'  a'  .' 

I  curs'd  them  a',  and  tun'd  my  pipe 
To  John  o'  Badenyon. 

O  never  look  down  my  lassie,  at  a , 
O  never  look  down  my  la-*sie,  at  a*, 
Thy  lips  are  as  sweet,  and  thy  figure  co'aipleta* 

•  This  son([  was  comjiosnl  when  Wilkes,  Hone, 

he  wf'o  nrinliiiig  a  noiaf  about  liberty. 

L                                                                                               1 

At  the  finest  dame  in  castle  or  La*. 
N 

146 


Tho'  thou  }i?s  nae  silk  and  ho'Iand  sae  sma', 
Thi)'  tliou  lias  nae  silk  and  Holland  sae  sina', 
Tliy  coat  and  thy  sark  are  thy  ain  handy-wack, 
And  Lady  Jean  was  never  sue  braw  ! 


BURMS'  WORKS. 

CA'  THE  EWES  TO  THE  KNOWES.. 


The  following  set  of  this  song  is  now  %3ry 
common.  It  is  ascribed  to  the  authoress  of  the 
B<jvel  of  "  Marriage  .' 

THE  LAIRD  OF  COCKPEN. 
T^ne—"  The  Laird  of  Cockpen." 

The  Laird  o'   Cockpcn,  Le  is  proud  an'  he's 

g-i'eat ; 
His  mind  is  ta'en  up  wi'  the  things  of  the  state  : 
He  wanted  a  wife  his  braw  house  to  keep  ; 
But  favour  wi'  wooin'  was  fashions  to  seek. 

Down  liy  the  dyke-side  a  lady  did  dwell  ; 
At  his  table  head  he  thought  she'd  look  well  ; 
W'Leish's  ae  daughter  o'  Claverse-ha'  Lee, 
A.  pennylests  la^s  wi'  a  lang  pedigree. 

His  wig  was  weel  pouther'd,  as  guid  as  when 

new, 
His  waistcoat  was  white,  his  coat  it  was  blue  ; 
Hl'  put  on  a  ring, — a  sword, — and  cock'd  hat, — 
And  wha'  could  refuse  the  Laird  wi'  a'  that? 

He  took  the  grey  mare  and  rade  cannalie  ; 
And  rapp'd  at  the  yett  o*  Claverse-ha'  Lee  : 
Gie  tell  Mistress  Jean  to  come  speedily  ben  : 
She's  wanted  to  speak  wi'  the  Laird  o'  Cuckpen. 

Jlistress  Jean  she  was  makiu'  the  elder-flower 

wine  : 
"  And  what  brings  the  Laird  at  sic  a  like  time  ?" 
She  put  aff  her  apron,  and  on  her  silk  gown. 
Her   mutch   wi'    red    ribbons,    and   gaed   awa' 

down. 

A-nd  when  she  cam*  ben,  he  booed  fu'  low  ; 
And  what  was  his  errand  he  soni;  let  her  know  ; 
Amazed  was  the  Laird,  when  the  iadv  s.iid  Na', 
And  wi'  a  laigh  curtsie  she  tarued  awa". 

Dunihfounder'd  he  was,  but  nae  sigh  did  he  gie  ; 
He  nuiunted  his  mare,  and  rade  caiinilie  : 
And  aften  he  thought,  as  he  gaed  tliro'  the  glen. 
She's  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cotkpen. 

And  now  that  the  Laird  his  exit  hid  mule, 
Mistie>s  Jean  she  reflected  on  what  ^lic  ImiI  said  : 
Oh  fur  ane  I'll  get  better,  it's  waur  lH  uet  ten, 
I  was  daft  to  refuse  the  Laird  o'  Cotkpen. 

Neist  time  that  the  Laird  and  the  larly  were  seen. 
They  were  gaun  arm  in  arm  to  the  kirk  ou  the 

green  ; 
Now  she  sirs  in  the  Ha'  like  a  weeltappit  hen  ; 
I3ut   as   yet    there's   nae    thickens   appeared   at 

Cockpen. 


This  beautiful  song  is  in  the  true  old  Scotch 
taste,  yet  I  do  not  know  that  either  air  or  wordi 
were  in  print  before BuiiNS. 

Ca'  the  ewes  to  the  knnwes, 

Ca'  them  ichare  the  heather  grows 

Ca   them  whore  the  bur/tie  ruwet. 
Ml)  honnie  dearie. 

As  I  gaed  down  the  water-side. 

There  I  met  my  shejdierd  lad, 
He  row'd  me  sweetly  in  his  plaid, 

An'  he  ca'd  me  his  dearie. 
Ca  the  ewes,  Sfc. 

Will  ye  gang  down  the  water-side, 
And  see  the  waves  sae  sweetly  glidc^ 

Beneath  the  hazels  spreading  wide, 
The  moon  it  shines  fu'  clearly. 
Ca'  the  ewes,  Sfc. 

I  was  bred  up  at  nae  sic  school, 
My  shepherd  lad,  to  play  the  foo. 

And  a'  the  day  to  sit  in  dool, 
And  Haebody  to  see  me. 
Ca'  the  ewes,  Sfc. 

Ye  sail  get  gowns  and  ribbons  meet, 
Cauf-leather  shoon  upon  your  feet, 

And  in  my  arms  ye'se  lie  and  sleep, 
And  ye  sail  be  my  deiiie. 
Ca'  the  ewes,  §"c. 

If  ye'll  but  stand  to  what  ye've  said, 
I'se  gang  wi'  you  my  shepherd-lad. 

And  ye  may  rowe  me  in  your  plaid, 
And  I  sail  be  your  dearie. 
Ca'  the  ewes,  ipc. 

While  waters  wimple  to  the  sea  ; 

While  day  blinks  in  the  lift  sae  hie  ; 
'Till  clay-cauld  death  sail  bliu  my  e'e> 

Ye  sail  be  my  dearie." 

Ca'  the  ewes,  Sfc. 


LADIE  MARY  ANN. 

The    starting  verse  should  be    restoitd  .— 
I'ua.Ns. 

"  Lady  Mary  Ann  gaed  out  o'  her  bower, 

An'  she  found  a  bnnnie  rose  new  i'  the  t'owtr  ; 
.\8  she  kiss'd  its  ruddy  Iip-<  dra|>ping  wi'  dew, 
Quo'  she,  ye're  uae  sae  sweet  as  my  Charlie'* 
niou." 


•  Mr'!.  Hums  inforn.cd  l!cc  Kditor  that  the  laitver*! 
of  t!iis  song  was  wriUcr.  by  Uurns. 


SONGS. 


147 


LADIE  MARY  ANN. 

0  Laijt  Marv  Ann  looks  o'er  the  castle  \va*, 
Slie  saw  three  »>'>'>Mie  hoys  playin;^  at  the  ha". 
The  youngest  no  was  the  flower  am.ing  them  a*  ; 
My  Loiitiie  laddie  s  younj,   but    ie's  gruwin' 
yet. 

"  O  father,  O  f.ithrr,  an'  yt  tliink  it  fit. 
We'll  send  hiin  a  vear  to  the  college  yet  ; 
We'll  sew  a  ereen  ribbon  round  about  his  hat, 
And  that  will  let  thein  ken  he's  to  marry  yet." 

Lady  JIary  Ann  was  a  flower  in  the  dew, 
Sweet  was  its  smell,  and  bonnie  was  its  hue, 
And  the  langcr  it  blossomed,  the  sweeter  it  sjrew  ; 
For  the  lily  in  tht  bud  will  be  bonnier  yet. 

i'ounj   Charlie  Coehian  was  the  sprout  of  an 

aik, 
Bonnie,  and  blooniiusj,  and  straiijht  was  its  make, 
The  sun  took  delight  to  shine  for  its  sake. 
And  it  will  be  the  brag  o'  the  forest  yet. 

The  simrner  is  gane,  when  the  leaves  they  were 

green  ; 

And  the  days  are  awa  that  we  hae  seen  ; 

But  far  belter  days,  I  trust,  will  conie  again, 

For  mv  bonnie  laddie's  young,  but  he's  jrow- 
.  ■ ,  •        ^  o 

in  yet. 


KILLYCRANKY. 

"The  battle  of  Killycranky  was  the  last  stand 
marte  by  the  Clans  for  James,  after  his  abdica- 
ticn.  Here  Dundee  fell  in  the  moment  of  vic- 
tory, and  with  him  fell  the  hopes  of  the  party. 
— General  Mackav,  when  he  found  the  Hig^h- 
landers  (.id  not  pursue  his  flying  army,  said, 
"  Dundee  must  be  killed,  or  he  never  would 
have  overlooked  this  advantage." — A  great  stone 
marks  the  spot  where  Dundee  fell Burns. 

Clavers  and  his  highland-men. 

Came  down  upo'  the  raw,  man. 
Who  being  stout,  gave  mony  a  clout, 

The  lads  began  to  claw,  then. 
V  ith  sword  and  terge  into  the  r  hand, 

Wi    which  they  were  nae  slaw,  man, 
Wi'  mony  a  fearful  heavy  sigh, 

The  lads  began  to  claw,  then. 

O'er  bush,  o'er  bank,  o'er  ditch,  o'er  stank, 

She  flaiig  amang  them  a',  man  ; 
The  butter-box  got  mony  knocks, 

Their  riggings  paid  lor  a'  then  ; 
They  got  their  paiks,  wi'  sudden  straiks, 

Which  to  their  grief  they  saw,  man; 

1    clinkum  dankum  o'er  their  crowns, 

The  lads  began  to  fa'  then. 

Hur  skipt  about,  hur  leapt  about, 
And  flang  amang  th»ni  a*,  man  ; 


W 


The  English  blades  got  broken  heads. 
Their  crowns  were  cleav'd  in  twa  theila 

The  durk  and  door  made  their  last  hour. 
And  |irov'd  their  final  fa,  man  ; 

They  thought  the  devil  had  betn  there. 
That  play'd  them  sic  a  paw  then. 

The  solemn  league  and  covenant 

Came  whigging  u|)  the  hills,  man. 
Thought  highland  trews  durst  not  refuse 

For  to  subscribe  their  bills  then  : 
In  Willie's  name*  they  thought  nae  an& 

Durst  stop  their  course  at  a',  man  ; 
But  hur  nane  sell,  wi'  mony  a  knock, 

Cry'd,  Furich-whiggs,  awa',  man. 

Sir  Evan  Du,  and  his  men  true. 

Came  linking  up  the  brink,  man  ; 
The  Hdgan  Duti-h  they  feared  such. 

They  bre<l  a  horrid  stink,  then. 
The  true  Maclean,  and  his  fierce  men. 

Came  in  aming  them  a',  man  ; 
Nane  durst  withstand  his  heavy  hand, 

All  fled  and  ran  awa'  then. 

Oh'  on  a  ri,  oh'  on  a  rl, 

Why  should  the  lose  king  Shames,  man  ? 
Oh'  rig  in  di,  oh'  ri{/  in  di, 

She  shall  break  a"  her  banes  then  ; 
Whh  fi(richini>:h,  an*  stay  a  while, 

And  speak  a  word  or  twa,  man. 
She's  gi'  a  straike,  out  o'er  the  neck, 

Before  ye  win  awa'  then. 

O  fy  for  shame,  ye're  three  for  ane, 

Hur  nane-seil's  won  the  day,  man  ; 
King  Shame's  red-coats  should  Oa  liu:»g  jr> 

Because  they  ran  awa'  then  : 
Had  bent  their  brows,  like  hij^hl'.nf'  tr-.v^ 

And  made  as  lang  a  stay,  m'in, 
TheyM  sav'd  their  king,  tba*.  s'crd  '''^-f,. 

Aud  Willie'd  '  run'  awa'  t'^eiL. 


THE  EWIEW?   fir;  CPOOKiTKO** 

Another  excel'.er^/'jpj  rf  old  Sliinner'** -• 
Burns. 

Were  I  but  ib'e  lo  n-'aeirsc 
iMy  Ewie's  pvai-^;  \d  praper  verse, 
I'd  sound  .t  .0  cL  ?j  loud  and  tierce 

As  e-  er  f  p.r's  diMne  could  blaw  ; 
Tte  Y.-v'e  tv''  *'.v.  c-.ookit  l;»rn, 
W'l?  hai'  k  ;pt  her  might  hae  sworn 
Sic  f  F  /f:  '/as  never  born, 

'Ip.e.bout  nor  far  awa', 
Si«  \  L"c  Was  never  born, 

H^rjabout  nor  I'ar  awa' 

I  i.t  /IT  needed  tar  nor  keil 
To  I mik  her  upo*  hip  or  heel, 


•  I'liuceof  Orar.pa. 


L__ 


I 

148                                        BURNS' 

WORKS. 

Her  crook  it  horn  did  as  weel 

The  loss  o'  her  wt  cou  d  hae  bom, 

To  ken  her  by  iino'  them  a' ; 

Had  fair  strae-death  ta'un  bei  avf«*. 

She  never  threaten'd  scab  nor  rot, 

The  loss  o'  her  we  cou'd  hae  born,  &c. 

But  keepit  ay  her  air»  jog  trot, 

Bdith  to  the  fauld  and  to  the  coat. 

But  thus,  poor  thing,  to  lose  her  life, 

Was  never  siveir  to  lead  nor  caw, 

Aneath  a  lileeily  villain's  knife, 

Baith  to  the  fauld  and  to  the  coat,  &c. 

I'm  really  fley't  that  our  guidwife 

Will  never  win  aboon't  ava : 

Cauld  nor  hunger  never  dang  her, 

O  !   a'  ye  bards  benorth  Kinghorn, 

Wind  nor  we*  could  never  wrung  her. 

Call  your  muses  up  and  mourn. 

Anes  she  lay  au  ouk  and  lunger. 

Our  Ewie  wi'  the  crookit  horn, 

Furth  aneath  a  wreath  o'  snaw  . 

Stown  frae's,  and  fellt  and  a' ! 

Whan  ither  Ewies  lap  the  dyke, 

Our  Ewie  wi'  the  crookit  horn,  8ec. 

And  eat  the  kail  for  a'  the  tyke, 

My  Ewie  never  ])lay'd  the  like. 

But  tyc'd  about  the  barn  wa' ; 

My  Ewie  never  play'd  the  like,  &c. 

ANDRO  Wr  HIS  CUTTIE  GUN. 

A  better  or  a  thriftier  beast, 

Nae  honest  man  could  weel  hae  wist. 

This  blythsome  song,  so  full  of  Scottish  hu- 
mour and   convivial  merriment,    is  an  intimHie 

For  silly  thing  she  never  mist. 

favourite  at  Bridal  Trystes,  and    House-heat- 

To  hae  ilk  year  a  lamb  or  twa'  ; 

ir.gs.     It  contains  a  spirited  picture  of  a  country 

The  first  she  had  I  gae  to  Jock, 

ale-house  touched  oft  with  all  the  lightsome  gaiety 

To  be  to  him  a  kind  o'  stock. 

so  peculiar  to  the  rural  muse  of  Caledonia,  when 

And  now  the  laddie  has  a  flock 

at  a  fair. 

O'  inair  nor  thirty  head  ava'  ; 

And  now  the  laddie  has  a  flock,  &c. 

Instead  ef  the  line. 

I  lookit  aye  at  even'  for  her. 

"  Girdle  cakes  weel  toasted  brown," 

Lest  niischanter  shou'd  come  o'er  her, 

I  have  heard  it  sung. 

Or  the  fowniart  might  devour  her. 

O' 

Gin  the  beastie  bade  awa  ; 

"  Knuckled  cakes  weel  brandert  brown." 

My  Ewie  wi'  the  crookit  horn, 

Well  deserv'd  baith  girse  and  corn, 

These  cakes  are  kneaded  oat  with  the  knuckles. 

Sic  a  Ewe  was  never  born. 

and  toasted  over  the  red  embers  of  wood  on  a 

Here-about  nor  far  awa. 

gridiron.     They  are  remarkably  fine,   and  have 

Sic  a  Ewe  was  never  born,  &c. 

a   delicate   relish   when   eaten    warm    with  ale. 

On    winter   market  nights  the   landlady  heats 

Yet  last  ouk,  for  a'  my  keeping, 

them,  and  drops  them  into  the  quaigh  to  warm 

(Wha  can  speak  it  without  weeping  ?) 

the  ale : 

A  villain  can)  when  I  was  sleeping. 

Sta'  my  Ewie,  honi  and  a'  ; 

"  Weel  does  the  cannie  Kimmer  ken 

I  sought  lier  sair  upo'  the  morn, 

To  gar  the  swats  gae  glibber  down." 

And  down  aneath  a  bnss  o'  tliorn 

BURNA 

1  got  my  Ewie's  crookit  horn. 
But  my  Ewie  was  awa'. 

I  got  my  Ewie's  crookit  hoin,  2tc. 

BLYTH  WAS  SUB 

0  !   gin  I  had  the  Iout  that  did  it. 
Sworn  1  have  as  well  as  said  it, 
Tho'  a'  the  waild  should  foibid  it, 

I  wad  gie  his  neck  a  thra'  ; 

1  never  met  wi'  sic  a  turn, 
As  this  sin  ever  I  was  born. 
My  Ewie  wi'  the  cmokit  horn. 

Silly  Ewie  stown  awa". 

Blyth,  blyth,  blyth  was  she, 

BIyth  was  she  butt  and  ben  ; 
And  weel  she  loo'd  a  Hawick  gill, 

And  leugh  to  see  a  tappit  hen. 
She  took  me  in,  and  set  me  down. 

And  heglit  to  keep  me  lawing-free; 
But,  cunning  calling  that  she  was, 

She  gart  me  birle  my  bawbie. 

My  Ewie  wi'  the  crookit  horn,  kr.. 

We  loo'd  the  liquor  well  enough  ; 

But  waes  my  heart  my  cash  was  done 

O  !  had  she  died  o'  crook  or  cauld. 

Before  that  I  had  quench'd  my  drowth. 

As  Ewies  do  when  they  grow  auld. 

And  hiith  I  was  to  pawn  my  shoon. 

It  wad  nae  been,  by  niony  fauld. 

When  we  had  three  times  tooni'd  our  stoops 

Sae  sare  a  heart  to  nane  o's  a'  i 

And  the  niest  chappin  new  begun, 

For  a'  the  claith  that  we  hae  worn. 

Wha  started  in  to  heize  our  hope. 

Frae  Ler  updher's  sae  aften  shorn, 

But  ^ndro'  wi'  bis  cutty  gua. 

SONGS. 


149 


llie  carlinfj  hrotifjht  lier  kebbuck  ben, 

With  girdle-cakes  wtrl-lnasti'd  brown, 
Will  docs  ti.c  camiy  kiimntT  ki-n, 

Tlu-y  gar  the  swats  gae  jjlibber  down. 
Wi'  ca'd  the  bicker  aft  about ; 

Tdl  dawiiina;  we  ne'er  jee'd  our  bun, 
And  ay  the  cleanest  diiidiiT  out 

Was  Andro'  wi'  his  cutty  gun. 

He  did  like  ony  mavis  sing, 

And  as  1  in  his  oxter  sat, 
He  ca'd  nie  ay  his  bonny  thing. 

And  niony  a  sappy  kiss  I  gat  : 
I  hae  been  east,  I  hac  been  west, 

I  hae  been  far  ayont  the  sun  ; 
But  the  blythest  lad  that  e'er  I  saw 

Wds  Andro  wi*  bis  cutty  gun  ! 


HUGHIE  GRAHAM. 

There  are  several  edition?  of  this  ballad. — 
This,  here  inserted,  is  from  oral  tradition  in 
Ayrshire,  where,  when  I  was  a  hoy,  it  was  a 
popular  song. — It  originally,  had  a  siinpls  old 
tune,  which  1  have  forgotten. — BuiiNS. 

Our  lords  are  to  the  mountains  gane, 

A  hunting  o'  the  fallow  deer. 
And  they  have  grijiet  Hughie  Graham 

For  stealing  o'  the  bishop's  mare. 

.\nd  t'hey  have  tied  him  hand  and  foot, 
And  led  him  up,  thro'  Stirling  town; 

The  lads  and  lasses  met  him  tlieie, 

Cried,  llughie  Graham  thou'rt  a  loun, 

0  Inwse  my  right  hand  free,  he  says. 
And  put  my  biaiil  sword  in  the  same  ; 

He's  no  in  Stirling  town  this  day. 
Dare  tell  the  tale  to  Hu^hie  Graham. 

Up  then  bespake  the  brave  Wliitefoord, 

As  he  sit  by  the  bishop's  knee, 
Five  hundred  white  stots  I'd  gie  you 

If  ye'll  let  llughie  Graham  fiee. 

0  baud  your  tongue,  the  bishop  says, 
And  wi'  your  pleiding  let  me  be; 

For  tho'  ten  Grahams  were  in  his  coat, 
Hughie  Graham  this  day  shall  die. 

Up  then  bespake  the  fair  Whittfot)rd, 

As  she  sat  by  the  bishop's  knee  ; 
Five  hundred  white  jieiice  I'll  gie  you, 

If  ye'll  gie  llu^hie  Gialiaui  to  me. 

0  h«ud  your  tongue  now  lady  fair. 

And  wi'  your  pleading  let  it  be; 
Altho'  ten  Giah.iniM  were  in  Ins  coat, 

ltd  for  my  honoi  he  maun  die. 


They've  ta'en  him  to  the  gallows  kuuwei 

He  lo<>ked  to  the  gallows  tree. 
Yet  never  colour  left  his  cheek. 

Nor  ever  did  he  blink  his  ee. 

At  length  he  looked  round  about, 

To  see  whatever  he  could  spy  : 
And  there  he  saw  his  auld  lather. 

And  he  was  weeping  bitterly. 

O  baud  your  tongue,  my  fither  dear, 
And  wi'  your  weepiug  let  it  he  ; 

Thy  wee()ing's  sairer  on  my  heart, 
'Than  a*  that  they  can  do  to  me. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brriher  John, 

My  sword  that's  bent  in  the  middle  cletfi 

And  let  him  come  at  twelve  o'clock. 
And  see  me  pay  the  bishop's  mare. 

And  ye  may  gie  my  brother  James 

Wy  sword  that's  bent  in  the  middle  brown. 

And  bid  him  come  at  four  o'clock, 
And  see  his  brother  Hugh  cut  down. 

Remember  me  to  Maggy  my  wife. 

The  niest  time  ve  gang  o'er  the  moor. 

Tell  her  she  staw  tne  i.ishop's  mare. 
Tell  her  she  was  the  bishop's  whore. 

And  ye  may  tell  my  kith  and  kin, 
I  never  did  disgiHce  their  blood  ; 

And  when  they  meet  the   bishop's  cloak, 
To  mak  it  shorter  by  the  hood. 


LORD  RONALD,  JIY  SON. 

This  air,  a  very  fivourlte  one  in  Ayrshiie, 
is  evidently  the  original  of  Lochaber.  In  this 
manner  most  of  our  finest  more  modern  airs  have 
had  their  origin.  Some  early  minstrel,  or  mu- 
sical shepheril,  composed  the  simple  artless  ori- 
ginal air,  which  being  pi'.-kud  up  by  the  more 
learned  nmsician,  took  the  inijiroved  for  tins 
bears. — BuiiNs. 

The  name  is  commonly  sounded  Ronald,  d« 

Randal. 

Where  have  ye  been  hunting. 

Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 
Where  have  ye  been  hunting. 

My  hancNonie  young  man  ? 
In  yon  wild  wood.  Oh  mother, 

So  make  my  bed  soon  : 
For  I'm  wae,  and  I'm  weary, 

And  fain  would  lie  down. 

Where  gat  ye  your  dinner, 

Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 
Where  gat  ye  your  'iinner. 

My  handsome  youn;;  man  ? 


150 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


O,  1  rfinci]  with  my  true  love, 

So  nuke  my  l)t-'il  soon  : 
Fur  I'm  wae,  and  I'm  weary, 

Aud  fain  would  lie  down. 

O,  what  was  your  dinner, 

Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 
O,  wh  it  was  your  dinner, 

My  liandhouie  yo:ini;  man  ? 
Eels  boiled  in  broo,  niothur  ; 

So  make  my  bed  soon  : 
For  I'ai  wae,  and  I'm  weary. 

And  fain  would  lie  down. 

O,  where  did  she  find  them, 

Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 
O,  where  did  she  catih  them, 

!\Iy  handsome  young  man? 
'Neath  the  bush  of  i)rown  lirekao, 

So  make  my  bed  soon  : 
For  I'm  wae,  and  I'm  weary 

And  fain  would  lie  duu  n. 

Now,  where  are  your  bloodhounds. 

Lord  Randal,  my  son  ? 
What  caure  of  your  bloodhounds, 

IMy  handsome  young  man  ? 
They  swelled  and  died,  mother, 

And  sae  maun  I  soon  : 
O,  I  am  wae,  and  I'm  weary. 

And  fain  would  lie  down. 

I  fear  you  are  poisoned. 

Lord  RaJidaJ,  my  son  ! 
I  fear  you  are  ])oisoned, 

My  hiindsome  young  man  ! 

0  yes  I  am  poisoned, — 
So  make  my  bed  soon  : 

1  am  sick,  sick  at  hesrt. 

And  1  now  must  lie  down. 


LOGAN  BRAES. 

There  were  two  old  songs  to  this  tune  ;  one 
»f  them  contained  some  striking  lines,  the  other 
entered  into  the  sweets  of  wooing  rather  too 
freely  for  modern  poetry. — It  began, 

"  Ae  simmer  night  on  Logan  braes, 

I  helped  a  bonnie  lassie  on  wi'  her  claes, 
First  wi'  her  stockiiis,  an'  syne  wi'  her  shoon. 
But  she  g'led  me  the  glaiks  when  a'  was  done." 

The  other  seems  older,  but  it  is  not  so  charac- 
teristic of  Scottish  courtship. 

"  Logan  Water's  wide  and  deep. 
An'  laith  am  I  to  weet  my  teet  ; 
But  gif  ye  II  cons.'nl  to  gang  wi*  me, 
I'll  bire  a  liorbe  to  cany  thee." 

BuuNS. 


ANOTHER  SET. 

LOGAN  WATER, 

BY  JOHN  MAYNE. 

By  Loiran's  streams  that  rin  sae  deep, 
Fu*  aft',  wi'  glee,  I've  herded  sheep, 
I've  herded  sheep,  or  gather'd  slaes, 
Wi'  my  dear  lad,  on  Logan  Braes  : 
But,  wae's  my  heart,  thae  days  are  gane, 
And,  fu*  o'  grief,  I  herd  my  lane  ; 
Whi  le  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far ,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  Braes  1 

Nae  mair  at  Logan  Kirk  will  he, 
Atween  the  j.reachings,  meet  wi'  me— 
Meet  wi*  me,  or,  when  it's  mirk. 
Convoy  me  hanie  frae  Logan  Kirk  ! 
I  Weil  may  sing,  tliae  days  are  gine— 
Frae  Kiik  and  Fair  I  come  my  lane. 
While  my  dear  lad  niaun  faco  his  f^es. 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  Braes ! 


O'ER  THE  MOOR  AMANG  THE 
nE.\THER. 

This  song  is  the  composition  of  a  Jean  Ghver, 
a  girl  who  was  not  only  a  w — e,  but  also  a  tliief ; 
SJid  in  one  or  other  character  has  visited  most 
of  the  Correction  Houses  in  the  West. — She 
was  born,  I  believe,  in  Kilmarnock  : — 1  took 
the  song  down  from  her  singing  as  she  wa* 
strolling  through  the  country,  with  a.  slight  of- 
hand  blackguard. — Burns. 

Comin'  thro'  the  Craigs  o'  Kyle, 
Ainang  the  bonnie  blooming  heather, 
There  I  met  a  bonnie  lassie, 
Keejiing  a'  her  yovves  thegither. 

O'er  the  mi>ur  aniuny  l/ie  Jieiilher, 

O'lr  the  moor  aiminy  the  /leather, 

There  I  met  a  bonnie  lassie. 

Keeping  a'  her  i/uwes  thegitlier. 

Says  I,  my  dearie,  where  is  thy  hame, 
In  moor  or  dale,  pray  tell  me  whether? 
She  says,  I  tent  the  Heecy  flocks 
That  feed  amang  the  blooming  heather, 
O'tr  the  mvor,  $«. 

We  laid  us  down  upon  a  bank, 
Sae  warm  and  sunny  was  the  weather, 
She  left  her  Hoiks  at  large  to  rove 
Atnang  the  buuuie  blooming  heather. 

O'er  the  ntoor,  S^ 

While  thus  we  lay  she  sang  a  sang. 
Till  echo  rang  a  mile  and  firther. 
And  av  the  biinlen  o'  the  sing 
Was — o'er  the  moor  aiiuuu  the  heather. 
O'l.r  the  mour,  i"c. 


SONGS. 


15] 


F\.i  charniM  my  lieart,  nnfl  aye  •in;')  ae, 
I  could  na  tliiiik  on  any  itb<T  : 
l>y  st-a  and  «kv  she  shall  lie  mine  ! 
The  bonnitf  la^s  um.itis:;  tlic  lioatlicr. 

O'er  lite  moor,  S^e, 


BONNIE  DUNDEE. 

0  wuARE  p;at  ye  tliat  hauvcr-mcal  liannouk, 
O  silly  liliiid  hddie.  O  diiini  yt"  sl'c  ! 

1  got  it  fiao  a  soiIjjlt  laddie, 

Between  Saint  Johnstone  and  honnie  Dundee. 
O  gin  I  saw  the  laddie  that  gae  ine't  ! 

Aft  has  he  doudl'd  me  on  his  knee: 
May  heav'n  protect  my  honnie  Scotch  laddie, 

And  sen'  liini  safe  hame  to  his  babie  and  me  ! 

May  blessins  light  on  thy  sweet,  we  lljipie  ! 

May  blessins  liglit  on  thy  b'jnnie  ee-bree! 
Thou  smiles  sae  like  my  sodger  laddie, 

Thou's  dearer,  dearer  ay  to  me  ! 
But  I'll  bis^  a  bow'r  on  yon  honnie  banks, 

M'hare  Tiy  riiis  wimplan  by  sae  clear  ; 
An'  ill  deed  thee  in  the  tartan  fine. 

An'  luak  thee  a  man  like  diy  daddie  dear ! 

OLD  VERSE. 

\e're  like  to  the  timmer  o'  yon  rotten  wood, 
Ye're  like  to  the  bark  o'  yon  rotten  tree, 

Yp  slip  trae  me  like  a  knotless  thread, 

An'  ye'U  crack  your  credit  wi'  iiiae  than  nie. 


DONOCIIT-IIEAD. 
Tune—"  Cordon  Castle." 

Kfen  blaws  the  wind  o'er  Dcmocht-Iiead,* 

The  snaw  drives  snelly  thro'  the  dale, 
The  Gabeilunzie  tirls  my  sneek, 

Anrl  shivering  tells  his  waef'u'  tale. 
"  CauJd  is  the  night,  O  let  me  in, 

"  And  dinna  let  your  minstrel  la', 
"  And  dinna  let  his  windin-sheet 

"  Be  naething  but  a  wreath  o'  snaw  ! 

"  Full  ninety  winters  hie  I  seen, 

"  And  pip'd  wheje  goi-cocks  whirring  flew, 
'  And  niony  a  day  je've  d.inc'd,  1  wmn, 

"  To  lilts  which  tV.ie  my  drone  1  blew." 
My  Eppie  wak'<l,  and  soun  she  cry'd, 

"  Get  up,  Guidman,  and  let  him  in  ; 
"  For  weel  ye  ken  the  winter  night 

"  M'as  short  when  he  began  nis  din." 

\li  Eppie's  voice.  O  wow  it's  sweet 
E'en  iho'  she  bans  and  siaulds  awee  ; 

But  when  it's  tiin'd  to  sorrow's  tale, 
O  haith,  it's  doub  y  de.ir  to  me  ! 

•  A  mountain  in  the  North. 


Coire  in,  an  tl  Carl  !  I'll  stter  my  fii*, 
I'll  mak  it  bkez.e  a  bonnie  rt.ime  ; 

Yoor  blude  is  thin,  ye've  tint  the  gate, 
Ye  should  na  stray  sae  far  frae  hame. 

"  Nie  1  ame  have  I,"  the  minstrel  said, 
''  Sad  jiarty  strife  o'erturn'd  my  ha'  ; 

"  And,  weeping  at  the  eve  o'  life, 

*'  1  wander  thro*  a  wreath  o'  Biiaw.* 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  TWEED. 

This  song  is  one  of  the  many  attempts  fiat 
English  composers  have  made  to  imitate  tli? 
Scottish  manner,  and  which  I  shall,  in  these 
strictuies.  beg  leave  to  distini,'iiish  by  the  appel- 
lation of  Anglo-Scottish  proikictions.  The  mu- 
sic is  jiretty  good,  but  the  verses  we  just  ubuve 
contempt. — Buuss. 

BARNETT. 

I  LEFT    the  sweet   banks    of  tlie   deep   flowing 
'I' weed, 

And  my  own  little  cot  by  the  wild  wood, 
When    Fanny  was   spoiling    tluough  valley  and 
mead. 

In  the  bi-autifnl  morning  of  childhood 
And  oftimes  alone,  by  the  wave-beaten  shore, 

When  the  billows  of  twilight  were  flov.'ing, 
I  thou,i;ht,  as  1  mus'd  on  the  days  ib.it  wereoer. 

How  the  rose  on  her  cheek  would  be  blowing 

I  came  to  the  banks  of  the  deep  flowins;  Tweed, 

And  mine  own  little  cot  by  the  wild  \vo<m1. 
When  o'er  me  ten  numiners  had  gathei'd   their 
speed, 

And  Fanny  had  p.i.ss'd  from  her  chililliood. 
I  found  her  as  fair  as  my  fancy  could  dream. 

Not  a  bud  of  her  loveliness  blighted. 
And  I  wish'd  I  had  ne'er  .seen  her  beauty's  noft 
beam. 

Or  that  we  were  for  ever  united. 


THE  FLOWERS  OF  EDINBURGH. 

Thls  Song  is  one  of  the  many  effusions  of 
Scots  jacobit:sin. — The  title,  Fl  werif  ■•/'  Edin- 
biiryh,  has  no  nianuer  of  connexion  with  the 
present  verses,  so  I  suspect  there  has  been  an 
older  set  of  words,  of  which  the  title  is  all  that 
remains. 


•  This  afToiliiig  poem  was  loop;  attributed  to  Rums. 
He  tlius  reinaiks  on  it.  "  Ihmdclit-Hrad  \^\u>\  mine 
I  womIiI  giM-  ten  pounds  it  wx-re.  It  ;ip|ii.ariil  (ii«i  in 
the  Kiliiilniiph  Heiakl  :  ai«l  e.iiiie  to  llic  e.litiir  of  ihal 
papei  with  llie  ,\t\ve:ist!e  iiosi-m.irk  mi  ii."  It  iva^ 
the  eomiKisi.ion  of  William  I'i  kt  niij;,  a  north  o- 
KiirI.ukI  pi'tt,  who  it  not  known  to  have  written  ant 
thiiiu  mure. 


i 

By  tliij  oye,  it  19  finpular  enough  that  the 

CHARLIE,  .^E'S  MY  DARLINO 

Scottish  Mcisi's  v.'fie  all  J.iccjbites I  have  piiil 

more   attfutiun    tii  evtry   (lescii)ition    of    Scots 

OLD   VERSES. 

3ono;s  than   perha])s  any   luxly   hviiiij   has  dune, 
and  I  do  not  rt-coilect  one  single  stanza,  or  even 

Tune—"  Charlie  is  my  darling." 

the  title  of  the  most   triflinif  Scots  air,  which 

'TwAS  on  a  Monday  morning, 

has  the  lea^t  pjne;,'yrical   reference  to  the  fami- 

Richt early  in  the  year. 
That  Charlie  cam  to  our  toun, 

lies  (if  Nassau  or  Brunswick  ;  while  there   are 

hundreds  satirizing  them.   This  may  be  thouj^lit 

The  young  Chevalier 

no  panegyric,  on  the  Scots  Poets,   but  I  mean  it 

Anil  Chnrlie  he's  mi/  dnrlinff, 
Ml/  darliuff,  mi/  dnrling ; 

as  such.     For  myself,  1  would  always  take  it  as 

a  comjilinient  to  have  it  saiil,  that  my  heart  ran 

C/iiirlie  he  i  ■»!.(/  diirUng, 

before  my  head  ;   and  surely  the  gallant  though 

The  young  Chtvalier. 

unfortunate  ho'ise  of  Stuart,   the  king«  of  our 

fathers    for   so   many  heroic  ages,    Ls   a    theme 

As  he  was  walking  uj)  the  street. 

much  more  iuteresting   than     •     •     •     '^ — 

The  city  for  to  view, 

Burns. 

0  there  he  spied  a  bonnie  lass, 

The  window  looking  through. 

My  love  was  once  a  bonny  lad, 

And  Charlie,  ^e. 

He  was  the  flower  of  all  his  kin, 

The  absence  of  his  bonny  face 

Sae  licht's  he  jumped  up  the  stair, 

Has  rent  my  tender  heart  in  twain. 

And  tirled  at  the  pin  ; 

day  nor  night  find  no  deligbt. 

Anil  wha  sae  ready  as  hersell, 

In  silent  tears  I  still  complain  ; 

To  let  the  laddie  in  ! 

And  exclaim  'gainst  those  my  rival  foes, 

And  Charlie,  |re. 

Tliat  lia'e  ta'eu  from  me  my  dailing  swain. 

He  set  his  Jenny  on  his  knee, 

Des))?.ir  and  anguish  fills  my  breast. 

All  in  liis  Highland  dress  ; 

Since  I  have  lost  my  blooming  rose  ; 

For  brawly  weel  he.  kenned  the  way 

I  sigh  and  moan  while  others  rest, 

To  please  a  bonnie  la^s. 

His  aVisence  yields  me  no  repose. 

And  Charlie,  §'c. 

To  seek  my  love  I'd  range  and  love. 

Thro'  every  grove  and  distant  plain  ; 

It's  up  yon  heathy  mountain, 

Thus  I'll  ne'er  cease,  but  sjiend  my  days, 

And  down  yon  seros^yy  glen, 

To  hear  tiilings  from  my  darling  swain. 

We  daurna  gang  a- milking, 

For  Charlie  and  his  men. 

There's  iiaething  strange  in  Nature's  change, 

Atid  Charlie,  SfC 

Since  p miits  shew  such  cruelty  ; 

They  caiis'd  my  love  from  me  to  range. 
Anil  knows  not  to  what  destiny. 

The  |)retty  kids  and  tender  lambs 

M'.V  cease  to  sport  upon  the  plain  ; 

THE  SOUTERS  OF  SELKIRS 

But  I'll  mourn  and  lament  in  cleep  discontent 

I'or  the  absence  of  my  darliiig  swain. 

Up  with  the  souters  of  Selkirk, 

And  ilown  with  the  Earl  of  Home  ! 

Kind  Neptune,  let  n'.e  thee  cntieat, 

An:!  up  wi'  a'  the  l.'rave  lads 

To  seni!  a  fair  and  pleasant  gale  ; 

Wha  sew  the  single-soled  shoon  ! 

Ye  dol|jliins  sweet,  upiui  me  wait. 

Am!  convey  me  on  your  tail ; 

O  !   fyc  upon  yellow  and  yellow. 

Heavens  l)less  niy  voyage  with  success, 

Aiid  {ye  upon  yellow  and  green  ; 

While  crossing  of  tiie  raging  main, 

And  up  wi'  the  true  blu"  and  scarltt. 

And  send  me  safe  o'er  to  that  distant  shor?. 

A:id  up  wi'  the  single-soled  shoon  • 

T«  meet  u;y  lovely  darling  sv/aiu. 

Up  wi'  the  souters  of  Selkirk — 

All  joy  and  mirth  at  nur  return 

Up  wi'  the  liiigle  and  la-^t  ! 

Shall  tin  n  aljiiuml  from  Tweed  to  Tay  ; 

There's  fame  wi'  the  days  that's  coraiog 
And  glory  wi*  them  that  are  past. 

The  bells  shall  ring  and  sweet  birds  sing. 

To  grace  and  crown  our  nujitial  day. 

Thus  bless'd  wi*  charms  in  my  love's  arms, 

Up  wi'  the  souters  of  Selkirk — 

Jly  heart  (.lu-e  more  I  will  regain  ; 

Lads  that  arc  trusty  and  leal  ; 

Then  I'll  range  no  more  to  a  distant  shore. 

And  up  with  the  men  of  the  Forest, 

But  in  love  will  enjoy  my  darling  swain. 

And  down  wi'  the  Merse  to  the  deii ' 

0  !    mitres  are  made  for  noddles. 
But  leet  they  a'e  made  for  shoou  ; 

_J 

And  fjinp  is  as  sib  to  Selkirk 
As  liijlit  is  true  to  tlie  inuon, 

Tlu-re  siN  a  simtor  in  Si-lkiik, 

Wh;i  sin;;s  a>  lie  dr.iws  liis  thread— 

There's  (;.i!l.iiit  souttr-.  in  Solkiik 
A«  Unjj  tiieru's  water  in  Tweed. 


CRAIL  TOU.N.* 
"  IHinf—"  Sir  John  Malcolm.* 

Anp  was  yp  e'er  in  Crail  toun  ? 

Igo  anil  atfo  ; 
And  saw  ye  there  Clerk  Disliington  ?  •}• 

Sing  ironi,  iguii,  ago. 

His  wii^  was  !ikf  a  duukit  hen, 

Ii;o  in, I  .t<^ii  ; 
Tiie  tail  ii"t  like  a  iCi'"^e-peu, 

Sing  iroiii,  igon,  ago. 

And  il'nni  ye  ken  Sir  John  Malcolm? 

J;;o  an;i  ago  ; 
Gin  he's  a  wi>e  mm  I  inistak  him, 

Sin^  ironi,  igon,  ago. 

And  hand  ye  weel  frae  Sandie  Dim, 

Igo  and  a:iii  ; 
He's  ten  times  d  it'ter  nor  Sir  John, 

Sing  iruin,  igon,  ago. 

To  hear  them  o'  their  travels  talk, 

Igo  and  ago  ; 
To  gae  to  Loiidoii'i  lint  a  walk, 
Sing  irom,  igoii,  ago. 

To  see  the  womleis  o'  the  deep, 

Igo  and  ago. 
Wad  gar  a  ni  in  liaith  wail  and  weep. 

Sing  iioui,  igon,  ago. 

To  see  the  leviathan  ski|), 

Igo  and  iiro. 
And  wi'  Ills  tail  ding  ower  a  ship. 

Sing  ironi,  igcn,  ago. 


SONGS.  153 

MY  ONLY  JO  AND  DEARIL,  O 

GALl,.* 

Tune~"  My  only  jo  and  deai  i«  O." 

Thy  clieek  is  o'  the  rose's  hue, 

My  only  jo  and  deaiie,  O  ; 
Thy  neck  is  o'  tiie  siller  dew. 

Upon  the  hank  sae  briery,  O. 
Thy  ti'eth  are  o'  the  ivory, 

0  sweet's  the  twinkle  o'  thine  ce  : 
Nae  joy,  nae  pleasure  biiuKs  oq  me. 

My  only  jo  and  dearie,  O. 

When  we  were  bairnies  o!i  yon  brae. 
And  youth  was  blinkiii'  bom.ie,  O, 

Aft  we  wad  d.iflf  the  lee  laiig  day. 
Our  joys  in'  sweet  and  iii.iriie,  O. 

Aft  I  wad  chase  thee  ower  the  lee, 

.And  ronnd  about  the  tlmrny  tree  ; 

Or  pu'  the  wild  tlow'rs  a'  for  thee. 
My  only  jo  and  dearie,  O. 

1  hae  a  wish  I  canna  tine, 
'Mang  a'  the  cares  that  urieve  me,  O  J 

A  wish  that  thou  wert  ever  mine. 
And  never  niair  to  K-ive  nii-,  O  ; 

Then  I  wail  daut  thee  nulit  and  day, 

Nae  ither  warldly  care  1  li  hae. 

Till  life's  warm  stream  forgat  to  play. 
My  only  jo  and  dearie,  O. 


•  There  is  a  somewhat  dilTcrenf  version  of  this 
•trance  v.ii;.  ii,  lUnl's  folleelioii,  ITTfc.  The  prticnt, 
whieii  I  ih  Ilk  the  Ijpst,  is  co|iiea  f:om  the  i><otti!,h 
Minstrel. 

t  riie  pcrsiin  kiiowti  io  Seottish  soni;  and  tradition 
by  (he  epithet  ClirK  Di-hiiiBt.in,  was  a  notary  who  re. 
S'-k'd  alK'Ut  ihc  innUlV  ol  tile  last  cei.turyin  Crad, 
«d  acted  a<  tlie  t.iwji-  leik  ,>f  that  aneietit  hiirnh  I 
have  been  iiu'onmd  :h.it  he  was  a  persun  ol  fircal  locil 
seletrity  in  Ins  time,  as  m  unconnirouiujny  liuiiiuur- 


FAIRLY  SHOT  O'  HER, 
Tvne—"  Fairly  shot  o'  her."* 


O  (jin  I  uere  fairly  shnt  n'  her ! 

Fairly,  fairly,  fiirly  ihut  ,,'  iier  I 

O  uin  I  were  fairly  s/n'l  o'  Iut  ! 

If  she  were  dead,  I  uwi  <lunce  on  the  top  o'  A«r 

Till  we  were  niarried,  I  conldna  see  licht  tii 

her  ; 
For  a  month  after,  a'  thing  aye  gaed   rirht  wf 

her  : 
15ut  these  ten  veais  I   hae   prayed   for  a  wr-.sc; 

to  her — 
O  gin  I  wire  fairly  shot  o'  lur  ! 

O  (/ill  J  wtrefiiiily  shut  u'  her  I  §-c. 

Nunc  o'  her  relations  or  friends  could  stay  wi' 

her  : 
The  nrebours  and  bairns  are  fiin  to  flee  frae  her: 
.^nd  1  my  ainsell  am  forced  to  gie  way  till  her  : 
O  gin  I  were  fairly  shut  ■>'  lifr  ! 

O  gin  I  were  fairly  Ji.it  «'  her  J  ^c 

She  gangs  aye  sae  braw,  she's  sae  muckie  prid« 

in  her ; 
There's  no  a  guuewife  in  the  lulll  country-side. 

like  her . 


*  Richard  Gall,  the  son  of  a  dealer  in  old  furnitur* 
ill  St.  Mary's  Wyiid,  Kdinl)iirj;h  w;is  broujjht  up  tM 
the  business  of  a  printer,  and  ihed  .ii  an  early  a^B 
about  the  be);inniiig  »1  the  pce^iii  '«uULtv. 

N2 


154 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Wi'  dress  and  xvi'  diink  thedcll  wadoa  bide  wi' 

her : 
O  gin  I  were  fairly  shut  o*  her  ! 

O  gin  I  ic ere  fairly  shot  o'  her  !  §-c. 

If  tlte  time  were  but  come  that  to  the  kirk-gate 

wi'  lier, 
And  into  the  yird  I'd  mak  mysell  quit  o'  her, 
I'd  then    be  us  biythe  as   first  wlien   I   met  wi 

her  : 
O  gin  I  Were  f.iirly  shot  o'  her  ! 

O  gin  I  were  fairly  shut  o'  her  I  Sfc. 


FALSE  LUVE !    AND  HAE  YE  PLAY'D 
ME  THIS. 

False  luve  !  and  hae  ye  play'd  me  this, 

In  summer,  'mid  tlie  flowers? 
I  shall  repay  ye  back  asjain 

In  winter,  'mid  the  showers. 

But  ap;aiu,  dear  luve,  and  again,  dear  luve, 

Will  ye  not  turn  again  ? 
As  ye  look  to  other  women 

Shall  I  to  other  mea  ?• 


FARE  YE  WEEL,  MY  AULD  WIFE. 

And  fare  ye  weel,  my  auld  wife  ; 

Sing  bimi.  bee,  berry,  bum  ; 
Fare  ye  weel,  my  auld  wife  ; 

Sini^  l)um,  bum,  bum. 
Fare  ye  weel,  my  auld  wife. 
The  steeier  up  o*  >turt  aiul  strife. 
The  maul  's  abune  tlie  meal  the  nicht, 
Wi'  some,  some.  some. 

And  fare  ye  weel.  my  pdce-stafT; 

Sintr  b'jni,  bee,  berry,  bum  : 
Fare  ye  weel,  my  pike-staff; 

Sine  bum,  bum,  bum. 
Fare  ye  v/eel,  my  pike-staff, 
W-'"  vnu  n;u?  mair  ii  y  wife  I'll  baff; 
The  maut's  al)uue  the  meal  the  bicht, 

^\  i'  some,  some,  some. 


r.ET  UP  AND  BAR  THE  DOOR. 

It  fell  about  the  Marfinm as  time. 
And  a  gay  time  it  wa«  than. 


*  From  Heril's  Oollcotinn.  177f;.— \  s!i^»lilly  diffcr. 
*nt  version  is  pat  by  Sir  Water  Scott  into  the  motah 
of  Davie  Gellailcy,  m  tlie  lelebraitil  novel  of  Waver- 
U-V- 

"  False  love,  and  hnst  thou  play'd  tne  thU, 

In  su. inner,  ainonf;  ihe  f1i)wcrs/ 
I  wjll  repay  tliei-  b.icK  a);ain 

In  "inter,  among  ilie  sliowcra. 


"Unless  .iRain,  auain,  niy  love. 
Unless  yiMi  tnrii  aL;:tiii, 

A>  vnn  with  I'llier  maidens  rove, 
I'll  smile  on  oilier  men  " 


When  our  gudewife  had  puddins  to  raak, 
And  she  boil'd  them  in  the  pan. 
And  the  barrin   o'  our  itonr  well,  weL,  well 
And  the  barrin'  o'  our  door  weil. 

The  wind  blew  cauld  frae  south  to  north, 

It  blew  into  the  floor  ; 
Says  our  gudeman  to  our  gudewife, 

Get  up  and  bar  the  doiir. 
And  the  barrin',  Sfc. 

My  hand  is  in  my  hussyfe  skep, 

Gudeman,  as  ye  may  see  ; 
An  it  shouldna  be  barr'd  this  huncer  veai, 

It's  no  be  barr'd  for  me. 
And  the  burrin,  Sfc. 

They  made  a  paction  'tween  them  twa. 

They  made  it  firm  and  sure. 
The  first  that  spak  the  foremost  word 

Should  rise  and  bar  the  door. 
And  the  barrin',  §-e. 

Then  by  there  came  twa  gentlemen, 

At  twelve  o'clock  at  night; 
And  they  c(mld  neither  see  house  nor  ta'j 

Nor  coal  nor  candle-licht. 
And  the  barrin',  §-c. 

Now  whether  is  this  a  rich  man's  house, 

Or  whether  is  this  a  puir  ? 
Cut  never  a  word  wad  atie  o*  them  speak, 

For  the  barrin'  o'  the  door. 
And  the  ban  in',  t^c. 

.\nd  fiist  tiicy  ate  the  white  puddins, 

And  syne  they  ate  the  black  ; 
.\nd  muckle  thocht  our  gudewife  to  herseil, 

But  never  a  word  she  spak. 
And  the  barrin',  §-c. 

Then  said  the  tane  unto  the  tothcr, 

Hae,  man,  take  ye  my  knife. 
Do  ye  tak  aff  the  auld  man's  beard. 

And  I'll  kij^s  the  gudewife. 
And  the  barrin',  tj-c. 

But  there's  nae  water  in  the  house, 

And  what  shall  we  do  than  ? 
What  ails  ye  at  the  puddin'  broo, 

That  boils  into  the  pan  ? 
And  the  barrin',  Sfc. 

O,  up  then  startit  oui  gudeman, 

.■*.nd  an  angry  man  was  he  : 
Wad  ye  kiss  my  wife  before  my  face. 

And  scaud  me  wi'  puddin'  biee? 
And  the  barrin',  ^-c. 

Then  up  and  startit  our  gudewife, 

Gi'eri  three  sKijis  on  the  floor: 
Gudeman,  ye've  spoken  the  fo.einost  word. 

Get  U|)  and  bai-  the  d.  or.» 
And  the  burrin',  ^-c. 


■   Prom  Herd's  Collection,  rTi".— Tradition,  as  re. 
ported  ni  Johnson's  Musical  Museum,  alKims  that  thi 


SONGS. 


155 


LOCAK  O'  BUCIIAN. 

T^me—"  Ldgie  o'  Buclian." 

0.  LiciE  o'  Bucliin,  O,  Lo:;ie,  iha  lainj, 
They  h.ie  ta'cn   awa  Jaiiiic   that   delved   in   the 

yard  ; 
Ho  |)I  lyM  on  the  |)i[)c  and   the  viol  sie  sma'  ; 
Thi'v  hae  ta'en  awa  Jamie,  the  flower  o*  theni  a'. 
He  iiiid.   Think   na   lauij,  lassie,    thouyli  I 

gang  awa  ; 
He  said.   Think  na   king,    lassie,   though  I 

gang  awa  ; 
Fur  the  simmer  is  coming,   cauld  winter^s 

an-a. 
And  Til  come  back  and  see  thee  in  spite  o' 
them  a'. 

0,  Saiulie  lias  owsen,  and  siller,  and  kye, 
A  house  aiid  a  haddin,  and  a'  tliinijs  forhye, 
r<ut  I  wad  hae  Jamie,  wi's  bonnet  in's  liaiid, 
Befu'.e  I'd  hae  Sandy  wi'  Louses  and  Kind. 
He  said,  ffc. 

My  daddie  looks  sulky,  my  niinnie  looks  sour. 
They  frown  upon  Jamie.  I)eeau.-<e  he  is  poor  ; 
Hut  d  iddie  and  minnic  although  that  they  lie, 
There's  nine  o'  them  a'  like  my  Jamie  to  me. 
He  said,  Sfc. 

I  sit  on  my  crcc|-.ie,  and  spin  at  my  wheel. 
And  think  on  the  laddie  that  lo'cd  ine  sae  weel  ; 
He  had  liut  ae  sixpence — he  hrak  it  in  twa, 
And  he  gi'ed  me  ti'.e  haiit'o't  when  he  gaed  awa. 
Then,  haste  ye  hack,  Jamie,  and  bide  na  awa. 
Then  haste  ye  bach.  Jamie,  and  bide  na  awa  ; 
Simmer  is  cumin' ,  cauld  winter's  awa. 
And  ye'll  come  and  see  me  in  spite  u   them 
a'.' 


"  Riidcinan"  of  this  sonij  was  a  person  of  the  name  of 
John  Bl'iiit,  who  live;!  of  yore  in  Crawford-Muir. 
Thtre  are  two  tunes  to  which  it  is  often  sung.  One  of 
them  is  in  most  of  the  Collcetions  of  Scottish  Times; 
tlic  other,  tliongh  to a|ipearaiice equally  ancient,  seems 
to  have  been  preserved  b>  traili  ion  alone,  as  we  have 
lever  seen  it  m  print.  A  (liiril  time,  to  which  we  hav  e 
neard  ihis  song  sung,  by  only  one  person,  an  American 
s'.i  (i(  nt  we  suspect  to  h  ive  been  mported  from  his 
ov  n  :<>  Mitry. 

•  "  I  ogie  o'  Buchan"  is  stated  by  Mr.  Peter  Bnchan 
of  r_elerheail,  in  liis  (.leanings  of  .Scarce  OM  Uallads 
<IS-'7),  to  have  been  the  C"m|iosition  of  Mr.  George 
Haliiet,  ami  to  have  been  wntleii  by  liim  while  school- 
m<s:er  of  It.iihcn,  in  Abenlecnshin-,  about  the  year 
I73S.  •'  I'he  poetry  of  tins  indixidual,"  says  Mi. 
Dyhan,  "  wis  chiefly  J.icobiti.al,  and  long  remained 
familiar  amongst  the  pea.-antry  in  iJiat  quarter  of  the 
country:  One  uf  the  best  kuo.m  of  these,  at  the  pru- 
Bcnt,  is'  Wherry,  Whigs,  ana,  man  I'  In  I74(;,  Mr. 
Halket  wrote  a  dialogue  betwixt  Ceorge  II  ami  the 
Devil,  which  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Duke  of 
Cambeilaiid  while  on  Ins  march  to  Cnrodcn,  he  of- 
fered one  hundred  pounds  reward  for  the  person  or 
Oie  head  o/  its  author.     Mr.  llaiket  dicil  in    7-i6. 

"  The  bogie  licre  mentioned,  is  m  mie  of  the  ad- 
kjining  parishes  (Cramond)  where  .Mr.  Halket  then 
rcsi.led;  and  the  hero  of  the  puijc  was  a  James  llo- 
Kitson,  gaidener  at  Uie  plai-e  of  Logie." 


HERE'S  A  HEALTH   TO  THEiM  TIIAT'3 
AWA. 

Tune—"  Here's  a  hcaltli  to  them  thafs  awa." 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa  ; 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that  were  here  short 
syne. 
And  canna  be  here  the  day. 

It  s  glide  to  be  merry  and  wise  ; 

It'.s  gude  to  be  hcmest  and  true  ; 
It's  gude  to  he  aff  wi'  the  auld  lovs, 

Before  ye  be  on  wi'  the  new. 


IIEY,  CA'  THROUGH. 

Tune—"  Hey,  ca'  through." 

Up  wi'  the  carles  o'  Dysart, 

And  the  larls  o'  Buckhaven, 
And  the  kinimers  o'  Largo, 
And  the  las.ies  o'  Leven. 

Hey,  ca'  through,  en'  through, 

I''ur  we  hae  muckle  ado  : 
Hey,  ca'  through,  ca'  through, 
Pot  ice  hae  muchle  ado. 

We  hae  tales  to  tell, 

And  we  hae  sangs  to  sing  ; 
We  hae  pennies  so  spend, 

And  we  hae  pints  to  bring, 

Hiy,  ca'  through,  ifc. 

We'll  live  a'  our  days  ; 

And  them  that  comes  bellin', 
Let  them  do  the  like. 

And  spend  the  gear  they  win. 

Hey,  ca'  through,  Sfc, 


I  LO'ED  NE'ER  A  LADDIE  BUT  .\NS 

CLUNIE. 

Tune — "  My  lodghig  is  on  the  coid  ground." 

I  lo'ed  ne'er  a  laddie  but  ane  ; 

He  lo'cd  ne'er  a  lassie  but  me. 
He's  willing  to  m.ik  me  his  ai.i  ; 

And  his  ain  I  am  willing  to  be. 
He  has  colt  me  a  rokeiay  o'  blue, 

And  a  pair  o'  mittens  »'  green  ; 
The  price  was  a  kiss  o*  my  mou'  ; 

And  I  paid  him  the  debt  yestri-en. 

Let  ithers  brag  weel  o*  their  gear, 

Their  land,  and  their  lorilly  degree, 
I  cireiia  for  (night  but  my  dear, 

I'or  he's  iika  thing  lordly  to  me  : 
His  words  ate  sae  sugar'd,  sae  sweet  ' 

His  sen.-e  diives  ilk  tear  far  awa! 
'  liMteti — poor  fool  !   .ind  1  greet  ; 

Vet  how  -iweet  are  the  tears  as  thev  f«'' 


156 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


AYE  WAUICING,  O. 

THE  ORIGINAL  SONG,  FROM  RECITATION. 

0  I'm  wet,  wet, 

O  I'm  WL't  and  weary ! 
Yet  fain  wad  I  ri'*e  and  rin. 

If  I  tliought  I  w  juld  meet  my  deary. 
Ay  iviiuk'uig,   O  ! 

Wanking  aye,  and  weary, 
Sltep  I  can  f/et  nane 

For  thinking  o'  my  dtjry. 

Simmer's  a  pleasant  time. 

Flowers  of  every  cc»our. 
The  water  rins  ower  Iz^e  heiiKh— 

And  I  lang  for  my  true  lover 
Ay  wauking,  Sfc 

When  I  sleep  T  dream. 

When  I  wauk  I'm  eerie  ; 
Sleep  I  can  get  nane 

For  thinking  o'  my  deary. 

Ay  wauking,  §t. 

Lanely  night  comes  on  ; 
A'  the  lave  are  sleeping  ; 

1  think  on  my  love. 

And  blear  my  een  wi'  greeting. 
Ay  wauking,  §"c. 

Feather-beds  are  soft, 

Painte-l  rooms  are  bonnie  ; 
But  a  kisg  o   my  dear  love 

U  better  kr  than  ony. 

Ay  wauking,  Sfc. 


I  To  the  streamlet  winding  clear, 

j  To  the  fragrant-scented  brier, 

E'ea  to  thee  of  all  most  dear,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 

For  the  frowns  of  fortune  low'r,  bonnie  lassie,  O 
On  thy  lover  at  this  hour,  bonnie  lassie,  O  • 
Ere  the  golden  orb  of  day. 
Wakes  the  warlders  from  the  spray. 
From  this  land  I  must  away,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

And  when  on  a  distant  shore,  bonrie  lassie,  O, 
Should  I  fall  'midst  battle's  roar,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 

Wilt  thou,  Helen,  when  you  hear 

Of  thy  lover  on  his  bier. 
To  his  memory  shed  a  tear,  b  .nn!e  lassie  ?  O.* 


KELVIN  GROVE. 

JOHN  LVl.E. 

Turji—"  Kelvin  Grove." 

Let  u3  hr.ste  to  Kelvin  grove,  bonnie  lassie,  O  ; 
Through  its  mazes  let  us  rove,  bonnie  lassie,  O  ; 

Where  the  rose  in  all  its  pride 

Decks  the  hollow  dingle's  side. 
Where  the  midnight  fairies  glide,  bonnie  lassie,  O. 

We  will  wander  by  the  mill,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 
To  the  Cf  ve  l>"side  the  rill,  bonnie  lassie,  O  ; 

Where  the  glens  rel)ound  the  call 

Of  the  lofty  w  iterfall, 
Through    the    iiiuuntain's    rocky   hall,    bonnie 
lassie,  O. 

Then  we'll  up  to  yonder  glade,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 
Wlieie  s.)  oft,  beneath  its  shade,  bonnie  lassie,  O, 

With  tl'.e  songsters  in  the  grtvc, 

We  have  told  our  tale  of  love. 
And  have  sport  ivegarla.  ids  wove,  boa  lie  lassie,  O. 

All  I    I  soon  miivt  hid  ad  <'ii,  hotiiiie  lassie,  O, 
lu  tins  t.iiiy  sii'iii-  ai.d  \nii,  Iminiie  lassie,  (), 


BLUE  BONNETS  OVER  THE  BORDER 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

Tvmi — "  Blue  Bonnets  over  the  Border." 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale, 

Why,   my   lads,   dinna  ye  march  forward  is 
order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesd'.Ie  ; 

All  the  l)lue  bonnets  are  over  the  Border. 
Many  a  banner  spread  flutters  above  your  head; 

Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story  ; 
Mount  and  make  ready,  then,  sons  of  the  mouit- 
tain  glen  ; 
Fight  for  your  Queen  and  the  old   Scottish 
glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grai- 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe  ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing  ; 

Come  with  the  l>jickler,  the  lance,  and  the  how 
Trumpets  are  sounding,  war  steeds  are  hounding  \ 

Stand  to  your  aims,  and  march  in  good  order. 
England  shall  many  a  day  tell  of  the  bloody  fray^ 

When  the  blue  bonnets  came  over  the  Border, 


COMIN'  THROUGH  THE  RYE. 
7^n^~"  Gin  a  Body  meet  a  Bodv. 

Gin  a  body  meet  a  body 

Coniin'  through  the  rye, 
Gin  a  body  kiss  a  body. 

Need  a  body  cry  ? 
Ev'ry  las-ie  has  her  lau'Ue, 

Nane,  they  say,  hae  I  ! 
Yet  a'  the  lads  they  smile  at  me, 

Whin  comiii'  through  the  rye. 
Aniang  the  train  there  is  a  8»'aiu 

I  dearly  lo'e  uiysell  ; 
But  whaur  his  h.ime,  or  what  his  name, 
I  dinna  care  to  tell. 


*  Kelvin  firovp  is  n  bpaiitifiilly  wooiled  dell,  abnu* 
two  iiiiic  fr  nil  (il.itjjow,  roriiiiii);a  soit  oHovcr^  ua 
fur  the  l.iiiii  and  lai>e>  ^X  that  citv. 


SONGS. 


ir)7 


G.n  a  body  nioet  a  body, 

Oomiii'  tiae  the  town, 
Gin  a.  body  greet  a  body, 

Need  a  body  frown  ? 
Kv'ry  lassie  has  her  laddie, 

Naiie,  they  say,  hae  I ! 
Vet  a'  tlie  lads  they  smile  at  nic, 

When  comin'  through  the  rye. 
Amanji;  the  train  there  is  a  swain 

1  dearly  lo'e  mysell ; 
Bui  whaur  his  hame,  or  wliat  his  name, 
I  dinna  care  to  tell. 


DINNA  THINK,  BONNIE  LASSIE. 

Tune—"  The  Smith's  a  gallant  fireman." 

0  DiNXA  think,  bonnie  lassie,  I'm  gaun  to 

leave  thee  ; 
Dinna  iliink,  bonnie  lassie,  I'm  gaun  to  leave 

thcc  ; 
Dinna  thiniv,  bonnie  lassie,  I'm  gaun  to  leave 

thee  ; 
I'll  tak  a  stir.k  into  my  hand,  and  come  again 

and  see  thee. 

Far's  the  gate  ye  hae  to  gang ;  dark's  the 

night  and  eerie ; 
Far's  the  gate  ye  hae  to  gang ;  dark's  the 

night  and  eerie; 
Far's  the  gale  ye  hae  to  gang;  dark's  the 

night  and  eerie  ; 
0  stay  this  night  wi'  your  love,  and  dinna 

gang  and  leave  me. 

It'.o  but  a  night  and  hauf  a  day  that  I'll  leave 

my  dearie  ; 
But  a  niglit  and  hauf  a  day  that  I'll  leave  my 

dearie  ; 
Bnt  a  nigla  and  hauf  a  day  that  I'll  leave  my 

dearie  ; 
Whene'er  the  sun  gaes  west  the  loch  I'll 

come  again  and  see  thee. 

Dmna  gang,  my  bonnie  lad,  dinna  gang  ajid 
leave  nie ; 

Dinna  gang,  my  bonnie  lad,  dinna  gang  and 
leave  me  ; 

When  a'  the  lave  are  sound  asleep,  I'm  dull 
and  eerie  ; 

And  a'  the  lee-lang  nig-ht  I  'm  sad,  wi'  think- 
ing on  jny  dearie. 

0  diima  think,  bonnie  lassie,  I'm  gaun  to 

leave  thee  ; 
D.nna  tliink,  bonnie  lassie,  I'm  gaun  to  leave 

thee  ; 
Dmna  think,  bonnie  lassie,  I'm  gaun  to  leave 

thee  ; 
When  e'er  the  sun  gaes  out  o'  sight,  I'll  come 

again  and  see  thee. 

Waves  dre  ri.sing  o'er  the  sea;  winds   blaw 

loud  and  fear  me  ; 
Wivc^are  risiii",^  o'er  the  sea  ;  winds  blaw 

load  and  fear  me. 


While  tlic  winds  and   waves  do  roar,  1  ani 

wae  and  dreary  ; 
And  gin  ye  lo'e  me  as  ye  say,  ye  winna  gang 

and  leave  me. 

0  never  mair,  bonnie  lassie;  will  I  gang  and 

leave  thee  ; 
Never  mair,  bonnie  lassie  .will  I  jTRn-^  and 

leave  thee  ; 
Never  mair,  bonnie  lassie,  will  I  gang  and 

leave  thee; 
E'en  let  the  world  gang  as  it  will,  I'll  stay 

at  hame  and  cheer  tbce. 

Frae  his  hand  he  coost  his  slide  ;  I   winna 

gang  and  leave  thee  ; 
Tlu-ew  his  plaid  into  the   neuk ;  never  can  I 

grieve  thee  ; 
Drew  his  boots,  and  flang  them  by  ;  cried  my 

lass,  be  chcerie  ; 
I'll   kiss  the    tear    frae   afT  thy  check,  and 

never  leave  my  dearie. 


BONME  MARY  HAY. 

CRAWFORD 

Bonnie  Mary  Hay,  I  will  li.e  thee  yet ; 
For  thine  eye  is  the  slae,  and  thy  hair  is  the  jet , 
The  snaw  is  thy  skin,  and  the  rose  is  thy 

cheek ; 
O,  bonnie  Mary  Hay,  I  will  loe  thee  yet ! 

O,  bonnie  Mary  Hay,  will  ye  gang  wi'  me, 
When  the  sun's  in  the  west,  to  the  hawthorn 

tree, 
To  the  hawthorn  tree,  and  the  bonnie  bciTV 

den  ?  ' 

And  I'll  tell  thee,  Mary  Hay,  how  I  loe  thoa 

then. 

O,  bonnie  Mary  Hay,  it  is  haliday  to  me. 
When  thou  art  couthie,  kind,  and  free  ; 
There's  nae  clouds  in  the  lift,  nor  stcnms  in 

the  sky, 
Bonnie  Mary  Hay,  when  thou  art  nigh. 

O,  bonnie  Mary  Hay,  thou  mauna  say  me  nay. 
But  come  to  the  bower,  by  the  hawthorn  1^-ae  ; 
Butcometothe  bower,  and  I'll  tell  ye  a' what's 

true, 
How,  wnnie  Mary  Hay,  I  can  loe  nanc  but 

_fou. 


CARLE,  AN  THE  KING  COME. 

Tune — "  Carle,  an  the  King  come." 

Carle,  an  the  kin":  come, 
Cai-le,  an  il)e  king  come, 
Thou  shall  dau'-e  and  I  will  sing, 
Caile.  an  li  e  ki"jr  com© 


158 


BURNS'  WORKS 


An  somebody  were  come  again, 
llicn  sonieliody  maun  cross  the  main  ; 
And  every  man  shall  hae  his  ain, 
Carle,  an  the  king  come. 

I  trow  we  swappit  for  tlie  worse  ; 
We  ga'e  the  ))oot  and  better  horse  ; 
And  that  we'll  tell  them  at  the  corse, 
Carle,  an  the  king  come. 

When  yellow  corn  grows  on  the  rigs, 
And  gibbets  stand  to  hang  the  Whigs, 
O,  then  we'll  a'  dance  Scottish  jigs, 
Carle,  an  the  king  come. 

Nae  mair  wi'  pinch  and  drouth  we'll  dine, 
As  we  hae  done — a  dog's  propine — 
But  quaff  our  draughts  o'  rosy  wine, 
Carle,  an  the  king  come. 

Cogie,  an  the  king  come, 
Cogie,  an  the  king  come, 
I'se  be  fou  and  thou'se  be  toom 
Cogie,  an  the  king  come.  • 


Come 
Come 

Come 
There 

Come 
I'll  hi 
Come 
There 


COME  UXDER  MY  PLAIDIE. 

MACNIEL. 

Tune—''  Johnny  M'Gill." 

under  my  plaidie  ;  the  night's  gaun  to  f.i'  ; 
in  frae  the  cauld  blast,  the  drift,   and  the 

snaw  : 
under  my  plaidie,  and  sit  down  beside  me  ; 
's  room  in't,  dear   lassie,  believe  me,   for 

twa. 
under  my  plaidie,  and  sit  down  beside  me; 
p  ye  frae  every  cauld  bhist  that  can  blaw: 
under  my  plaidie,  and  sit  down  beside  me  ; 
s  room  in't,  dear  lassie,  believe  me,  for 

twa. 


Gae  'wa  wi'  yere  plaidie  !  auld  Donald,  gae  '\ra  ; 
'  fear  na  t'le  cauld  blast,  the  drift,  nor  the  snaw  ! 
Gae  'wa  wi'  your  plaidie  !  I'll  no  sit  beside  ye: 
Ye  micht  be  my  giitcher  !  auld  Dnnald,  gae  'wa. 
I'rn  gaun  to  meet  Johnnie — he'*  you-.ig  and  he's 

boiinie  ; 
lie's  been  at  Meg's  bridal,  fou  trig  and  fou  braw  ! 
Niine  dancjs  sae  lichtly,  s.ie  graeefu',  or  tichtly. 
His  cheek's  like  the  new  rose,   his  brow's  like 

the  snaw  I 

Dear  IMarinn,  let  that  flee  stick  to  the  wa'  ; 
Your  Jock's  but  a  gowk,  and  has  naething  ava  ; 
The  haill  o'  his  pack  he  has  now  on  his  back  ; 
He's  thretty,  and  I  am  but  threr  score  and  twa. 


•  ThisinanoUl  favourite cav.-ilior  song  :  thcchoruB, 
it  lea-i,  lb  as  1)1(1  a--'  the  time  of  tlie  Cominoiiwealtti, 
whin  the  retiir;!  Ill  Kiiii;  Charles  II.  was  a  mailer  of 
tail)'  iiiayer  to  the  LuyaliaU. 


Be  frank   now  and  kindly — I'll   busk  ye  aye 

finely  ; 
To  kirk  or  to  market  there'll  few  gang  sae  braw ; 
A  bien  house  to  bine  in,  a  chaise  for  to  ride  in, 
And  flunkies  to  'tend  ye  as  af'c  as  ye  ca'. 

My  father  aye  tauld  me,  my  mother  and  a', 
Ye'd  mak  a  gude  husband,    and  keep  me  aye 

braw  ; 
It's  true,   I  lo'e  Johnnie  ;  he's  young  and  he's 

bonnie  ; 
But,  wae's  me  !   I  ken  he  has  naething  ava  ! 
I  hae  little  tocher  ;   ye've  made  a  gude  offer  ; 
I'm  now  mair  than  twenty  ;    my  time  is  but 

sma'  ! 
Sae  gie  my  your  plaidie  ;  I'll  c;*ep  in  beside  ye ; 
1  thocht  ye'd  been  aulder  than  three  score  and 

twa  ! 

She  crap  in  ayont  him,  beside  the  stane  wa', 
Whare  Johnnie  was  listnin',  and  heard  her  tell  a'. 
The   day  was   appointed  ! — his  proud  heart  it 

dunted. 
And  struck  'giinst  his  side,  as  if  burstin'  in 

twa. 
He   wander'd   hame   wearie,    the  nicht  it  was 

diearie, 
And,  thowless,  he  tint  his  gate  'mang  the  deep 

snaw : 
The  howlet  was  screamin*,  while  Johnnie  cried, 

Women 
Wad  marry  auld  Nick,  if  he'd  keep  them  aye 

braw. 

O,  the  deil's  in  the  lasses  !  they  gang  now  sae 

braw, 
They'll  lie  down  wi'  auld  men  o'  fourscore   and 

twa  ; 
The  hail  o'  their  marriage  is  gowd  and   a  car- 
riage: 
Plain  love  is  the  cauldest  blast  now  th.it   can 

blaw. 
Auld    dotards,    be    wary  !     tak   tent   when    ye 

marry  ; 
Young  wives,    wi*   their  coaches,    they'll   whip 

and  they'll  ca', 
Till  they  meet  wi'  some  Johnnie  that's  youtk- 

fu'  and  bonnie, 
.Vnd  they'll  gie  ye  burns  on  ilk  hafiet  to  claw. 


DUSTY  MILLER. 
Turn—''  The  dusty  Miller." 

IIkv,  the  dusty  miller. 

And  his  dusty  coat ! 
He  will  win  a  shilling. 

Ere  he  spend  a  groat. 
Dusty  was  the  coat. 

Dusty  was  the  colour; 
Dusty  was  the  kiss. 

That  1  gat  frae  the  millei  ( 


SONGS. 


159 


Hey,  tlie  dii'.fy  miller, 

Ami  hii  (lit-ity  sack  J 
Lt't'zo  me  on  the  calling 

Fills  t'le  (lusty  peck  ; 
Fiil-i  tlic  (lusty  pei-k, 

Biiuiis  the  (lusty  sillef 
I  w.id  gie  my  coatie 

For  the  dusty  miller. 


THE  WEARY  FUND  O'  TOW. 

FROM    RECITATION. 

TVjnf — "  Tlie  weary  pund  o'  tow."_ 

1  BOUGHT  my  wife  a  stane  o*  lint 

As  good  as  ere  did  grow, 
And  a'  that  she  could  make  o'  that 

Was  ae  weary  ])uik1  o'  tow. 
The  weary  pund,  the  weary  pund, 

Tlw  weary  pund  o'  tow, 
I  thought  my  wife  would  end  her  life 

Before  she  span  her  tow. 

I  lookit  to  my  yarn-nag. 

And  it  grew  never  mair  ; 
I  lookit  to  my  beef-stand— 

i\Iy  heart  grew  wonder  sair  ; 
I  lookit  to  my  meal-boat, 

And  O,  but  it  was  howe  ! 
I  think  my  wife  will  end  her  life 

Afore  she  spin  her  tow. 

But  if  your  wife  and  my  wife 

Were  in  a  boat  thcgither, 
And  yon  other  man's  wife 

Were  in  to  steer  the  ruthcr  ; 
And  if  the  boat  utre  bottomless, 

And  seven  mile  to  row, 
I  think  they'd  ne'er  come  hame  again, 

To  spin  the  pund  o'  tow  1 


KEEP  THE  COUNTRY,  BONNIE 
LASSIE. 

T^ne—"  Keep  the  Country,  bonuie  Lassie 

Keep  the  country,  bonnie  lassie. 

Keep  the  country,  keep  the  country  ; 

Keep  the  country,  bonnie  lassie  ; 
Lads  will  a'  gie  gowd  fur  ye  : 

Gowd  for  ye,  bonnie  lassie, 

Gowd  for  ye,  gowd  for  ye : 
Keep  the  country,  bonuie  lassie  ; 

Lads  will  a'  gie  gowd  for  ye. 


THE  LANDART  LAIRD. 

TirETxE  lives  a  landart*  laird  in  Fife, 
And  he  has  married  a  dandily  wife  : 
She  wadna  shape,  nor  yet  wad  she  sew. 
But  sit  wi'  her  cummers,  and  fill  hersell  fu' 

She  wadna  spin,  nor  yet  wad  she  card  ; 
But  she  wad  sit  a:;d  crack  wi'  the  laird. 
Sae  he  is  doun  to  the  sheep-fauld, 
And  cleekit  a  wetherf  by  the  spauld.  ^ 

He's  whirled  afl  the  gnde  wether's  skin, 
And  wrapped  the  dandily  lady  therein. 
•  I  downa  pay  you.  for  your  gentle  kin  ; 
But  weel  may  I  skelp  my  wether's  skin.§ 

"  Landuard — that  is,  living  in  a  part  of  the  country 
It  some  (lisiaiice  from  any  town. 

♦  VVcddor.  t  Shoulder. 

S  I'hisiuriiius  and  most  .iTnusini;  old  dittv  is  from 
<tz.  Jainieson's  "  Pcnular  Ballads  and  .Songs;"  1806. 


HAP  AND  ROW  THE  FEETIE  O'T 

WILI.IA5I  CREECH.* 

Tiint—"  Hap  and  Rowe  the  Teetfe  ot." 

Well  /up  and  row,  ivell  hap  and  row. 

We'll  hap  and  rmu  the  feetie  o't. 
It  is  a  tree  bit  weary  thing  : 
I  downa  hide  the  greetie  o't. 

And  we  pat  on  the  wee  bit  pan, 

To  boil  the  lick  o'  meatie  o't ; 
A  cinder  fell  and  spoil'd  the  plan, 

And  burnt  a'  the  feetie  o't. 
M'e'll  hap  and  row,  Sec. 

Fu'  sair  it  grat,  the  puir  wee  brat, 
And  aye  it  kicked  the  feetie  o't, 

Till,  puir  We  elf,"  it  tired  itself; 
And  then  began  the  sleepie  o't. 
We'll  hap  and  row,  §-c. 

The  skirling  brat  nae  parritch  gat. 
When  it  gaed  to  the  sleepie  o't  ; 

It  s  waesome  true,  insteid  o'  t's  mou% 

They're  round  about  the  feetie  o't. 

We'll  hap  and  row,  S^c. 


JU.MPIN'  JOHN 
Tune — "  Jumpin'  John 

Her  dad'lie  forbade,  her  minnie  forbade  ; 

Forbidden  she  \vadna  be. 
She  wadna  trnw't,  the  browst  she  brewed, 
Wad  taste  sae  bitterlie. 

The  liuip  tail  tilt!/  ca'  .Tinnpin   John 

liepiiited  the  bonnie  bissie  ; 
The  lanri  lad  the)/  ca'  Jun.pin   John 
lieguiled  the  bonuie  Uissie. 


•  A  pcntleman  loner  at  the  head  of  the  bookselling 
trade  In  F.diiihurfih,  and  who  hnd  Icon  Lord  Provost 
of  (lie  city.  A  volume  of  his  mi.^ecll.inf  ous  prose  cs- 
snys  h.is  been  published,  under  thelitleof  "  Kdmburfjh 
Fuj-itive  Pieces."  He  was  not  only  remarkable  tof 
his  literary  accomplishments,  but  also  for  his  conver- 
sational powers,  whieh  were  such  as  to  open  to  hirr 
tJie  sexiiety  of  the  highest  literal y  men  of  his  day. 


'60 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


A  cow  ana  a  cauf,  a  ynwe  and  a  hauf. 
And  thretty  eiide  >hilling;s  and  tliree  ; 

A  vei-y  gude  mcliei-,  a  cortarmau's  doc.hter. 
The  lass  wi'  tlie  lionnie  black  ee. 
The  laity  lad,  SfC. 


O  DEAR  !  IMINNIE,  WHAT  SHALL  I  DO  ? 
Time—"  O  dear !  mother,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Oh  dear  !   minnie,  what  shall  I  do? 
Oh  dear  !   mitinie,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Oh  dear  !    minnie,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 
"  Daft  thing,  doiled  thing,  do  as  I  do." 

''  If  I  be  black,  I  canna  be  lo'ed  ; 

If  I  be  fair,  I  caiina  he  gude  ; 

If  I  be  lordly,  the  lads  will  look  by  ine ; 

Oh  dear  !   minnie,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Oh  dear  !   minnie,  what  shall  I  do? 
Oil  dear  !   minnie,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
Oh  dear  '   minnie,  what  shall  I  do?" 
'  Ddl't  thing,  dolled  tiling,  do  hs  I  do." 


KILLIECRANKIE,  O. 

Tune — "  The  braes  o'  Killiccrankie." 

Where  hae  ye  been  sae  braw,  lad  ? 

Where  hae  ye  !)een  sae  brankie,  O  ? 
Wiiere  hae  ye  been  s.ie  braw,  lad  ? 
Cam  ye  by  Killiecrankie,  O  ? 

uin  ye  had  been  where  I  hae  been. 
Ye  wadna  been  sae  cantie,   O  ; 
An  ye  had  sien  what  I  hae  seen 
On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,   O. 

I've  faught  at  land,  I've  faiight  at  sea; 

At  liame  I  faiiglit  niv  auntie,  O  ; 
But  1  met  the  detvil  and  Dundee, 

On  the  braes  o'  Kdlieurankie,  O  ! 
An  ye  hud  been,  ^-c. 

The  bauW  Pitcur  fell  in  a  far. 
And  Claverse  gat  a  elankie,  O; 

Or  I  hail  fed  an  Atliole  gled. 

On  the  braes  o'  Killiecrankie,  O. 
An  yp,  had  been,  3fc. 


DONALD  COUPER. 
Tun*—"  DonaJ  J  Couper  and  his  man." 

Het  Donald,  howe  Donald, 

Hey  Donald  Couuer  ! 
W'h  gane  awa  to  seek  a  wife, 

And  he's  come  hame  w'thoilt  her. 


O  Donald  Couper  and  hi  i  tea* 
Held  to  a  Highland  fair,  ir.aa  • 

And  a'  to  seek  a  bonnie  la;^ — 
But  fient  a  ane  was  theie,  man. 

At  length  he  got  a  carline  gray, 

And  she's  come  hirplin  haoie,  man  ; 

And  "he's  fawn  owre  the  butfet  stool, 
And  brak  her  rumple-bane,  man. 


LITTLE  WAT  YE  WHA'S  COMING 

T^ne — "  Little  wat  ye  wha's  conainjj," 

Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Lirtl.   wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Litrl  •  ,vjt  ye  wha's  coming  ; 
Jock  iiid  Tarn  and  a'  's  coming ! 

Dunciti's  coming,  Donald's  coming, 
Colin'-  ^'Dining,  Ronald's  coming, 
Douj^.ii'-  coming,  Lauchlan's  coming^, 
Alister  and  a'  's  coming  ! 

Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming  ; 
Jock  and  Tani  and  a'  's  coming  ! 

Borland  and  his  men's  coming. 
The  Camerons  and  Maclean's  coming. 
The  Gorrlons  and  Macgregor's  coming, 
A'  the  Duniewastles  coming  ! 

Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  comjng. 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming; 
MacGilvray  o'  Drumgloss  is  coming  ! 

Winton's  coming,  Nithsdale's  coining, 
Carnwath's  coming,  Keninuie's  coming, 
Derweiitwater  and  Foster's  coming, 
Withrington  and  Nairn's  coming  ■ 

Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming. 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming  ; 
Blythe  Cowhill  and  a'  's  coming  ! 

The  Laird  o'  Macintosh  is  coming," 
Macrabie  and  INIacdoiiald's  coming. 
The  Mackenzie's  and  Macphersons  comiag^ 
A'  the  wild  JlacCraws  cominsr  ' 

Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming, 
Little  wat  ye  wha's  coming  ; 
Donald  Gun  and  a'  's  coniii.g ' 

They  g'oom,  they  glowr,  they  look  sac  bi^ 
At  ilka  stroke  they'll  fell  a  Whig; 
They'll  fright  the  fuds  of  the  Pockpuds  ; 
For  luony  a  buttock  hare's  comicg. 


161 


Little  wat  ye  wha  »  coining, 
Little  wat  ye  wha  J  cimiing. 
Little  w;it  ye  wlia's  i-oining  ; 
Mony  a  buttock  bare's  coming ! 


OCH  HEY,  JOHNNIE  LAD 

TANNAHILL. 

OcH  hey,  Jonnnie  lad, 

Ye'ie  no  sae  kind's  ye  sou'd  hae  been  ; 
Ocli  hey,  Joiinnie  lad. 

Ye  didna  keep  your  tryst  yestreen. 
1  waited  lang  beside  the  wood, 

Sae  wae  and  weary  a'  my  lane : 
Oci)  iiey,  Johnnie  lad, 

It  was  a  waefu'  niciit  yestreen  ! 

I  lookit  by  the  whinny  knowe, 

I  lookit  by  the  firs  sae  green  ; 
I  lookit  ower  the  spiinkie  howe, 

And  aye  I  thoclit  ye  wad  hue  been. 
The  ne'er  a  sujjper  crossM  my  craig, 

The  ne'er  a  sleep  has  closed  my  een 
Och  hey,  Johnnie  lad, 

Ye're  no  sae  kind's  ye  sou'd  hae  been 

Gin  ye  were  waitin'  by  the  wood, 

It's  I  was  waitin*  liy  the  thorn  ; 
I  thocht  it  was  the  place  we  set. 

And  waited  niaist  till  dawnin*  morn. 
But  be  nae  beat,  my  bimnie  lass, 

Let  my  waitin'  stand  for  thine  ; 
We'll  awa  to  Craigton  shaw, 

And  seek  the  joys  we  tint  yestreen. 


OUR  GUDEMAN  CA^Sr  HAIME  AT  E'EN. 

Our  gudeman  cam  hame  at  e'en. 

And  hame  cam  he  ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  saddle-horse, 

Where  nae  horse  should  be. 
Oh,  how  cam  this  horse  here? 

How  can  this  be  ? 
How  cam  this  horse  here  ? 

Without  the  leave  o*  me? 
A  horse  !   quo'  she  ; 
Aye,  a  horse,  «|U'.)'  he. 
Ye  auld  blind  dotard  carle, 

And  blinder  n\at  ye  be  ! 
It  8  but  a  bonnie  milk-cow, 

My  mither  sent  to  me. 
A  milk-cow  !   quo'  he  ; 
Aye,  a  milk- cow,  quo'  she. 
Far  hae  I  riilden, 

And  muL'kle  hae  I  seen  ; 
But  a  saddle  on  a  mi  Ik-cow 

Sanr  1  never  naue. 


Our  gudeman  cam  hame  at  e  en, 

And  hame  ram  he  ; 
He  spifil  a  pair  o'  jark-boots. 

Where  nae  boots  should  Ije. 
^V^lat■s  this  now,  gudcwife  ? 

What's  this  I  see  ? 
How  ram  thue  boots  here, 

Without  the  leave  o'  me  ? 
I'.iiots  !    quo'  she  ; 
Aye,  boots,  quo'  he. 
Ye  aulil  blinil    dot.ird  carle. 

And  blinder  mat  ye  be  . 
It's  but  a  pair  o*  water-stoups, 

The  cooper  sent  to  me. 
Watcr-stoups  !  quo'  he  ; 
Aye,  water -stoujjs,  quo' she. 
Far  hae  I  ridden, 

Au<l  inuckle  hae  I  seen  ; 
But  siller-spurs  on  water-stoups 

Saw  I  never  nane. 

Our  gudeman  cam  hame  at  e'ecn, 

And  hame  cam  he  ; 
And  there  he  saw  a  siller  sword. 

Where  nae  sword  should  be. 
What's  this  now,  gudewife  ? 

What's  this  I  see  ? 
O  how  cam  tkis  sword  here. 

Without  the  leave  o*  me  ? 
A  sword  .   que    sne 
Aye,  a  sword,  quo'  he 
Ye  auld  blind  dotard  --arle. 

And  blinder  mat  ye  be  ! 
It's  but  a  parridge-sj)urtle, 

My  minnie  sent  to  me. 

A  parridge-spurtle  I  quo*  he  ; 
Aye,  a  parridge-spurtle,  quo*  sL). 
Wcel,  tar  hae  I  ridden, 

And  niuckle  hae  I  seen  ; 
But  siller-handed  parridge-spurtlet 

Saw  1  never  nane. 

Our  gudeman  cam  hame  at  e'cu, 

And  hame  cam  he  ; 
And  there  he  spied  a  powder  d  wig, 

Where  nae  wig  shoulil  be. 
What's  this  now,  gudewile  ? 

What's  this  1  see  ? 
IIow  cam  this  wig  here, 

M'ithont  the  leave  o'  me  ? 
A  wig  !   quo'  she  ; 
Aye,  a  wig,  quo'  he. 
Ye  aulil  blind  dotard  carle, 

And  bimder  mat  ye  be  ! 
Tis  iiaetliing  but  a  clockcn-he.a 

My  minnie  sent  to  me. 
A  clocken-hen  !   quo'  he  ; 
Ave,  a  docken-ben,  quo*  she- 
Far  hae  I  ridden. 

And  niuikle  hae  I  seen, 
But  pnuther  on  a  clocken-hen 

Saw  1  never  nane. 

Our  gudeman  cam  hame  at  e'en. 
And  hame  cam  he  ; 


1G2 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  thoie  he  saw  a  inickle  coat. 

Where  nae  coat  should  be. 
How  cam  this  coat  here? 

liow  can  this  he  ? 
How  cam  this  coat  here, 
Witliout  the  leave  o'  me? 
A  ciat !   quo'  she  ; 
Aye,  a  coat,  quo'  he. 
Ye  auM  blind  dotard  carle, 
And  blinder  mat  ye  be  ! 
It's  but  a  pair  o'  blankets 
My  minnie  sent  to  me. 
Blankets  !   quo'  he  ; 
Aye.  blankets,  quo'  she 
Far  hae  I  ridden, 

And  muckle  hae  I  seen  ; 
But  buttons  upon  blankets 
Saw  1  never  nane ! 

Ben  gaed  our  giidenian, 

An<l  ben  gaed  he  ; 
And  there  he  spied  a  sturdy  man, 

Where  nae  man  should  be. 
How  cam  this  man  here? 

How  can  this  be  ? 
How  (Mm  this  man  here. 

Without  the  leave  o'  me? 
A  man  !   quo'  she  ; 
Aye,  a  man,  quo'  he. 
Puir  blind  t)ody, 

And  blinder  mat  you  be  ! 
It's  but  a  new  milkin'  maid, 

My  mither  sent  to  me. 
A  maid  !   quo'  he  ; 
Aye,  a  maid,  quo'  she. 
Far  hae  1  ridden, 

A.nd  mufkle  hae  I  seen. 
But  lang-bearded  maidens 

Saw  1  never  naae. 


GO  TO  BERWICK,  JOHNIE. 
Ttine — "  Go  to  Berwick  Johnie." 

Go  to  Berwick,  Juhnie  ; 

Bring  her  frae  the  Border  ; 
Yon  sweet  bonnie  lassie. 

Let  her  gae  nae  fartlier. 
En;;li^li  loons  will  twine  ye 

O'  the  lovely  tre.i?-ure  ; 
But  we'll  let  them  ken, 

A  sword  wi'  them  we'll  measure. 

Go  to  Berwick,  Johnie, 

And  regain  your  lioiiour  ; 
Drive  them  owcr  the  Tweed, 

And  show  our  Scottish  banner. 
1  am  Uol)  the  kini;. 

And  ye  are  Jock,  my  brither  ; 
But,  before  we  lose  her. 

We'll  a'  there  thegither.* 

•  Till"!  popular  r.mt  i?  from  Jolin-jon's  Miisi»al  Mu- 
Kum,  vol.  VI.,  It>u5.     Kitson,  in  his  ScuttUh  iioutfs- 


IF  YE'LL  BE  MY  DAWTIE,    \^D  SIT 
IN  MY  PLAID, 

Tune — "  Hie,  Bonnie  Laisie.** 

Hie,  bonnie  lassie,  blink  over  the  burn. 
And  if  your  sheep  wander  I'll  gie  them  a  turn 
Sae  happy  as  we'll  be  on  yonder  green  shade. 
If  ye'll  be  my  dawtie,  and  «it  in  my  plaid. 

A  yowe  and  twa  lammies  are  a*  my  haill  stock. 
But  I'll  sell  a  lammie  out  o'  my  wee  flock. 
To  buy  thee  a  head-piece,  sae  bonnie  and  braid. 
If  ye'll  be  my  dawtie,  and  sit  in  my  plaid. 

I  hae  little  siller,  but  ae  hauf-year  s  fee. 
But  if  ye  will  tak'  it,  I'll  gie't  a'  to  thee  ; 
And  then  we'll  be  married,  and  lie  in  ae  bed) 
If  ye'll  be  my  dawtie,  and  sit  in  my  plaid. 


I'LL  NEVER  LEAVE  THEE 

RAJISAT. 
JOHNNT. 

Though,  for  seven  years  and  mair,  honaur 
should  reave  me 

To  fields  where  cannons  rair,  thou  needsns 
grieve  thee  ; 

For  deep  in  my  spirit  thy  sweets  are  indented  ; 

And  love  shall  preserve  ay  what  love  has  im- 
printed. 

Leave  thee,  leave  thee,  I'll  never  leave  thee, 

Gang  the  wai'ld  as  it  will,  dearest,  believe  me  ' 

NELLT. 

Oh,  Johnny,  I'm  jealous,  whene'er  ye  discover 
My  sentiments  yielding,  ye'll  turn  a,  loose  rover  ; 
And  bought  in  the  world  would  vex  my  heart 

sairer. 
If  you  prove  inconstant,  and  fancy  ane  fairer. 
Grieve  me,  grieve  me,  oh,  it  wad  grieve  me, 
A'  the  lang  night  and  day,  if  you  deceive  me ! 

J  OWN  NT. 

My  Nelly,  let  never  sic  fancies  oppress  ye ; 
For,   while  my  blood's  warm,   I'll  kindly  caress 

Your  saft  blooming  beauties  first  kmdled  love  I 

fire. 
Your  virtue  and  wit  m<ik  it  ay  flame  the  higher 
Leave  thee,  leave  thee,  I'll  never  leave  thee. 
Gang  the  world  as  it  will,  dearest,  belie\e  me! 


179",  ment'ons,  that  he  li.nl  licanl  it  Rravcly  asserted 
at  KilMiburgh,  that  "  a  Joolisli  song,  bcgunnng, 

Go,  go,  Ro,  go  to  Berwick,  Johnie  I 

Tliou  »lialt  liave  the  horse,  aiul  I  shall  have  the  poney 

was  made  upon  one  of  Wnllaoc's  marnuding  cxI>e'l^ 
iKiMs,  ami  liiiit  ilie  iicrson  thus  adilrc.-i-nl  was  uo  othef 
I  than  his_fidiit  Achates,  bir  John  Gral.ani." 


SONGS. 


163 


NKLLT. 

Th'.n,  Jolinny  !  I  frankly  this  minute  allow  ye 
To  think  ine  your  niistrws,   for  love   gars  me 

trow  ye  ; 
And  gin  ye  prove  false,  to  yoursell  be  it  said, 

then, 
Ye  win  but  s:na'  honour  to  wrang  a  puir  maiden. 
Reave  nie,  reave  me,  oh,  it  would  reave  me 
Of  ray  rest,  night  and  day,  if  you  deceive  me  ! 


JOHNNY, 

Bill  ico-shop^les  hammur  red  gauds  on  the  studdy. 
And    fair   s-iiinnier   nuunings   nae   mair   appear 

ruddy  ; 
Bia  Britons  think  ae  gate,  and  when  they  obey 

thee. 
But  never  till  that  time,  believe  I'll  betray  thee. 
Leave  thee,  leave  thee  !    I'll  never  leave  thee  ! 
The  starns  shall  gae  withershins  ere  I  deceive 

thee  ! 


KATIIERINE  OGIE. 

As  walking  forth  to  view  the  plain. 

Upon  a  morning  early. 
While  iMay's  sweet  scent  did  cheer  my  brain, 

From  flowers  which  grow  so  rarely, 
I  chanced  to  meet  a  pretty  maid  ; 

She  shined,  though  it  was  foggy  ; 
ask'd  her  name  :   sweet  Sir,  she  said, 

My  name  is  Katherine  Ogie. 

I  stood  a  while,  and  did  admire. 

To  see  a  nymph  so  stately  ; 
So  brisk  an  air  there  did  appear, 

In  a  country  maid  so  neatly  : 
Such  natural  sweetness  she  display'd. 

Like  a  lilie  in  a  bosrie : 
Diana  s  self  was  ne'er  array'd 

Like  this  same  Katheiiue  Ogie. 

Thou  flower  of  females,  beauty's  queen. 

Who  sees  tliee,  sure  must  ])iize  thee  ; 
Though  thou  ait  drest  in  robes  but  mean, 

Yet  these  cannot  disguise  thee  : 
Thy  handsome  air,  and  graceful  look, 

tar  excels  any  clownish  rogie  ; 
Thou  art  a  match  for  lord  or  duke. 

My  charming  Katherine  Ogie. 

O  were  I  but  some  shepherd  swain  ! 

To  feed  my  flock  beside  thee. 
At  boughting-time  to  leave  the  jilain, 

In  milking  to  abiile  thee  ; 
I'd  think  myself  a  happier  man, 

^^ith  Kate,  my  chil),  and  dogie, 
Than  he  that  bugs  bis  thousands  ten, 

Had  I  but  Katherine  Ogie. 


OWER  BOGIE. 


ALLAN   HAMSAT. 


JHtne — "  O'er  Bogie,* 

I  WILL  awa'  wi'  my  love, 

I  will  awa'  wi'  her. 
Though  a'  my  kin  had  sworn  and  uid 

I'll  ower  Dogie  wi*  her. 
If  I  can  get  but  her  consent, 

I  dinna  care  a  strae  ; 
Though  ilka  ane  be  discontent, 

Awa'  wi  her  I'll  gae. 

For  now  she's  mistress  o'  my  heart, 

And  wordy  o'  my  hand  ; 
And  weel,  1  wat,  we  shanna  part 

For  siller  or  for  land. 
Let  rakes  delight  to  swear  and  -jrink^ 

And  beaux  admire  fine  lace; 
But  my  chief  [jleasure  is  to  blink 

On  Betty's  bunnie  face, 

I  will  awa'  wi'  my  love, 

I  will  awa'  wi"  her. 
Though  a'  my  kin  had  sworn  and  loijf 

I'll  o'er  Bogie  wi'  her. 


LASS,  GIN  YE  LO'E  ME. 

JAMES  TVTLER. 

Tune — "  Lass,  gin  ye  !o'e  me.' 

I  HAE  laid  a  herring  in  saut — 

Lass,  gin  ye  lo'e  me,  tell  ma  now  ; 

I  hae  brew'd  a  forpit  o'  maut, 

An    I  caiina  come  ilka  day  to  woo: 

I  hae  a  calf  that  will  soon  be  a  cow- 
Lass,  gin  ye  lo'e  me,  lell  me  now  ; 

I  hae  a  stuok,  ami  I'll  soon  hae  a  mowe, 
And  I  canna  come  ilka  day  to  woo: 

I  hae  a  house  upon  yon  moor — 

Lass,  gin  ye  lo'e  me,  tell  me  now  ; 
Three  sjiarrows  may  (hince  upon  tl  e  floor, 

And  1  canna  come  ilka  d.iy  to  woo  : 
I  hae  a  but,  an'  I  hae  a  ben — 

Lass,  gin  ye  lo'e  me,  tell  me  now  ; 
A  penny  to  keep,  and  a  penny  to  s|)en*. 

An'  1  cauna  come  ilka  day  to  woo: 

I  hae  a  hen  wi'  a  happitie-leg— . 

Lass,  gin  yc  lo'e  _me,  tell  me  now; 
That  ilka  day  lays  me  an  egg. 

An'  I  canna  come  ilka  day  to  woo  : 
I  hae  a  cheese  upon  my  skelf — 

Lass,  gin  ye  ln'e  me,  tell  me  now  ; 
And  soon  wi'  mites  'twill  rin  itself, 

And  I  caima  c  >ine  ilka  day  to  woo. 


161 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


LASSIE,  LIE  NEAR  ME. 

DR.   BLACKLOCX. 

T^ne—"  Laddie,  lie  near  me." 

Lang  hae  we  parted  been. 

Lassie,  my  deerie  ; 
Now  we  are  met  again. 

Lassie,  lit  "sear  me. 

Near  me,  near  me, 
Lassie,  lie  near  me. 

Lang  hast  thou  lain  thy  lane  ; 
Lassie,  lie  near  me. 

A*  that  I  hae  endured, 

Lassie,  my  dearie, 
Here  in  thy  arms  is  cured  ; 

Lassie,  lie  near  me. 


LOW  DOUN  r  THE  BRUME.* 
7^71*—"  Low  doun  1'  the  Broom." 

Mv  daddie  is  a  cankert  carle, 

He'll  no  twine  wi*  his  gear  ; 
My  minnie  she's  a  scauldin'  wife, 
Hauds  a'  the  house  asteer. 

Uiit  let  them  say,  or  let  them  do, 

It's  a'  atie  to  me, 
For  he's  low  doun,  he's  in  the  brume, 

Thnt's  woitin   on  me: 
'Wailing  on  me,  my  love. 

He's  waiting  on  me  : 
For  he't  low  doun,  he's  in  the  brume, 
That's  wuitin'  on  rue. 

My  auntie  Kate  sits  at  her  wheel, 

And  sair  siie  lightlies  me  ; 
But  weel  1  ken  it's  a'  envy. 

For  ne'er  a  joe  his  she. 

And  let  them  say,  Sfc. 

My  cousin  Kate  was  sair  beguiled 

Wi'  Johnnie  o'  the  Glen  ; 
And  aye  sinsyne  she  cries,  Beware 

O'  fause  deluding  men. 

And  let  iJiem  say,  Sfc. 

deed  Sandy  he  nam  wast  yestreen. 
And  speir'd  when  I  saw  Pate  ; 

And  aye  sinsyne  tiie  neebors  round 
They  jeer  nie  air  and  late. 
And  let  them  say,  §"c. 


•  The  chorus  of  this  song  is  Tery  old  :  tradition 
ascribes  the  verses  to  a  Lairil  of  Balnaraoon  in  Forfar- 
shire: but  upon  that  jioict  the  learned  iltfler.  It  is 
one  of  lh(  must  pofiular  duties  in  ticutland. 


THE  CAMPBELLS  ARE  COMING. 
U-4.\.v-— "  The  Campbells  are  coming." 

JTie  Campbells  are  coming,    O-ho,   0-ho  I 
The  Campbells  arc  cnning,   O-ho  ! 

The  Campbells  are  coming  to  bonnie  Loctt 
leven  I 
The  Campbells  are  coming,  O-ho,   O-ho 

Upon  the  Lomonds  I  lay,  I  lay  ; 

Upon  the  Lomonds  1  lay  ; 
I  lookit  doun  to  bonnie  Loehleven, 

And  saw  three  perches  play. 

The  Campbells  are  coining,  l^c. 

Great  Argyle  he  goes  before  ; 

He  makes  the  cannons  and  guns  to  roar  ; 
With  sound  o'  trumpet,  pipe,  and  drum  ; 

The  Campbells  are  coming,  O-ho,  O-bo  ! 
2'he  Cumpbells  are  coming,  Sfc, 

The  Campbells  they  are  a'  in  arms, 
Their  loyal  faith  and  truth  to  show, 

With  banners  rattling  in  the  wind  ; 

The  Campbells  are  coming,  O-ho,  O-ho  !  • 
The  Campbells  are  coming,  Sfc. 


MERRY  HAE  I  BEEN  TEETHING  A 
HECKLE. 

Tune — "  Lord  Breadalbane's  March." 

O  MERRY  hae  I  been  teething  a  heckle, 

And  merry  hae  I  been  shai)in  a  spunc  ; 
O  merry  hae  I  been  cloutin  a  kettle. 

And  kissin  my  Katie  when  a'  was  dune. 
O  a"  the  lang  day  1  ca'  at  my  hammer. 

And  a'  the  lang  day  I  whistle  and  sing ; 
A'  the  lang  nicht  I  cuddle  my  kimmer, 

And  a'  the  lang  nicht  as  happy 's  a  king. 

Bitter  in  dule  I  lickit  my  winnins, 

O'  marrying  Bess,  to  gie  her  a  slave : 
Blest  be  the  hour  she  cooled  in  her  linens. 

And  blythe  be  the  bird  that  sings  over  Let 
grave  ! 
Come  to  my  irras,  my  Katie,  my  Katie, 

And  come  to  my  arms,  my  Katie  again  ! 
Drucken  or  sober,  here's  to  thee,  Katie! 

And  blest  be  the  day  1  did  it  again  ! 


•  From  Johnson's  Musical  Museum,  Part  III.,  1790, 
where  it  is  insinuated,  as  an  on  dil,  that  it  was  com- 
posed on  the  nnprisonmcnt  of  Queen  Mary  in  Loch- 
leven  Castle.  The  Lomonds  are  two  well-known 
hills,  overhanging  Lochleven  to  the  east,  and  visiblt 
from  Kdinburgh.  The  air  is  the  well-known  famil) 
tuue  or  march  of  the  Clau  Camplwll. 


^- 

SONGS.                                                    165 

MY  AULD  MAN. 

Betty,  Iissy,  say't  thyell. 

Tfite—"  Saw  ye  my  Father  1' 

Thoip^jh  tliy  dame  be  ill  to  shoe  : 

First  we'll  luickle,  then  we'll  tell  ; 

In  the  l.inil  of  Fife  there  li%'e<l  a  wicked  wife, 

Let  her  flytc,  and  syne  come  to. 

And  in  the  town  of  Cupar  then, 

What  signilies  a  mother's  i;loom. 

Who  sorely  did  l.iment,  and  made  her  complaint, 

When  love  and  kisses  coine  in  play? 

Oh  when  will  ye  die,  my  auld  man  ? 

Should  we  wither  in  our  bloom. 

And  in  siinnier  in.ik  nae  hay  ? 

n  cam  her  cousin   Kate,  when  it  was  growing 

late, 

For  the  sake  of  somebody,  §*c. 

She  saiil,  What's  fjude  for  an  aiild  man  ? 

Bonny  lad,  I  carena  bv, 

0  wlieit-hreid  and   wine,    and  a  kinnen  new 

Though  I  try  my  luck  wi'  thee. 

slain  ; 

Since  ye  are  content  to  tie 

That's  gude  for  an  auld  man. 

The  half-mark  bridal-band  wi'  me. 

I'll  slip  haiiie  and  wash  my  feet. 

Cam  ye  in  to  jeer,  or  cam  ye  in  to  scorn, 

And  steal  <m  linens  fair  and  clean; 

Ajd  .vhat  for  cam  ye  in  ? 

Syne  at  the  trystltig-place  we'll  iceet, 

For  bear-hread  and  water,   I'm  sure,   is  much 

To  do  but  what  my  dame  has  done. 

iHjtter — 

For  the  sake  (f  somebody. 

It's  ower  gude  for  an  auld  man. 

For  the  sake  of  somtbody, 

I  could  woke  (I  iri liter  nlcht, 

.Vow  the  auld  man's  deid,  and,  without  remeid. 

For  the  sake  of  somtbody. 

Into  his  ciuld  grave  he's  gane  : 

Lie  still  wi'  my  blessing !   of  thee   I  hae   nae 
missing  ; 

I'll  ne'er  mourn  for  an  auld  man. 

SANDY  O'ER  THE  LEE. 

Within  a  little  mair  than  three  quarters  of  a  year. 

Tune~"  Sandy  o'er  the  lee." 

She  was  married  to  a  young  man  then. 

Whd  drank  at  the  wine,  antl  tippled  at  the  beer, 

I  WiNNA  marry  ony  man   but   Sandy  ower  the 

And  spent  more  gear  than  he  wan. 

lee. 

I  winni  marry  ony  man  but  .Sandy  ower  the  !e-  ; 

0  black  grevr  her  brows,  and  howe  ^rew  her 

I  winna  hae  the  dominie,  for  gude  he  canna  be; 

een. 

But  I  will  hae  my  Sandy  lad,  my  Sandy  ower 

And  cauld  grew  her  pat  and  her  pan  : 

the  lee : 

And  DOW  she  sigh<,  and  aye  she  says, 

For  he's  aye  a-kisslng,  kissing,  eye  a-kiss 

I  wish  I  had  my  silly  auld  man  !  * 

ing  me  ; 

He's  aye  a-hissing,  kissing,  aye  a-kissing  me. 
I  winna  hae  the  minister,  for  all  his  godly  looks  ; 

FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  SOMEBODY 

Nor  yet  will  I  the  lawyer  hae,   for  a'  his  wily 

crooks  ; 

OLD   VERSES, 

I  winna  hae  the  ploughman  lad,  nor  yet  wiU  I 

Tune—"  Somebody." 

the  miller. 

But  I  will  hae  my  Sandy  lad,  without  a  penny 

For  the  sake  nf  somtbudy. 

siller. 

Fur  the  siike  nj'  somehiirfi/. 

For  he's  aye  a-kissing,  Sf^c. 

I  could  wake  a  winter  nivht. 

For  the  sake  of  suniebodij. 

I  winna  hae  the  .soldier  lad,  fur  he  gangs  to  the 

wars  ; 

I  AM  gaun  to  seek  a  wife, 
I  am  gaun  to  buy  a  pl.iidy  ; 

I  winna  hae  the  sailor  lad,  because  he  smells  o' 

tar  ; 

I  have  thiee  stane  o'  woo'  ; 

I  winna  hae  the  lord,  or  laird,  for  a'  their  meikle 

Carline,  is  thy  d  iu'.;hter  ready  ? 

gear, 
But  I  will  hae  my  Sandy  lad,  my  Sandy  o'ef 
the  muii-. 

Fur  the  sake  of  somebody,  §-c. 

•  From   RKson's    "  Scottbth   Songs"   17'''.    into 

For  he's  aye  a-kissing,  i-c. 

which   the  editor  mentions  that  it  was  copiuil  from 

lome  cominon  colk-cilon,  wliose  title  he  ilicl  not  re. 

member.     It  has  often  been  the  Uisk  of  the  Scottish 
muwtoimint  out  the  evils  of  ill-assorted  alhaiKcs; 

but  she  has  scarcely  ever  done  so  wuh  so  much  hu- 

m.mr,  and.  at  the  same  time,  so  much  force  of  moral    MY  LOVE,    SHE'S   BUT  A  LASSIE  YET 

paintmj».  as  in  the  present  ea~e.     \o  tune  is  isslgncd 

to  the  song  in  Rits.m's  Oiliection;  but  the  present                  Tun^f— "  Mv  Lovp  is  hut  a  lasmp  vrt  • 
editor  has  ventiircl  to  suu-ge^t  the  fine  air,  '•  Saw  ^e                  i-^rie-    aiy  iM\e  is  Dut  a  lastie  yet. 

iiiy  father,"  rather  as  Iwiiig  suitable  lo  the  pe<'uliar                   j,r.  ;^.        i   '    i    .       i 

rhythm  of  the  verses   -Uin  to  the  ipirit  of  the  couiikj-                 ""^^  '""''  ^''^  *  ''"'  «  '«*»'«  y«'  : 

'^on-                                                                               1                My  live,  she's  but  a  lassie  vet 

266 


/'//  let  her  stand  «  year  or  twa ; 
She'll  no  he  hulf  sae  saucij  yet. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 

THE  BONNIE  LASS  O'  BRANKSOME 


t  RUE  tlie  d.'.y  I  souj^lit  her,  O  ; 
I  rue  the  day  I  sought  her,  O  ; 
Wia  gets  her,  needna  say  he's  woo'd, 
But  he  may  say  he's  bnught  her,  O. 
My  love,  slit's,  Sfc. 

Come  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet ; 
Come  draw  a  drap  o'  the  best  o't  yet  ; 
Gae  seek  fcir  pleasure  where  ye  will — 
But  here  I  never  miss'd  it  yet. 
lily  love,  she's,  §t. 

We're  a'  dry  wi'  drinking  o't  ; 
We're  a'  dry  wi'  drinking  o't ; 
The  minister  kiss'd  the  fiijillei's  wife, 
And  couldna  [ireac-h  for  thinking  o't. 
3Iy  love,  she's,  ^c. 


MY  WIFE  HAS  TA'EN  THE  GEE. 
Tkh*— "  My  Wife  has  ta'en  the  Gee." 

A  FHiEND  o'  mine  cam  here  yestreen, 

And  he  wad  hae  me  down 
To  drink  a  liottle  o'  ale  wi'  him 

In  the  neist  burrows  town  : 
But  oh,  indted,  it  was.  Sir, 

Sao  far  the  waur  for  me  ; 
For,  lang  or  e'er  that  I  cam  hame, 

My  wife  had  tane  the  gee. 

We  sat  sae  late,  and  drank  sae  stout, 

The  truth  I  tell  to  you, 
That,  l:ing  or  e'er  the  midiiicht  cam, 

We  a'  were  roarin'  fou. 
My  wife  sits  at  the  fireside, 

And  tht  tear  blinds  aye  her  ee ; 
The  ne'er  a  *xd  wad  she  gang  to, 

But  sit  and  tuk'  the  gee. 

In  the  mornin'  sune,  when  I  cam  doun, 

The  ne'er  a  word  she  spake  ; 
But  mony  a  sad  and  sour  look. 

And  aye  her  head  she'd  shake. 
Jly  dear,  ijuoth  I,  what  aileth  thee, 

To  look  sae  sour  on  nie  ? 
I'll  never  do  the  like  again. 

If  you'll  ne'er  tak'  the  gee. 

Wlicn  that  she  hearci,  she  ran,  she  flang 

Her  arms  about  my  neck  ; 
And  twenty  ki»es,  in  a  cr.nk  ; 

And,  poor  wee  tiling,  she  grat. 
If  you'll  ne'er  do  the  like  again, 

But  bide  at  hame  wi'  me, 
I'll  lay  my  life,  I'll  be  the  wife 

That  never  taks  the  gee.* 


•  From  Heri's  collection,  1776. 


ALLAN    RAMSAY. 

Tune — "  The  Bonnie  Lass  o'  Branksome.* 

As  I  came  in  by  Teviot  side. 

And  by  the  braes  of  Branksnme, 
There  first  I  saw  my  bonny  bride. 

Young,  smiling,  sweet,  and  handwmft 
Her  skin  was  safter  than  the  down, 

And  white  as  alabaster  ; 
Her  hair,  a  shining,  waving  brown  ; 

In  straightness  nane  surpass'd  her. 

Life  glow'd  upon  her  lip  and  cheek, 

Her  clear  een  were  surprising. 
And  beautifully  turn'd  her  neck. 

Her  little  breasts  just  rising  : 
Nae  silken  hose  with  gushats  fine, 

Or  shoon  with  glancing  laces, 
On  her  bare  leg,  forbade  to  shine 

Weel-shapen  native  graces. 

Ae  little  coat  and  bodice  white 

Was  sum  o'  a'  her  claithing  ; 
E'en  these  o'er  mucklc; — mair  delfte 

She'd  given  clad  wi'  naething. 
We  lean'd  upon  a  flowery  brae, 

By  which  a  burnie  trotted  ; 
On  her  I  glowr'd  my  soul  away, 

While  on  her  sweets  I  doated. 

A  thousand  beauties  of  desert 

Before  had  scarce  alarm 'd  me. 
Till  this  dear  artless  struck  my  heart, 

And,  hot  designing,  charm'd  me. 
Hurried  by  love,  close  to  my  breast 

I  cla>p'd  this  fund  of  blisses, — 
Wha  smiled,  and  said.  Without  a  pibst. 

Sir,  hope  for  nocht  but  kisses. 

I  had  nae  heart  to  do  her  harm. 

And  yet  1  couldna  want  her  ; 
What  she  demanded,  ilka  charm 

O'  heis  pled  I  should  grant  her. 
Since  heaven  had  dealt  to  me  a  routl». 

Straight  to  the  kirk  I  led  her  ; 
There  plighted  her  my  faith  and  trouth, 

And  a  young  lady  made  her.* 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WANTON  WEE  THING. 
Tu7te — *'  My  wife's  a  wanton  wcc  thing." 

Mv  wifi''s  a  wanton  wee  th.fig. 
My  wife's  a  wanton  wee  thing. 


•  This  sone,   whic'i  appeared    in   the  Tea- Table 

Mi-nllany,  (rt'D,  was  f  luiuUd  upon  a  real  ineiileiit. 
'Vbi;  Ixmii.-e  liiss  v-n^  (l.ni{;liter  ti>  a  wcinan  «h(>  kcj'l 
.nn  alehouse  al  the  haniUtn  ar  Ilranksoine  Castle,  in 
Teviotilale.  A  vnoni;  odiier,  cif  sdiiie  riiiikj— hisn.iine 
we  believe  was  'Maliiiiiil,— liapiieucil  to  be  be  (piarter- 
Cil  soniewliere  in  the  neichhiiuthnod,  saw,  loviil,  and 
married  her.  So  strange  was  such  an  alliance  detnied 
in  llio-edavs,  that  the  old  inntlier,  uiidur  whosa  aus- 
pices it  wa-s  peifuiined,  did  uoi  e»(ape  the  impulatioD 
of  witehcraJL 


SONGS. 


167 


Mv  wife's  a  w.intjn  wee  tliinj : 
Slie  wiuna  hi;  guiili-il  hy  me. 

Rhc  pl:iy'il  the  Inon  fre  slie  was  niarried, 
She  |>'iy'<i  the  hion  ere  slie  was  niairieil, 
She  |il,iy'(l  the  liion  eie  she  was  married  ; 
She'll  du't  again  ere  she  die  ! 

She  sellM  her  coat,  and  she  drank  i 
She  sillM  her  enat,  and  she  dratik  »(;, 
She  row'd  hersell  in  a  hlanket ; 
She  wiatia  be  guided  by  ine. 

She  m'nd't  iia  when  I  forbade  her, 
She  iiiiiid't  n.i  ulien  I  fnrliide  her; 
I  to..k  a  riiiii;  and  I  elaw'd  her, 
And  a  braw  gude  bairn  was  she  !• 


l\iV  NATIVE  CALKDONIA, 


WE'RE  A'  NOD])[X. 

Tune—"  Nid  noddin.' 

O,  we're  a    nndilin,  nid,  nid,  voddin, 
O,  we're  a'  noddin,  at  our  /louse  at  hame. 

flow's   a'   wi'  )e,   kimnier?    and   how   do  ye 

thrive  ? 
And  how   nuiiiy  bairns  hae  ye  n  )w  ? — Bairns  I 

hae  five. 
And  are  tiiey  a'  at  hame  wi'  yon  ? — Na,  na,  na  ; 
For  twa  ()'  them's  JK-eii  herilia'  siu'  Jamie  gaed 
awa. 
^nd  we're  ti'  noddin,  nid,  nid,  noddin  ,- 
And  u-cre  a   noddin,  at  our  house  at  hame. 

Grannie  nods  i'  the  neiik,  and  fends  as  she  may, 
And   braus  that  we'll   ne'er  be  what  she's   been 

in  tier  dav. 
Vow  !    but  she  was  bonnie  ;   and   vow  !    but  she 

Was  braw. 
And  she  had  rowtii  o'  wooers  auce,  I'se  warrant, 

great  and  sma.' 

And  wt're  a'  noddin,  §-c. 

Weary  fa'  Kate,  that  sl;e  winna  nod  too  ; 
She  s:ts  i'  the  coiner,  su|i|iin'  a'  the  broo  ; 
And  when  tlie  bit    bairnits   wad  e'en   hae  their 

siiare, 
Bhc  gies  them  the  l.idle.  but  dcil  a  drag's  there. 
And  we  re  a'  noddin,  A-c, 

Now,  farewecl,  kimmer,  anrl  wecl  miy  ye  thrive  ; 
They  sae  the  Frencii  is  rinnin'  for't',   and   we'll 

hae  peaee  belyve. 
The  heiir's  'i  the  bi  ear,  arjd  th ;  hay's  i'  the  stack, 
And  a"  'II  be  right  wi"  us,  gin  Jamie  were  come 


Sair,  sair  was  my  heart,  when  I  parted  frae  tnj 

Joan, 
j  And  sair,  sair  I  sigh'd,   wliiie  the  tears  stood  ic 

my  een  ; 
For  my  daildie   ii   hut  poor,   and  my  fortune  it 

but  sma'  ; 
Which  gars  me  leave  my  native  Cale  onio. 

When  I  tliink  on  days  now  gane,  and  how  hap- 
jiy  1  h  le  been. 

While  wandering  wi'  my  dearie,  where  the  prim- 
rose  blaws  unseen  ; 

I'm  wae  to  leave  my  lassie,  and  my  dandie's  sim- 
ple ha'. 

Or  the  hills  ami  healthfu*  breeze  o'  Caledonia. 

Hut  wherever  I  wander,  still  happy  he  my  J.vin  ! 
Nae  care   disturb   her  bosom,   where    jiLuce  h;is 

ever  been  ! 
Then,    though  ills  on   ills  befa'  me,    for  her  I'll 

bear  them  a', 
Though  aft  I'll  heave  a  sigh  for  Caledonia. 

But  should  riches  e'er  he  nr.iiie,   and   my  Jeanit, 

still  be  true. 
Then  blaw,    ye  favourin'  breezes,    till  my  nitivi" 

land  1  view  ; 
Then    I'll    kneel    im    Scotia's   shore,    while   th« 

heart-felt  tear  shall  fa". 
And  never  leave  my  Jeau  and  Caledonia. 


back. 


And  we're  n  noddin',  |-c. 


_*  From  Jolinson's  Sc  Its  M'l'iical  Museum,  vol.  IJI, 
1790.  Tlie  two  (list  stanzas,  however,  aiipear  id 
Htid'seolltrtioii.  1776. 


O,  AN  YE  WERE  DEID,   GUID.MAN 

T'inf—"  O,  B!i  yp  war  dciil,  Ouidman." 

O,  AN  ye  were  deid.  guidman, 
.And  a  green  truffon  your  heid,  gnidir.aa. 
That  I  ini;;lit  ware  my  w  idowheid 
Upon  a  raiitin  Highlandman. 

There's  sax  eggs  in  the  pan,  guidman, 
There's  sa.\  eggs  in  the  pun,  guidman; 
There's  ane  to  you,  aiul  twa  to  me. 
And  tliree  to  our  John  Ilighlandman. 

There's  beef  info  the  pot,  guidmin. 
There's  beef  into  the  pipt,  giiiilman  ; 
The  banes  for  you,  and  the  liroe  tor  me, 
And  the  beef  fur  our  John  Ilighlandman. 

There's  sax  horse  in  the  sta",  guidman. 
There's  sax  horse  in  the  sta',  guidman; 
There's  ane  to  you,  and  twa  to  me. 
And  tliree  to  our  John  Hiyhlandman. 


There's  sax  kye  in  the  Iiyre,  guidman. 
There's  sax  kye  in  the  liyre,  guidm  in  • 
There's  nane  o'  them  yours,    but  tiiere's  t\r»  i 
them  mine, 
I  And  the  lave  is  our  John  Ilighlandman's. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


on,  WHAT  A  PARISH  ! 

ADAM    CKAWFOllD. 

Tutu;—"  Donnie  Dundee." 


O,  tehat  a  parish,  trfial  a  terrible  parish, 
O,  wliiit  a  parish  is  that  I'f  DrnthM  ! 
They  line   linnijt.    the  minister,  ilrouned  the 
precentor, 
Dunti   ilown   t'r.e  steeple,    and  drucken  the 
'bell! 

FilCJCH  the  steeple  was  doB::,  the  kirk  was  still 
8taniii[i  ; 
They  l)igt;it  a  lum  where  tlie  hell  useil  to  hang  ; 
A  steii-p^it  they  gat,  and   they  brewed    llieland 
whi^ky  ; 
On  Sundays  they  dr.ink  it,  and  rantit  and  sang! 
Of  what  a  parish,  §t. 

Oh,  had  yru  hut  seen  how  gracefu'  it  Inikit, 
To  see  the  •■rainiiied  pews  sae  socially  join  ! 

Maedonald,  the  piper,  stuck   up  i'  the  poiipit, 
He  made  the  pipes  skirl  sweet  music  divine  ! 
O,  what  a  parish,  ^c. 

\^Tien  the  heart-cheerin  spirit  had  inountit  the 
garret. 
To  a  l):ill  on  the  green  they  a'  did  adjourn  ; 
Maiils,  wi'   their  cuuts  kiltit,   they  skipjut  and 
liltit  ; 
When  tired,    tliey  shook  hands,    and   a  hame 
did  return. 

(J,  what  a  parish,  §•<;. 

Wad   the   kiiks   in   our  liritain  haud  sic  social 
mi'ituiics, 
Is'ae  warning   they'd  need    frae  a  far-tinkling 
bell  ; 
For  true  love  and  friemlship  wad  ea'  them  the- 
gither, 
Far  better  than  roaring  o'  horrors  o'  heJl.  • 
O,  what  jiarish,  §'C. 


OLD  KING  COUL. 

Olu  King  Coul  was  a  jolly  old  soul, 

And  a  jolly  o'..',  soid  was  he  ; 
And  old  King  Coul  he  had  a  brown  bowl, 

And  ther  brought  him  in  fiddlers  three  ; 
And  every  tidd.er  was  a  very  good  tidiller, 

And  a  very  good  tiddler  was  he  ; 
'"iddlo-diddle,    fiddle-duidle,    went    the    fiiidlers 
three  : 
And  there's  no  a  l.iss  in  a'  .'scotland, 

Compared  to  our  sweet  Marjone. 

Old  Kino:  C<iul  WIS  a  jolly  old  soul, 
And  a  jolly  olil  snul  was  he  ; 

•  Crawforil,  Die  imliter  of  this  niriou'i  fro  ic,  was  ii 
tailor  in  EdUibiO);li,  aiui  tlieauthor  of  somt'    <)ur  good 


Old  King  Coul,  lie  had  a  brown  bowl, 
And  they  brought  him  in  pipers  three  : 
Ha-diddle,    how-diddle,   hi-diddle,   how-didifh, 

went  the  pipers  three; 
Fiddle-didille,    fiddle-diddle,    went   the    fiddlen 
three : 
And  there's  no  a  lass  in  a    the  land, 
Compared  to  our  sweet  ftlarjorie. 

Old  King  Coul  was  a  j(dly  old  sou?, 

And  a  jolly  old  soul  \v,i<  he  ; 
Old  King  Coul,  he  hid  a  brown  bowl, 
And  the V  brought  him  in  harpers  three; 
Twingle-twan.^le,    twingle-twunglt,    went    the 

harpers  ; 
Ha-diddle,   how-diddle,  ha-diddle,  how -diddle, 

went  the  pipers  ; 
Fiddle-didiile,    fiddle-diddle,    went    the   fiddler* 
three  : 
And  there's  no  a  la<;s  in  a'  the  land, 
Compared  to  our  sweet  Marjorie. 

Old  King  Coul  was  a  jolly  old  soul, 
And  a  jolly  old  soul  was  he  ; 
Old  King  Coul,  he  had  a  brown  bowl, 

Auil  they  brought  him  in  tiumpeters  three: 
Twarra-rang,   twarra-rang,  went  the  trumpet- 
ers ; 
Twingle-twangle,    twingle-twangle,    went    the 

harpers  ; 
Ha-diddle,    how-diddle,   ha-diddle,   how-diddle, 

went  the  pijiers  ; 
Fiddle-diddle,    tiddle-did.ile,    went   the    fiddleri 
three : 
And  there's  no  a  lass  in  a'  Scotland, 
Compared  to  sweet  Waijorie. 

Old  King  Coul  was  a  jolly  old  soul, 

And  a  jolly  olil  soul  was  he  ; 
Old  King  Coul,  he  bad  a  brown  bnwl, 

And  they  brought  him  in  drummers  three; 
R'lb-a-dub,  rub-a-dub,  went  the  drummers  ; 
Twarra-rang,   twarra-rang,   went  the   trumpet- 
ers; 
Twingle-twangle,    twingle-twangle,    went    the 

harpers  ; 
Ha-diddle,    bow-diildle,    ha-diddls,   how-diddlp, 

Went  the  pipers  ; 
Fiddle-diddle,    fiddle-diddle,    went    the   fiddlers 
three  ; 
And  there's  no  a  lass  in  a'  the  land, 
Compared  to  sweet  Marjorie. 


I'C  VERTY  PARTS  GUDE  COMPANIB 

JOANNA    BAILI.IE. 

Tune — "  Todlin  hamc 

Ti'ur.N  white  was  my  o'erlay  as  foam  ii'  the  linn, 
And  siller  was  vlinkin'  uiy  pouches  withiu  • 


30NGS. 


Wben  mv  laiiit>kin9  were  bleating  on  meadow 

ami  liiao  ; 
As  1  pii'd  to  i!iy  love  in  new  deeding  sae  gay, 

Kind  UMs  >\\e. 

And  my  ftieiids  were  free  ; 

But  poverty   parts  gude  companie. 

Uou'  swift  p;iss'd  tlie  iiiiiuitcs  and  hours  of  de- 

iij,'ht  ! 
riie  ])ipfr   pliy'd    dieerly,    the   crusie    burn'd 

hri;;ht  ; 
And  iink'd  in  my  bund  was  the  maiden  sae  dear, 
As  bhe  footed  the  Hour  in  her  iiohday  gear. 
Woe  is  me, 
And  can  it  then  he, 
Tliat  p'lviTty  parts  sic  companie  ! 

We  met  at  the  fiir,  we  met  at  the  kirk, 

We  met  in  the  sunshine,  and  met  in  the  mirk  ; 

And  the  so\inds  of  her  voice,   and  the  bliidis  of 

her  een, 
The  cheering  and  lil'  of  my  bosom  have  been. 

Leaves  frae  the  tree 

At  Martiimias  flee  ; 

And  j)overty  paits  sweet  companie. 

At  bridal  and  infare  I've  braced  me  wi'  pride  ; 
The  hruse  I  hae  won,  and  a  kiss  o*  the  briile  ; 
And  lou<l  was  the  laughter  gay  fellows  among. 
When  J  utter'd  niy  l)anter  and  chorus'd  my  song. 

Duwie  to  dree 

Are  jesting  and  glee, 

When  poverty  parts  gude  companie. 

Wherever  I  gaed  the  blythe  lasses  smiled  sweet. 

And  mithers  and  aunties  were  mair  than  dis- 
creet. 

While  kehhuck   and    bicker    were   set  on   the 
board  ; 

But  now  they  pass  by  me,  and  never  a  word. 
So  \f.l  it  be, 

For  the  worldly  and  slie 
Wi'  poverty  keep  nae  companie. 


WILLIE  WAS  A  WANTON  WAG. 

WILLIAM   WALKINGSHAW  OK  WALKINGSHAW. 

Tune—"  Willie  was  a  wanton  Wag." 

WiLl.iE  was  a  wanton  wag. 

The  blythc'st  lad  that  e'er  I  saw: 
At  bridals  still  he  bore  the  brag. 

And  carried  aye  the  gree  awa. 
His  doui>let  was  of  Shetland  shag. 

And  wow  but  M'illie  he  was  hraw  ; 
Kail  at  his  shouthers  hung  a  tag 

That  pleased  the  lasses  best  of  a*. 

He  wag  a  man  without  a  clag ; 

His  heart  was  frink,  without  a  flaw; 
And  ay<;  whatever   Wdlie  said. 

It  stui  was  hadiien  as  a  la'.?. 


His  boots  they  were  made  of  the  jag, 
When  he  went  to  the  weapon-'-hawr ; 

Upon  the  green  nane  duist  him  brag. 
The  fient  a  ane  uniang  them  a'. 

And  was  not  Willie  weel  worth  gowd  ? 

He  Win  the  love  o'  grit  ami  sma*  ; 
For,  after  he  the  bride  had  kiss'd, 

He  kiss'd  the  lasses  haill-sale  a*. 
Sae  mei-rily  round  the  ring  they  row'd, 

When  by  the  haird  he  le^l  them  a'  ; 
And  smack  on  smack  on  them  bestow *(1, 

By  virtue  of  a  standing  law. 

And  was  na  Willie  a  great  loun. 

As  shyre  a  lick  as  e'er  was  seen  ? 
When  he  danced  with  the  lasses  round, 

The  bridegroom  spier'd  where  he  had  beeo 
Quoth  Willie,  I've  been  at  the  ring; 

Wi'  bolihin',  faith,  my  shanks  are  sair  ; 
Gae  ca'  the  bride  and  maidens  in. 

For  Willie  he  dow  do  na  mair. 

Then  rest  ye,  Willie,  I'll  gae  out, 

And  for  a  wee  fill  up  th.e  ring  ; 
But  shame  licht  on  his  souple  snout ' 

He  wanted  Wilhe's  wantim  fling. 
Then  straight  he  to  the  bride  diil  fare, 

Says,  Weel's  me  on  your  bonny  face  ; 
With  bobbin'  Willie's  shanks  are  sair, 

And  I  am  come  to  fill  his  place. 

Bridegroom,  says  she,  you'll  spoil  the  daaca 

And  at  the  ring  you'll  aye  be  lag, 
Unless  like  Willie  ye  advance  ; 

Oh,  Willie  has  a  wanton  leg  ! 
F(U'  wi't  he  learns  us  a*  to  steer, 

And  foremost  aye  bears  up  the  ring; 
We  will  find  nae  sic  dancin*  here. 

If  we  want  Willie's  wanton  fling.  • 


THE  AULD  MAN'S  MEAR'S  "^EAD. 

Tune — "  The  auld  man's  mear's  dead  " 

The  auld  man's  itiear's  dea/l ; 
The  pvir  Loi/i/'s  mear's  ditut ; 
Tlie  auld  man's  mear's  (lead, 
A.  mile  abuun  Dundee. 

There  was  hay  to  ca',  and  lint  to  lead, 
A  hunder  hotts  o'  muck  to  si-re.id, 
And  peats  and  trufTs  and  a'  to  lead^ 
And  yet  the  jaud  to  dee  ! 

The  auld  man's,  SfC. 

She  had  the  fiercie  and  the  fleiik, 
The  wheezloch  and  the  wanton  yeuk 
On  ilka  knee  she  had  a  breuk — 
What  ail'd  the  beast  to  di*"" 
The  auld  man's,  if. 


•  From  the  Te-i-Table  Miscellany,  1724.  A«  it  it 
there  signed  l)y  ilie  inilijHs  of  llie  auth.ir,  ihfe  ariici 
a  prestimption  tliat  he  was  a'i\c,  a  >l  <i  fi  irnd  uf  Ram 
•ay,  at  Uie  iierioU  of  the  publicaliou  ul  that  woKl. 


170 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


She  was  lann-tontliM  and  b'encli-Iippit, 
Heam-lioiij^li'd  and  ha^gi>-tittit, 
Lang-ni'ckit,  chanircr-chifcit, 
And  yet  the  j.iiid  tn  dee  !  • 

Tlie  auld  man  s,  S^c. 


ROY'S  WIFE  OF  ALDIVALLOCII. 

MRS.   Cr.AKT  OF  CAURON. 

Tune—"  The  RuiRan's  Rant." 

Riu/s  wife  rif  Aldivdlloch, 
Jtoi/s  wife  nf  Aldivtillt)ch, 
"Wat  ye  how  she  chented  me, 
As  I  came  u'er  the  braes  of  Ualloch  ? 

Shb  vowM,  she  swfire,  she  wad  be  mine  ; 

She  sai<l  she  lo'cd  me  best  of  onie ; 
But,  ah  !    the  tickle,  fa'^liless  quean, 

She's  ta'eii  the  carle,  and  left  her  Johnie. 
Hoys  wife,  §-c. 

Oh,  she  was  a  canty  quean. 

And  wcel  could  dance  the  Hieland  walloch  ! 
How  hap  y  I.  h.id  she  been  mine, 

Or  1  been  R.iy  of  Aldivalluch  ! 
Hoy's  wife,  SfC. 

Her  hair  sae  fair,  her  een  sae  clear, 

Her  wee  bit  inou'  sae  sweet  and  bonnie  ! 

To  me  she  ever  will  I)e  dear. 

Though  slie's  for  ever  left  her  Johnie. 
Hoy's  wife,  &-C. 


STEER  HER  UP  AND  HAUD  HER 
GAUN. 

Tune—"  Steer  her  up  and  haud  her  gaun." 

O  sTF.Eii  her  up  and  hand  her  gaun  ; 
Her  mother's  at  the  mill,  jo  : 


^But  gin  she  winna  talc  a  man. 
E'en  let  her  lak  her  will,  p. 

Pray  thee,  lad,  leave  feili/  thinkings ; 
Cast  thy  cares  of  love  awav  ; 

Let's  our  sorrows  drown  in  drinking  ; 
*Tis  ddfEn  langer  to  delay. 

See  that  shining  glass  of  claret, 

How  invitingly  it  looks  ! 
Take  it  alf,  and  let's  have  mair  o't  ; 

Pox  on  fighting,  trade,  and  books  ! 
Let's  have  pleasure,  while  we're  able; 

Bring  us  in  the  meikle  bowl  ; 
Place't  on  the  middle  of  the  table ; 

And  let  wind  and  weather  gowl. 

Call  the  drawer  ;  let  him  fill  it 

Fou  as  ever  it  can  hold  : 
Oh,  tak  tent  ye  dinna  spill  it  ; 

'Tis  mair  precious  far  than  gold. 
By  you've  drunk  a  dozen  bumpers, 

Bacchus  will  begin  to  prove. 
Spite  of  Venus  and  her  mumpers, 

Drinking  better  is  than  love. 


•  The  late  Rev.  Mr.  flunie,  minister  of  the  parish 
of  ISdrlliwuk,  near  E(liiibiir_:h.  (who  was  so  enthiisi.as. 
tically  fond  of  Moving  Scottish  songs,  ihat  he  Used  to 
hang  his  w.itch  ronn.l  the  c.indle  on  Sundnv  eveinngs, 
and  wai:  anxiously  till  the  coninnction  of  the  liaiKls".!! 
12  o'cloi-k  pcrniit'cd  him  lo  bri'.ik  out  in  cne  cf  his 
favourite  ditties),  was  noted  for  the  adniirable  nviiiner 
in  which  he  song  "  Bonny  nnndcc,"   "  Waly,   iv.ilv 

up  yon  hank, Flie  Anld  Man's  Meai'sdead.'    witli 

many  othiT  old  Scotiuh  ditties.  One  (lav,  liappeinng 
to  meet  w  Ih  some  fru-nds  at  a  ta\cin  in  Dalkvitii,  he- 
was  solicited  to  favnur  the  eompanv  with  llie  latter 
humorous  dittv  ;  which  he  wis  aciionl  riglv  singing 
with  Ins  nsiialcfVec'  3' <l  bri  llancv,  when  the  «omaii 
who  kept  the  house  thrusi  her  hc.ail  in  at  the  door,  and 
Bdiled,  .it  th  eon  liision  of  nne  of  the  choruses,  ••  Od, 
the  auld  nnn's  mcai's  dead,  sireene  i  h  Vour  horse, 
minister,  his  hanged  it.sell  at  inv  door"  iiucli  was 
rcal'v  the  fact,  •jlu'  minister,  on  going  into  the  li.nis?, 
had  tied  his  h  rse  bv  a  rii|ie  to  a  i\,  ok.  or  ring,  near 
the  door,  and  as  he  «as  iiiduicil  to  tt.iy  nui /h'  longer 
th  in  he  intiu  led,  the  poor  animal,  either  Ihrongh  ex- 
haustion, or  a  sndde  .  tit  ol  diease,  IVIl  down,  and  was 
ttr&!iRleil.  He  wari  so  iimeli  mort  ficil  by  tliis  iinh:ip|iy 
aecidiiit,  the  C'liuneniT  of  »hi  li  h1,Ii  the  subject  ot'  i 
his  song  «as  not  a  litile  stiik-ng.  iliat,  aH  his  life  d'lor, 
he  could  n.ver  bo  persuaded  to' sing  "  Tlie  .\uld  Maii't 
Hear  g  dead"  a^a.n  I 


SYMON  BRODIE. 

Tune—"  Symon  Brodie." 

SvMON  BiiODiE  had  a  cow. 

The  cow  was  lost,  and  he  cou'd  na  find  har 
Wheti  he  had  done  what  man  could  do, 

The  cow  cam  hame,  and  her  tail  behind  ha 
Honest  auld  Symon  limdie, 
Stupid  auhl  doitit  iodic  ! 

I'll  awa  to  the  North  countrie. 
And  see  my  am  dear  Syvwn  Hrodie. 

.Symon  Brodic  had  a  wife. 

Ami,  wow  !   but  she  was  braw  and  bonaie  j 
She  took  the  dish-clout  alf  the  hiiik. 

And  pieen'd  it  to  her  cockeiiuwiie. 
Honest  auld  Symon  Hrodie,  §•& 


NEIL  GOWS  FAREWELL  TO 
WHISKY. 

Tunt-'-  Farwell  to  Whisky." 

You've  surely  heard  o'  famous  Neil, 
The  man  that  played  the  fiddle  weel  ; 
I  wat  he  was  a  canty  cliiel. 

And  dearly  loe'd  the  whisky,  O. 
And,  aye  sin  he  wore  the  tartan  trews, 
He  dearly  lo'ed  the  Athole  brosc  ; 
Atid  wae  was  he,  you  may  suppose, 

To  play  farewell  to  whi.sky,  O. 

Alake,  quoth  Neil,  I'm  frail  and  auld, 
And  find  my  bluile  grow  nm-o  cauld  ; 
I  think  'twad  iiMke  me  blythe  ;uid  biuldL 
A  wee  drap  Highlaud  whi^kv,  O 


SONGS.                                                  171 

Yet  tlie  doctors  tht-y  do  a'  aj^reR. 

We'll  tak  her  hame  and  mak  her  fain, 

Tluif  whisky's  no  the  drink  t'.ir  me. 

My  ain  kiml-hearted  lammie. 

Saul  I   quoth  Neil,  'twill  spoil  iny  glt-e, 

We'll  gie  her  meat,  we'll  gie  her  claise, 

Should  thi'y  j):irt  nio  and  whisky,  0. 

We'll  be  her  comfort  a'  her  days. 

The  wee  thing  gies  her  hand,  and  says- 

Thoudh  I  can  haith  sjet  wine  and  ale, 

There  !  gang  and  ask  my  mammy. 

And  find  my  head  and  finjjeis  hale, 

I'll  be  content.  thoni,'h  h-gs  should  fail. 

Has  she  been  to  the  kirk  wi'  thee. 

To  pi  ly  fireu'ell  to  whisky,  O 

My  boy  Tammy  ? 

Tint  still  I  lliink  on  aiild  hinu;  syne, 

She  has  been  to  the  kirk  wi'  t3e. 

When  Par:idise  oui  friends  did  tyne, 

And  the  tear  was  in  her  ee  : 

Because  soinetains;  ran  in  their  mind, 

For  O  !  she's  but  a  young  thing. 

Forbid  like  Highland  whisky,  0. 

Just  come  frae  her  mammy. 

Come,  a'  ye  powers  o'  music,  come ; 
I  find  my  heart  grows  unco  i;luni  ; 

My  fiddle-strins^s  will  no  play  bum, 

To  say,  Farewei  1  to  whisky,  O. 

THE  WEE  WIFIKIE. 

Yet  I'll  take  my  fiddle  in  my  hand. 

And  screw  the  pe^s  up  while  they'll  stand, 

DR.    A.   CEUDES. 

To  make  a  lamentation  grand. 

On  glide  auld  Highland  whisky,  0. 

Tune—"  The  wee  bit  Wifikie." 

There  was  a  wee  bit  wifikie  was  comln'  itm 

the  fair, 
Had    got   a   wee   bit   drappikie,    that  bred  her 

Hinckle  care  ; 

THE  LAMMIE. 

It  gaed  about  the  wilie's  heart,  and  she  began 

to  spew  . 

HECTOR    MACNi:iI.L. 

0  !   quo'  the  wifikie,  I  wi^h  I  binna  fou. 

Tune — "  Whar  hae  ye  bsen  a'  day." 

I  wish  I  binna  fou,  I  wish  I  binn  i  fou. 

0  !   quo'  the  wifikie,  I  wish  I  binna  fou. 

WiiAR  liae  ye  beeu  a'  day, 

Wy  boy  Tammy? 

If  Johnnie  find  me  barley-siek,    I'm   sure  he'll 

I've  been  by  burn  and  flow'ry  brae, 

claw  my  skin  ; 

Meadow  green  and  iiio\nitain  grey. 

But    I'll    lie  doun  and   tak  a  nap  before  that  I 

Courting  o'  this  young  thing. 

gae  in. 

Just  come  frae  her  mammy. 

Sittin'  at  the  dyke-side,  and  takin'  o'  her  nap. 

By  cam  a  packman  laddie,  wi'  a  little  pack. 

Aui  whar  gat  ye  that  young  thing, 

Wi'  a  little  pack,  quo  she,  wi'  a  little  pack, 

l^Iy  boy  Tammy  ? 

By  cam  a  packman  laddie,  wi'  a.  little  pack 

I  got  Ler  down  in  yonder  howe, 

Smiling  on  a  bonnie  knowe, 

He's  clippit  a'  her  gowden  locks,  sae  bonnie  and 

Heeding  ae  wee  lamb  and  ewe, 

sae  lang  ; 

For  her  jioor  mammy. 

He's  ta'en  her  purse  and  a'  her  placks,  and  fast 

awa  he  ran  : 

What  said  ye  to  the  bonnie  bairu, 

And   when   the  wifie  wakened,   her  head   was 

My  boy  Tammy  ? 

like  a  bee, 

I  praised  her  een,  sae  lovely  blue, 

Oh  !   quo'  the  wifikie,  this  is  nae  me. 

Her  dimpled  cheek  and  diet  ry  inou  ;— 

This  is  nae  me,  quo'  she,  this  is  nae  me  ; 

I  piee'd  it  aft,  as  ye  iiiiy  trow  !  — 

Somebody  has  been  fellin'  me,  and  this  is  iiae 

She  said  she'd  tell  her  mammy 

mo. 

I  held  lier  to  my  beating  heart, 

I  met  wi'  kindiv  company,  and  birl'd   mv  baw- 

My young,  my  smiling  lammie  ! 

bee  ! 

I  hae  a  house,  it  cost  me  dear. 

And  still,  if  this  be  Bessikie,   three  placks  re- 

I've wealth  o'  plenidien  and  gear  ; 

main  wi'  me  : 

Ye'se  get  it  a',  were't  ten  times  iiiair, 

And  I  will  look  the  pursie    neuks,    see  gin   the 

Gm  ye  will  leave  your  mammy. 

cunyie  be  ; — 

There's    neither    jiursc    nor    plack   about   me 

The  smile  gaed  aff  her  bonnie  face — 

This  is  nae  me, 

I  maunna  leave  my  mammy. 

This  is  nae  me,  &c. 

She's  gien  me  meat,  she's  gien  me  clalsCf 

She's  been  my  comfort  a'  my  days  :  — 

I  have  a  little  housikie,  but  and  a  kindly  man . 

My  father's  ileath  hiou^lit  ni.inie  waes— 

A  dog,  they  c,i'  liini  Doussikie  ;   iJ' this  be  m?, 

I  cauui  leave  my  mammy. 

he'll  fawu  • 

172 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  JoLnnie  he'll  come  to  the  door,  and  kiudly 

welcome  gie, 
And  a'  the  liairns  on  the  floor-head  will  dance, 

if  this  \)f  me. 
Will  dance,  if  this  be  me,  &c. 

T'he  nicht  was  late,   and  dang  out  weet,   aad, 

oh,  l)ut  it  was  dark  ; 
The  dog;;ie  heard  a  body's  fit,  and  he  begin  to 

bark  : 
O,  when  she  heard  the  doggie  bark,  and  ken- 

nin'  it  was  he, 
O,  weel  ken  ye,  Duussiekie,  quo  she,  this  is  nae 

me. 
This  is  nie  me,  &e. 

When  Johnnie  heard  his  Bessie's  word,  fast  to 

the  door  he  ran  : 
Is  that  you,  Bessikie  ? — Wow,  na,  man  ! 
Be  kind  to  the  baiins  a',  and  weil  mat  ye  be  ; 
And  fareweel,  Johnnie,  quo'  she,  this  is  nae  me. 
This  is  nae  me,  &c. 

John  ran  to  the  minister ;  his  hair  stood  a'  on 

end : 
I've  gotten  sic  a  fright,   Sir,  I  fear  I'll  never 

mend  ; 
My  wife's  come  hanie  without  a  head,   crying 

out  most  |)iteouslie  : 
Oh,  faievveei,  Johnnie,  quo'  she,  this  is  nae  me  ! 
This  is  nae  me,  &c. 

The  tale  you  tell,  the  parson  said,  is  wonderful 

to  me, 
How  that  a  wife  wi:hniit  a  head  should  speak, 

or  hear,  or  see  I 
But  things  that  happen   hereabout  so  strangely 

alter'u  be. 
That  I  cou.-  muist  wi'  Bessie  say,  *Tis  neither 

you  nor  sr.e  !  * 
Neither   you    nor   she,    quo'  he,   neither  you 

nor  slie  ; 
Wow,  na,  Johnnie  man,   'tis  neither  you  nor 

she. 

Now  Johnnie   he    cam  hame  again,    and  wow, 

but  he  was  fain. 
To  see  his  little  I}es>ikie  come  to  hersell  itgain. 
He  go^    her  sittin'  on   a  stool,    wi'  Tibbock  on 

her  knee  : 
O  come  awa,   Johnnie,  quo'  she,    come  awa  to 

Hi' 

For    I've  got   a  drap  wi'  Tilibikie,   and   this   is 

now  me. 
This  ii  now  irie,  quo'  she,  this  is  now  me  ; 
I've  got  a  drap  wi'  Tibbikie,  and  this  is  now 

me. 


•  A  Jacobite  allusion,  prolwbly  to  the  change  of  the 
Sliurl  for  (tie  Urunswick  dynatty,  jn  I'M. 


FAREWELL  TO  AYRSHIRE 

GALL. 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure, 
Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew, 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 
Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu  ! 

Bonny  Doon,  sae  sweet  and  gloamiDj 
Fare  thee  weel  before  I  gang  ! 

Bonny  Doon,  whare,  early  roaming, 
First  I  weav'd  the  rustic  sang  I 

Bowers,  adieu,  whare  Love,  decoying. 
First  icthrall'd  this  heart  o'  mine, 

There  the  saftest  sweets  enjoying,— 
Sweets  that  Mem'ry  ne'er  shall  tyne ! 

Friends,  so  near  my  boson  ever, 
Ye  hae  rendered  moment's  dear ; 

But,  alas  !  when  forc'd  to  sever. 
Then  the  stroke,  O,  how  severe ! 

Friends  !  that  parting  tear  reserve  it, 
Tho'  'tis  doubly  dear  to  me  I 

Could  I  think  I  did  deserve  it, 
How  much  happier  would  I  be  ! 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 
Scenes  that  former  thoughts  renew, 

Scenes  of  woe  and  scenes  of  pleasure. 
Now  a  sad  and  last  adieu  ! 


TIBBIE  FOWLER. 


Tune—"  Tibbie  Fowler." 


Tibbie  Fowler  h'  the  Glen, 

There's  ower  miiny  wooing  at  her ; 
Tibbie  Fowler  o'  the  Glen, 

There's  ower  mony  wooing  at  her. 
Wiifiin   at  her,  pii'in   at  her, 

Coiirtiii   her,  nrnf  canna  get  her  ; 
Fil/hi/  elf,  it's  for  her  pelf 

That  a'  the  lads  are  wooing  at  her. 

Ten  cam  east,  and  ten  cam  west  ; 
Ten  cam  rowin'  ower  the  water  ; 


»  Sain    ti-)   nxve   be^n  written    by  the  Rov.   Dr. 

J^tnch.in,  late  minister  of  C'ariiwalh,  although  cer- 
lainly  gro\inilc(l  upon  a  soii<;  of  older  slamliiii;,  tUe 
ii.Tiiie  of  which  is  miiitioncd  in  tlic  Tea-Table  Miscel- 
lany. The  two  first  verses  of  the  song  appeared  in 
Herd's  Collection,  1776. 

There  is  a  tradition  at  I.cith  that  Tibbie  Fowler  wat 
a  real  person,  am!  married,  ^cme  time  ciiiriiii,' the  se- 
venlcciith  ccnt'iiry,  to  the  reprrsciitative  of  the  attaint- 
elC'milyof  l,0),'an  of  lieslalriR,  whose  i(>«ii-honse, 
dated  \C,'G,  is  still  poiii'cd  out  at  the  heart  of  a  sirert 
ill  Leith.  called  Ihr  Sherid' biae.  Ihe  inarria;;e.coii. 
traet  !)■  twien  !,n{;an  and  l-.ilMlia  Fowl' r  is  still  cxtliit. 
in  the  possession  of  a  giiitlrmaii  resident  at  Lcitl  r— 
See  CaiujibeU's  Uhlury  of  Leith,  note,  p.  ?14. 


SONGS.                                                  17S 

Twa  csm  down  tlie  l.-xnjT  j!yVp-«i(le : 

THE  BRISK  YOUNG  LAD. 

Tlieie's  twii-anil-tliirty  wooiii'  at  her. 

Wooin'  at  her,  ^-c. 

T^ve-"  Bung  your  eye  in  the  morning." 

TiiEiiE  cam  a  young  man  to  my  daddie's  door 

There's  5cven  Iiiit,  and  seven  ben, 

My  d.iildie's  door,  my  daddie's  <iiior  ; 

Seven  in  the  puntry  wi*  her  ; 

There  cam  a  vouns'  man  to  my  daddie's  door. 

Tn'enty  Iiea.1  al'oiit  tlic  iloor : 

Cam  scekmg  me  to  woo. 

There's  fkne-and-forly  wooin'  at  lier. 

yi.iil  irow  !  hut  he  iva.i  a  hraw  ynnnc/  Jarl, 

Wuoiu'  at  htr,  ^c. 

A  brisk  young  lad,  and  a  liruw  young  lad  • 

An<{  wnw  !  but  he  was  ti  hraw  young  lad, 

She's  fjnt  pendletf  in  her  lii!;«  ; 

Cam  seeking  me  to  woo. 

Cockle-shells  wjd  set  her  lietter ! 

High-heel'd  shoon,  and  siller  tags  ; 

B;it  I  was  baking  when  he  came, 

And  a'  the  l.ids  arc  wooin'  at  her. 

When  he  came,  when  he  came  ; 

Wooiii  at  her,  §-c. 

I  look  him  in  aud  gied  him  a  scone, 

To  thowe  his    rozen  mou. 

Be  a  lassie  e'er  sac  black, 

And  wow  !  but  he  was,  §*c. 

Gin  she  hae  the  penny  sdlcr, 

Set  her  up  on  Tintock  tap, 

1  set  him  in  aside  the  hink  ; 

The  wind  will  blaw  a  man  .ill  her. 

1  gae  him  bread  and  ale  to  drink  ; 

IToom'  at  her,  Sfc. 

Am.  ne'er  a  blythe  styme  wad  he  blink, 

Until  his  wame  was  fou. 

Be  a  lassie  e'er  sae  fair, 

And  wow  1  but  he  teas,  S^c. 

An  she  want  the  penny  siller, 

A.  flie  may  fell  her  in  the  air, 

Gae,  get  you  gone,  you  cauldrife  wooer. 

Before  a  man  be  even'd  till  her. 

Ve  <<our-looking,  caulilrife  wooer  ! 

Wooin'  at  her,  Sec 

I  ittaightway  show'd  him  to  the  door. 

Saying,  Come  nae  mair  to  woo. 

And  wow  !  but  he  was,  §c 
There  lay  a  deuk-rfub  before  the  door, 

ANNIE  LAURIE.* 

Before  the  door,  before  the  door ; 

There  lay  a  deuk-dub  before  the  dooi, 

Maxwelton  banks  are  bonnie, 

And  tb«re  fell  he,  I  trow  ! 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew  ; 

And  wow  1  hut  he  was,  ^c. 

Where  me  and  Annie  Laurie 

Made  up  the  promise  true; 

Out  cam  the  guidman,  and  high  he  shouted ; 

Made  up  the  promise  true, 

Out  cam  the  guidwife,  and  laigh  she  louted  ; 

And  never  forget  will  I ; 

And  a'  the  toun-neebnrs  were  gather'd  about  it ; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

And  there  lay  he,  1  trow  ! 

I'll  lay  me  doun  and  die. 

And  wow!  but  he  was,  SfC. 

She's  backit  like  the  peacock  ; 

Then  out  cam  I,  and  sneer'd  and  smiled; 

She's  breistit  like  the  swan  ; 

Ye  cam  to  woo,  but  ye're  a'  beguiled  ; 

She's  jimp  about  the  niidille  ; 

Ye'vL'  fa'en  i'  the  dirt,  and  ye're  a'  befvled ; 

Iler  waist  ye  weel  micht  span : 

We'll  hae  nae  mair  o'  you  ! 

Her  waist  ye  well  micht  span, 

And  wow  !  but  he  was,  §-c. 

And  she  has  a  rollinfi;  eye; 

And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'll  lay  me  doun  and  die. 

KIND  ROBIN  LO'ES  ME. 

•  These  two  rerses,  which  are  in  a  st>le  wonderful- 

ly tender  anil  chaste  for  their  age,  were  written  by  a 

Tune—"  Robin  lo'ej  me." 

Mr.  Douglas  of  Frngland,  upon  Anne,  one  of  the  four 

Paiightcrs  of  Sir  Robert  Laurie,  first  Baronet  of  Max- 

Robin is  my  only  jo. 

For  Rubin  has  the  art  to  lo'e  ; 

welton,  by  his  second  wife,  who  was  a  daughter  of 
Riddcll  of  Minto.     As  Sir  Robert  was  created  a  ba- 

ronet in  the  year  I6S5,  it  is  probable  that  the  verses 

Sae  to  his  suit  I  mean  to  !)ow, 

were  composed  about  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  or  the 
beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.     It  is  painful  to 

Because  I  ken  he  lo'es  me. 

Hiippy,  hap|)y  was  the  shower. 

record,  that.  notwithsLinding  the  ardent  and  chival- 

rous affection  displayed  by  Mr.  Douglas  in  his  |)oem, 
he  did  noi  obtain  the  heroine  fora  wife:  She  was  mar- 
ried to  Mr.  Ferguson  of  Craigdarroch.— See  "  yl  Hal- 

Tliit  led  me  to  his  birken  bower. 

Where  fust  of  love  I  fan<l  the  power. 

tad  Bouh,"  ( otinted  at  Edinburg/i  In  1824),  p.  107. 

And  kenn'd  that  Robin  lo'ed  me. 

They  spcik  of  napkins,  speak  of  .jng». 

Spe.ik  of  gluves  and  kissin'  string*  ; 

L                                                                                                         -                                                                                                                .     1 

BURNS'  WORKS. 


And  nime  a  thousand  lioniiie  tilings. 
And  fa'  them  signs  he  lo'es  me. 

But  I'd  pitfer  a  smack  o'  Rob, 

Seati'd  on  the  velvet  fuj, 

To  i;ilts  as  lan-^'s  a  plaiden  wnb  ; 
Because  I  ken  lie  lu'es  me. 

He's  tall  and  sonsie,  frank  and  free, 
lo'ed  \,y  a',  and  dear  to  me  ; 
Wi'  him  I'd  live,  wi'  him  I'd  dee, 

Bcc,;use  my  Ruhin  lu'es  me. 
My  tittie  Mary  said  to  me, 
Our  court>liip  hut  a  juke  wad  be, 
And  I  or  lan^  be  made  to  see 

That  Rubin  didna  lu'e  me. 

But  little  kens  she  what  has  been, 
Me  and  my  honest  Rob  between  ; 
And  in  his  wooing,  O  sae  keen 

Kind  Robin  is  that  lo'es  me. 
Then  fly,  ye  lazy  hours,  away. 
And  hasten  on  the  happy  day, 
When,  Join  your  hand-i,  Me-s  John  will  say, 

And  mak  him  mine  that  lo'es  me. 

Till  then,  let  every  chance  unite 
To  fix  nor  love  and  give  delisjnt, 
Anrl  I'll  Inok  down  on  such  wi'  spre. 
Wha  doubt  that  Robin  lo'es  n.j. 
O  ney,  Robin  !  quo'  she, 
O  hey,  Robin  !   quo'  she, 
O  hey,  Robin  !   quo'  she  ; 
Kmd  Robin  lo'es  me. 


THE  POETS,  WHAT  FOOLS  THEY'RE 
TO  DEAVE  US. 

ROIiERT  GILFILLAN. 

Tune—"  Fy,  let  us  a*  to  the  bridal." 

The  poets,  what  fools  they're  to  deave  us. 

How  ilka  ane's  lassie's  sae  fine  ; 
Tlie  taue  is  »n  angel — and,  save  us  ! 

The  neist  ane  you  meet  wi's  divine. 
An<l  tiiCM  tl;eri.'s  a  lang-nebbit  sonnet, 

lie't  Katie,  or  Janet,  or  Jean  ; 
And  the  moon,  or  some  fir-ajfa  planet's 

Compajcd  to  the  blink  o'  her  een. 

The  cartli  an'  the  sea  they've  ransackit 

For  sim'iies  to  set  off  their  charms; 
And  no  a  wee  P.ov/'r  but  s  attackit 

liy  poets,  like  bumbees,  in  swarms. 
Now,  what  siijniries  a'  this  clatter, 

I'.y  chiels  that  the  truth  winna  tell? 
Wad  it  no  be  settlic'  ':'.-.£  matter, 

To  say.  Lass,  ye're  jiiit  like  your  sell  ? 

An'  then  there's  nac  end  to  the  evil. 

For  they  are  no  deaf  to  the  din— 
liiat  like  me  ony  puir  luckless  difevil 

D.iur  scarce  IvA/k  iiie  ijate  they  are  in  ! 


But  e'en  let  them  be,  xvl'  their  scornin* ; 

There's  a  lassie  whase  name  I  could  taljt 
Her  smile  is  as  sweet  as  the  mornin' 

But  whisht !   7  am  ravin'  mysell. 

Cut  he  that  o'  ravin's  convickit. 

When  a  bonnie  sweet  lass  he  thinks  oc, 
May  he  ne'er  get  anithcr  strait  jacket 

Than  that  buckled  to  by  Mess  John  ! 
An'  he  wha — though  cautious  an'  cannv— 

The  charms  o'  the  fair  never  saw, 
Though  wise  as  King  Solomon's  grannia- 

I  swear  is  the  daftest  of  a'. 


'TWAS    WITHIN    A    ]\[TLE    OF    EDIN- 
BURGH TOWN. 

Tusj— "  Within  a  mile  of  Edinburgh." 

'TwAS  within  a  mile  of  Edinburgh  town, 

In  the  insy  time  of  the  year  ; 
Sweet  flowers  bloom'd,  and  the  grass  was  down. 
And  each  shepherd  woo'd  his  dear. 

Bonny  Jockey,  blythe  and  gay, 

Kiss'd  sweet  Jenny,  making  hay, 
Tl:e  lassie  blush'd,   and  frowning,  cried,  "  No, 

no,  it  will  not  do  ; 
I  cannot,  cannot,  wonnot,  wonnot,  mannot  buc 

kle  too." 

Jockey  was  a  wag  that  never  would  wed, 
Though  long  he  had  followed  the  lass  ; 

Contented  she  earned  and  eat  her  own  bread, 
And  nu'rrily  turn'd  up  the  grass. 

Bonny  Jockey,  blythe  and  free. 
Won  her  heart  right  merrily  : 

Yet  still  she  blush'd,  and  frowning,  cried,  "  No, 
no,  it  will  not  ilo  ; 

I  cannot,  cannot,  wonnot,  wonnot,  mannot  buc- 
kle too." 

But  when  ha  vow'd  he  would   make  hef   hit 

bri<le. 
Though  his  flocks  and  herds  were  not  few. 
She  gave  him  her  hand,  and  a  kiss  beside, 
And  vow'd  she'd  for  ever  be  true. 

Bonny  Jockey,  blythe  and  free, 

W<in  her  heart  right  merrily  ; 
At  church  she  no  more  frowning,  cried,  "  Na, 

no,  it  will  not  do  ; 
I  cannot,  cannot,  wonnot,  wonnot,  mannot  bua- 

kle  too." 


MY  LUVE'S  IN  GERMANIE. 

Tune—"  My  luve's  in  Gemvinie." 

My  luve's  in  Germanic  ; 

Send  him  hame,  send  him  luo^ej 
Jly  luve's  in  Germanic; 

Send  him  home. 


SOXGS. 


lib 


My  luve's  in  Ojrtnanid, 
Fif^lititi'T  liravc  for  royalty  ; 
Ele  may  ne'er  his  Jcanie  see ; 

Si'iiil  him  lianu',  send  him  hame ; 
lie  niiy  ne'er  l]is  Joanie  see; 

Send  him  hame. 

He's  as  I)rave  as  biave  can  be  ; 

Send  him  hame,  send  hiin  hame  ; 
Our  faes  are  ten  to  three  ; 

Send  him  hame. 
Our  f.ies  are  ten  to  three  ; 
He  maun  eitlier  fa'  or  flee, 
In  the  cause  of  Kiyalty  ; 

Send  him  hame,  send  hitn  hame; 
la  the  cause  of  Kiyalty  ; 

Send  him  hame. 

Your  luve  ne'er  learnt  to  flee, 

lionnie  dame,  winsome  dame  ; 
Ydur  luve  ne'er  learnt  to  flee, 

Winsome  dime. 
Your  luve  ne'er  learnt  to  flee, 
Hut  he  fell  in  Germanie, 
Fightin;^  l)rave  for  loyalty, 

jMournfu'  dame,  mournfu*  dame  ; 
Fij,'!.ting  lirave  for  loyalty, 

Jlouinfu'  dame. 

He'll  ne'er  come  ower  the  sea  ; 

Willie's  slain,  Willie's  slain  ; 
He'll  ne'er  come  ower  the  sea  ; 

Willie's  Ejane  ! 
He  will  ne'er  come  ower  the  sea, 
To  his  luve  and  ain  countrie. 
This  waild's  nae  mair  for  me  ; 

Willie's  gane,  Willie's  gane  ; 
This  warld's  nie  mair  for  me  ; 

Willie's  gane  ! 


TO  THE  KYE  WI*  ME. 

0  WAS  na*  she  worthy  o'  kisses, 
Far  niie  than  twa  or  three, 

And  woithy  o'  biid.il  blisses, 
Wha  gaeil  to  the  kye  wi*  me. 

O  gang  to  the  kye  wi'  me,  my  love. 

Gang  to  the  kye  wi'  nie, 
Ower  the  burn  and  through  the  broofflj 
And  I'll  be  merry  wi'  thee. 

1  hae  a  house  a  biggin, 

Anither  that's  like  to  fa'. 
And  1  love  a  scorn  fu'  lassie, 
Wha  grieves  nie  warst  of  a'. 

O  gang  to  the  kye  wi'  me,  my  love, 

O  gang  to  the  kye  wi'  me. 
Ye'll  ti.  ink  nae  mair  o*  your  mithcr 
Amang  the  broom  wi'  me. 

I  hae  a  hnn^^e  a  bi<;^in, 
Anither  that's  like  to  fa'. 


I  hae  noo  the  lass'e  wi*  bairn, 
Which  vexes  me  warst  of  a'. 

0  gang  to  the  kye  wi'  me,  ray  lovsj, 
Gang  to  the  kye  wi'  me, 

1  hae  an  auld  mither  at  hame. 

Will  doodle  it  on  hei  knee. 


THE  IMILLER  O'  DEE. 
Tune—"  The  Miller  of  Dee." 

There  was  a  jolly  miller  once 

Lived  on  the  river  Dee  ; 
Ho  wrought  and  sung  from  morn  till  uighik 

No  lark  more  blythe  than  he. 
And  this  the  burden  of  his  song 

For  ever  used  to  be  ; 
I  care  for  nobody,  no,  not  I, 

If  nobody  cares  for  me. 
A.iid  this,  §"c. 

AYlien  spring  began  its  merry  career, 

O,  then  his  heart  was  giy  ; 
He  feared  not  summer's  sultry  heat. 

Nor  winter's  cold  decay. 
No  foresight  marred  the  miller's  cheei 

Who  oft  (lid  sing  and  sav, 
Let  others  live  from  year  to  year, 

I'll  live  from  dav  to  dav. 
No  foresiglif,  §'c. 

Then,  like  this  miller,  bold  and  free, 

Let  us  be  glad  and  sing  ; 
The  days  of  youth  are  made  for  glee, 

And  life  is  on  the  wing. 
The  song  shall  pass  from  me  to  you. 

Around  this  jovial  ring. 
Let  heart,  and  hand,  and  voice  agree  : 

And  so,  God  save  our  kin?.* 
Tlie  song,  §-c. 


SAW  YE  MY  FATHER? 
Tune-'"  Saw  ye  my  father  }" 

"  O  SAW  ye  my  father,  or  saw  ye  my  mother, 

Or  saw  ye  my  true  love  John  ?" 
"  1  saw  not  your  father,  I  saw  not  vour  mother 

But  I  saw  your  true  love  John." 

"  It's  now  ten  at  night,  and  the  stars  gie  nae 
light. 
And  the  bells  they  ring  ding  dong  ; 
He's  met  with  some  delay,  that  cauacth  him  to 
stay  ; 
But  he  will  be  here  ere  long." 

The  surly  auld  carle  did  naething  but  snarle. 
And  Jennie's  face  it  grew  red  ; 


♦  From  an  old  MS.  copy.     The  s.ong  seems  to  hatt 
been  first  printed  in  Herd's  Colleevion,  1776. 


176 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


Yet,  though  he  often  sighed,  he  re'er  a  word 
icplieil, 
Till  all  were  asleep  in  bed. 

Up  Johnie  rose,  and  to  the  door  he  goes, 

And  gently  tilled  at  the  pin. 
The  lassie,  taking  tent,  unto  the  door  she  went, 

And  she  opened  and  let  him  in. 

•'  And  are  ye  come  at  last,  and  do  I  hoid  ye  fast  ? 

And  is  my  .Fohnie  true  ?" 
"  I  have  nae  time  to  tell,   but  sae  lang's  1  like 
mysell, 

Sae  lang  sail  I  love  you." 

"  Flee  up,  flee  up,  my  bonnie  grey  cock, 

And  craw  wliau  it  is  day  : 
Your  neck  shall  be  like  the  bonnie  beaten  gowd, 

Aad  your  wings  of  the  silver  grey." 

The  cock  proved  fiuse,  and  untrue  he  was  ; 

For  he  crew  an  hour  ower  sune. 
The  lassie  th<iught  it  day,  when  she  sent  her 
love  away, 

\nd  i";  was  but  a  blink  o'  the  mune 


TAM  O'  THE  BALLOCH 


H.    AINSLEY. 

Tune—"  The  Campbells  are  coming. 

In  the  Nick  o'  the  Balloch  lived  Muirland  Tarn, 
Wcel  stcntit  wi'  brochan  and  braxie-ham  ; 
A  breist  like  a  build,  and  a  back  like  a  door, 
And  a  wapping  wame  that  hung  down  afore. 

But  what's  come  ower  ye,  Muirland  Tara  ? 
For  your  leg's  now  grown  like  a  wheel-barrow 

tram  ; 
Your  ee  it's  faun  in — your  nose  it's  faun  out. 
And  the  skin  o'  your  cheek's  like  a  dirty  clout. 

0  ance,  like  a  yaud,  ye  spankit  the  bent, 
Wi'  a  fecket  sae  fou,  and  a  stocking  sae  stent, 
The  strength  o'  a  slot — the  wecht  o'  a  cow  ; 
Now,  Tammy,  my  man,  ye're  grown  like  a  grew. 

1  mind  sin'  the  blink  o'  a  canty  quean 

Could  watered  your  mou  and  lichtit  your  een  ; 
Now  yc  leuk  like  a  yowe,  when  ye  should  be  a 

rain  ; 
O  what  can  be  wrang  wi'  ye,  IMuirland  Tarn  ? 

Has  Rome  dowg  o'  the  yirth  set  your  gear  abrced  ? 
Hac  they  broken  your  heart  or  broken  your  head  ? 
Hae  they  rackit  wi'  rungs  or  kittled  wi'  steel  ? 
Ot,  Tammy,  my  man,  liae  ye  seen  the  deil  ? 

Wha  ance  was  your  match  at  a  stoup  and  a  tale  ? 
Wi'  a  voice  like  a  sea,  and  a  drouvh  like  a  whale  ? 


Now  ye  peep  like  a  piiwt  ;  ye  glumph  and  yi 

gaunt ; 
Oh,  Tammy,  my  man,  are  ye  turned  i  saunt  ? 

Come,  lowse  your  heart,  ye  man  o'  the  muir; 
We  tell  our  distress  ere  we  look  for  a  cure: 
There's  laws  for  a  wrang,  and  sa's  for  a  sair ; 
Sae,  Tammy,  my  man,  what  wad  ye  Lae  mairl 

Oh  !   ncebour,  it  neither  was  thresher  nor  thiefi 
That  deepened  my  ee,  and  lichtened  my  beef; 
But  the  word  that  malves  me  saewaefu'  and  wan, 
Is^Tam  o'  the  Balloch's  a  married  man  I 


HAUD  AWA  FRAE  ME  DONALD. 

Haud  a.va,  bide  awa! 

Haud  awa  frae  me,  Donald  : 
I've  seen  the  man  I  well  could  love, 
But  that  was  never  thee,  Donald. 
Wi'  plumed  bonnet  waiving  proud. 

And  claymore  by  thy  knee,  Donald, 

And  Lord  o'  Moray's  mountains  high, 

Thou'rt  no  a  match  for  me,  Donald. 

Haud  awa,  bide  awa, 

Haud  awa  frae  me,  Donald, 
What  sairs  your  mountains  and  your  lochty 
I  caima  swim  nor  flee  Donald  : 
But  if  ye'll  come  when  yon  f  lir  sun 
Is  sunk  beneath  the  sea,  Donald, 
I'll  quit  my  kin,  and  kilt  my  cots. 
And  take  the  hills  wi'  thee,  Donald. 

One  of  the  old  verses  runs  thus  :— 

Hand  awa,  bide  awa, 

Ilaud  awa  frae  me,  Donald, 
Keep  awa  your  cauld  hand 

Frae  my  warm  knee  Donald. 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 
,Tune—"  Auld  Rob  Morris." 

MOTHER. 

AuLD  Rob  Morris,  that  wons  in  yon  glen. 

He  8  the  king  o*  guid  fallows,  and  wale  o'  auld 

men ; 
He  has  fourscore  o'   black  sheep,  and  fourscor* 

too ; 
Auld  Rob  IMorris  is  the  man  yc  maun  lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

Haud  your  tongue,  mother,  a  id  let  that  abee ; 
For  his  eild  and  my  eild  can  never  agree  : 
They'll  never  agree,  anil  that  will  be  seen  ; 
For  be  is  fourscore,  and  I'm  but  fifteen. 


SONGS. 


177 


MoTiini. 
Hand  yoiir  tonp:in>,  iloclitor,  and  lay  l)y  your  iniJc, 
Fur  he  is  tlie  bi  idcgriimn,  and  ye'se  he  tb.e  bride  ; 
lie  A\:\\\  lie  l>y  yi'nr  sidf,  and  kiss  yi'u  too  ; 
Aald  Rob  Moi  is  is  the  nuu  ye  maun  lo'e. 

DAUGHTER. 

Auld  Rob  RInrris,  1  kt'ii  iiini  fu'  weel, 
His  back  stii-ks  out  like  ony  peat-creel  ; 
He's  outsliinn'd,  in-kneed,  and  ringle-eyed  too  ; 
Auld  Rob  Jl'jrris  is  the  man  I'll  ne'er  lo'e. 

MOTHER. 

Though  auld  Rob  Morris  be  an  elderly  man. 
Yet  his  anld  brass  will  buy  you  a  new  pan  ; 
Then,  dochter.  ye  should  iiu  be  sa  ill  to  shoe, 
For  auld  Rob  Morris  is  the  man  ye  maun  Ip'e. 

DAUGHTF.K. 

Rut  auld  Rob  Morris  I  never  will  hae, 
Ria  back  is  so  stiff,  and  his  beard  is  grown  grey  ; 
I  had  rather  die  than  live  \vi*  him  a  year  ; 
6ae  mair  o'  Rob  Morris  I  never  will  hear. 


THE  MALT-MAN. 

The  m,i!t-man  comes  on  Munday, 

He  craves  wonder  sair. 
Cries,  Dame,  come  gi'e  me  my  siller. 

Or  malt  ye  sail  ne'er  get  mair. 
I  took  him  into  the  pantry, 

And  gave  him  some  good  cock-broo, 
Syne  paid  'aim  upon  a  gantree, 

As  hostlcr-wives  should  do. 

When  malt-men  come  for  siller, 

And  gaugers  with  wands  o'er  soon. 
Wives,  tak  them  a'  down  to  the  cellar, 

And  clear  them  as  I  have  done. 
Tliis  l-ewith,  when  cunzie  is  scanty, 

Will  lieep  them  frae  making  din  ; 
The  knack  I  learu'd  frae  an  auld  aunty, 

The  snackest  of  a'  my  kin. 

The  malt-man  is  right  cunning, 

But  I  can  be  as  slee. 
And  he  may  crack  of  his  winning, 

WHien  he  clears  scores  with  me  ; 
For  come  when  he  likes,  I'm  ready; 

But  if  frae  home  I  be, 
Let  him  wait  on  our  kind  Uidy, 

She'll  answer  a  bill  for  me. 


THE  AULD  WIFE  BEYONT  THE  FIRE. 

There  was  a  wife  wnn'd  in  a  glen, 
And  she  had  dnchters  nine  or  ten, 

That  sought  the  house  baith  but  and  ben, 
To  find  their  mam  a  snishiug. 


Tlic  avid  trife  heijriitt  the  /ire, 
Tlif.  aulil  wiff.  luiieit  tfifjire, 
Tlie  auld  u'ije  uIddii  the  fire, 
IShc  (lied  for  lac/i  if  syiislting.* 

Her  mill  into  some  bole  had  fiwn, 
Wh.itrccks,  (|iiotb  she,  let  it  be  gavf  n, 
For  I  maun  hie  a  young  goodiiian 

Shall  furnish  me  with  snishing. 
The  auld  wife,  §*c. 

Her  eldest  dochter  said  right  batild, 
Fy,  mother,  mind  that  now  ye' re  auld. 
And  if  ye  with  a  youiiker  wald. 

He'll  wa^te  away  your  snishing. 
2'lie  auld  icij'e,  ^'C. 

The  younijest  dochter  ga'c  a  shout, 
O  mother  dear  !   your  teeth's  a'  out. 
Besides  ha'f  blind,  you  have  the  gout. 

Your  mill  cm  had  nae  snishing. 
The  auld  wife,  SfC. 

Ye  lied,  ye  llmmers,  cries  auld  mump, 
For  I  hae  baith  a  tooth  and  stump. 
And  will  nae  langer  live  in  dump, 

By  wantins;  of  niv  snishinjj. 
'The  auld  wife,  Sec 

Thole  ye,  says  Peg,  th,at  pawky  slul^ 
Mother,  if  ye  can  crack  a  nut. 
Then  we  will  ii'  consent  to  it. 

That  you  shall  have  a  siiisUing. 
The  auld  wfe,  S^c. 

The  auld  ane  did  agree  to  that. 
And  they  a  pistol-bullet  gat ; 
She  powerfu'ly  began  to  crack, 

To  win  lieisell  a  snishing. 
The  auld  wife,  §'c. 

Rraw  sport  it  was  to  see  her  rhow't. 
And  'tween  her  gums  sae  squeeze  and  ro^r'V, 
While  frae  her  jaws  the  slaver  flow'd, 

And  ay  she  cuis'd  [loor  stumpy. 
The  auld  wife,  §t. 

At  last  she  ga'e  a  desperate  squeei. 
Which  brak  the  lang  touth  by  the  ceee. 
And  syne  pmir  stum|)y  was  at  case, 

But  she  tint  hopes  of  snishing. 
The  auld  wife,  §-c. 

Slie  of  the  task  begin  to  tire. 
And  frae  her  dochters  did  retire^ 
Syne  lean'd  her  down  ayont  the  fire^ 

And  died  lor  hick  of  snishiag. 
The  anld  wfe,  SfC. 

Ye  auld  wives,  notice  well  this  truth, 
Assoun  as  ye"re  past  murk  of  mouth. 


•  Siiishing,  in  its  llleial  meaninir,  is  snuff  m.ide  ol 
tobnceo ;  but,  in  tins  soni;,  it  nie;u)s  soraeUme*  coa- 
tentment,  a  husbanij,  lovc»  money,  d^c. 


03 


178 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Ne'er  do  what's  only  fit  for  youth. 
And  leave  utT  thoughts  of  snishin^  : 

Else,  like  t/iis  icife  beyimt  the  fire, 
I'eV  bairns  against  you  will  conspire  ; 
JS'^or  will  ye  get,  unit  is  ye  hire, 
A.  young  man  with  your  snishing. 


BESSY  BELL  AND  MARY  GRAY. 

O  BESST  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

Thev  are  twa  bonny  lassies, 
They  bigg'd  a  how'r  on  yon  burn-brae, 

And  theek'd  it  o'er  wi'  rashes. 
Fair  Bessy  Bell  I  loo'd  yestreen. 

And  thought  I  ne'er  could  alter. 
But  Mary  Gray's  twa  pawky  een, 

They  gar  my  fancy  falter. 

Now  Bessy's  hair's  like  a  lint  tap  , 

She  smiles  like  a  May  morning. 
When  Phoebus  starts  frae  Thetis'  lap, 

The  hills  with  rays  adorning  : 
WTiite  is  her  neck,  saft  is  her  hand, 

Her  waist  and  feet's  fu'  genty  ; 
fl'ith  ilka  grace  she  can  command  ; 

Her  lips,  O  wow  !   they're  dainty. 

And  Mary's  locks  are  like  a  craw. 

Her  een  like  diamonds  glances  ; 
She's  ay  sae  clean,  redd  up,  and  braw. 

She  kills  whene'er  she  dances ; 
Blvtlie  as  a  kid,  witli  wit  at  will. 

She  blooming,  tight,  and  tall  is  ; 
And  guides  her  airs  sae  gracefu'  still. 

O  Juve,  she's  like  thy  Pallas. 

Dear  Bessy  Bell  and  Mary  Gray, 

Ye  unco  sair  oppress  us  ; 
Our  fancies  jee  between  you  twa, 

Ye  are  sic  bonny  lassies  : 
Wae's  me  !   for  baith  I  canna  get, 

To  ane  by  law  we're  stented  ; 
Then  I'll  diaw  cuts,  and  take  my  fate. 

And  be  with  aue  contented. 


BONNY  BARBARA  ALLAN. 

It  was  in  and  about  the  Martinmas  time, 
Wiicn  the  gieen  leaves  were  a-failing, 

That  Sir  J(d:n  Graeme  in  the  west  country 
Fell  in  love  with  13urbara  Allan. 

He  Bont  his  man  down  through  the  town. 
To  the  place  where  she  was  dwelling, 

O  ha-<te,  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
Gin  je  be  I!.trbara  Allan. 

O  hooly,  hdoly  ruse  she  up, 

To  the  |ilacc  where  he  was  lying. 


And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by. 
Young  man,  I  think  you're  dying 

O  its  I'm  sick,  and  very  very  sick. 

And  'tis  a'  for  Barbara  Allan. 
O  the  better  for  me  ye's  never  be, 

Tho'  your  heart's  blood  were  a-spilling 

O  dinna  ye  mind,  young  man,  said  she. 
When  he  was  in  the  tavern  a-drinking, 

That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and  rouad 
And  slighted  Barbara  Allan  ? 

He  turn'd  his  face  unto  the  wall, 
And  death  was  with  him  dealing  ; 

Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  all. 
And  be  kind  to  Barbara  Allan. 

And  slowly,  slowly  raise  she  up, 

And  slowly,  slowly  left  him  ; 
And  sighing,  said,  she  cou'd  not  stay. 

Since  death  of  life  had  reft  him. 

She  had  not  gane  a  mile  but  twa. 

When  she  heard  the  dead-bell  ringing, 

And  every  jow  that  the  dead-bsll  gied 
It  cry'd,  Wo  to  Barbara  Allan. 

O  mother,  mother,  make  my  bed^ 

O  make  it  saft  and  narrow. 
Since  my  love  dy'd  for  me  to-day, 

I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow. 


ETTRICK  BANKS. 

On  Ettrick  banks,  in  a  summer's  night, 

At  glowmiug  when  the  sheep  drave  haiMj 
I  met  my  lassie  braw  and  tight, 

Came  wading,  barefoot,  a'  her  lane  : 
I\Iy  heart  grew  light,  I  ran,  I  flang 

IMy  arms  about  her  lily  neck. 
And  kiss'd  and  clipp'd  her  there  fou  lang  ; 

Sly  worda  they  were  na  niony,  feck. 

I  said,  my  lassie,  will  ye  go 

To  the  highland  hills,  the  Earsc  to  leam  - 
I'd  baith  gi'e  thee  a  cow  and  ew, 

When  ye  come  to  the  brigg  of  Earn. 
At  Leith,  auld  meal  comes  in,  ne'er  fash. 

And  herrings  at  the  Brooiiiy  Law  ; 
Choar  up  your  heart,  my  Ijonny  lass. 

There's  gear  to  win  we  never  saw. 

All  d:\y  when  we  have  wrou<Tht  enough, 

When  winter,  frosts,  ami  snaw  begin, 
Soon  as  the  sun  gaes  west  the  loch. 

At  nis,'ht  when  you  sit  down  to  spin, 
I'll  screw  my  pipes  and  play  a  spring  : 

And  thus  the  weary  night  will  end, 
Till  the  tender  kid  and  laMib-tinic  bnnjj 

Our  pleasant  summer  back  aj;ain. 


SONGS. 


179 


Svne  wVicn  the  trees  are  in  tlicir  bloom, 

And  gowans  glent  o'er  ilka  fieiil, 
r  II  meet  my  1  i>^s  anionjj;  the  hroum, 

And  lead  yoii  to  my  suiiimei-shield. 
Then  far  frae  a'  their  scorntu'  din. 

Tint  make  the  kindly  hearts  their  s|)ort, 
We'll  laui^h  and  kiss,  and  dance  and  sing. 

And  gar  the  langest  day  seem  short. 


THE  BIRKS  OF  INVERMAY.* 

DAVID   MALLKT. 

T^ne—"  The  Birks  of  Invennay. 

The  smiling  morn,  the  breathing  spring. 

Invite  the  tiinefu'  birds  to  sing  ; 

And,  while  they  warble  from  the  spray, 

Love  melts  the  universal  lay. 

Let  us,  Amanda,  timelv  wise. 

Like  them,  improve  the  hour  that  flies  • 

And  in  soft  raptures  waste  the  day. 

Among  the  birks  of  Invermay. 

For  soon  t!ie  winter  of  the  year. 
And  age,  life's  winter,  will  appear  ; 
At  this  thy  living  bloom  will  fade, 
As  that  will  strip  the  verdant  shade. 
Our  taste  of  pleasure  then  is  o'er, 
The  feather'fl  songsters  are  no  more  ; 
And  when  they  drop,  and  we  decay, 
Adieu  the  i)irks  of  Invermay  ! 


THE  BRAES  O"  BALLENDEAN. 

DR.    BLACKLOCK. 

T^ni—"  The  Braes  o'  Ballendean." 

Beneath  a  green  shade,  a  lovely  young  swain 
Ae  evening  reclineil,  to  discover  his  pain  ; 
So  sad,  yet  so  sweetly,  he  waibled  his  woe. 
The  winds  ceased  to  breathe,  and  the  fviuntain  to 

flow  ; 
Rude    winds   wi'    compassion    could    hear    him 

complain, 
Yet  Chloe,  less  gentle,  was  deaf  to  his  strain. 


•  Invermay  is  a  small  woody  plen,  watered  by  the 
rivulet  May,  which  there  joins  tlie  river  Earn.  It  is 
Bboiit  five  miles  above  ihe  bridsjf  of  Earn,  and  nearly 
nine  from  Perth.  The  feat  of  Mr  Belsches,  the  pro. 
prictor  of  this  jioctical  region,  and  wlio  takes  from  it 
his  territnrial  dcsii^nation,  stands  at  the  bfjltom  of  the 
glen.  Beth  sides  of  the  lit  t'e  vale  are  com  pletelv  wood- 
ed, chiefly  witli  birehes;  and  it  is  altogether,  in  point 
of  natural  loveliness,  a  ^celle  worthv  of  ihe  attention 
of  the  amatory  muse.  The  com se  of  the  May  is  so 
sunk  among  rocks,  that  it  cannot  lie  seen,  but  it  can 
Msdv  be  traced  in  us  I  rogress  by  another  sense.  The 
peculiar  sound  which  it  makes  in  rushing  through  one 
p.u-iiciilar  part  of  its  narrow,  rugged,  .ind  tortuous 
thoDnel,  has  occasioned  the  descriptive  appellation  of 
the  Hiimbtc-nuitili/e  to  be  attached  to  that  quarter  of 
the  vale.  Invermay  may  be  at  once  and  correctly  de- 
scribed as  the  fiiirest  possible  little  miniature  si>eciincn 
i>f  cascade  scenery. 

The  Sling  appeared  in  the  4th  \olumeof  the  Tea- 
vable  Miscellaiiv. 


How  happy,  he  cried,  my  moments  nice  flew, 
Ere    Chine's  bright   charms   first  llasli'd  in  my 

view  ! 
Those   eyes   then   wi'    pleasure  the  dawn   eoulii 

snivey  ; 
Nor  smiled  the  fair  Kiorning  mair  cheerful   than 

they. 
Now  scents  of  distress  |)lease  only  my  sit'ht ; 
I'm  tortured  in  pleasure,  and  languish  in  light 

Through  changes  in  vain  relief  I  pursue, 
All.  all  but  con^jiiie  my  griefs  to  renew  ; 
From  suri^liine  to  zejiliyrsand  shades  we  lepair— 
To  sunsliine  we  fly  from  too  piercing  an  air  ; 
But  love's  ardent  Are  burns  always  the  same. 
No  winter  can  cool  it,  no  summer  iutlame. 

But  see  the  pale  moon,  all  clouded,  retires  ; 
The  breezes  grow  cool,  not  Streplion's  desires  : 
I  fly  from  the  dangers  of  tempest  and  wind. 
Yet  nourish  the  madness  that  preys  on  my  mind. 
.Ml,  wretch  !    how  can  lil'e  be  worthy  thy  care? 
To  lengthen  its  moments,  but  lengthens  despair.  • 


THE  BRUME  O'  THE  COWDEN- 
KNOWES. 

Tune — "  The  Brume  o'  the  Cowdcnknowes." 

How  blyth,  ilk  morn,  was  I  to  see 

My  swain  coine  ower  the  hill  ! 
He  skipt  the  burn  and  flew  to  me  : 
I  met  him  with  good  will. 

()/(,  r/ie  brume,  the.  honntc,  hnintie  brume  I 

The  lirinue  ii'  the  Cmfi/eit/nit  wes  / 
I  wish  I  u-(re  ivith  my  dear  swain, 
}Vilh  his  pijie  and  ini/  yowes. 

I  wanted  neither  yowe  nor  lamb, 

While  his  flock  near  me  lay  ; 
He  gatlirr'd  in  my  sheep  at  night. 

And  cheer'd  me  a'  the  day. 

Oh,  the  brume,  §'C. 

He  tuned  his  jiipe,  and  play'd  Sie  8weet» 

The  birds  sat  listening  bye  ; 
E  en  the  dull  cattle  s.'ood  and  gazed, 

Chann'd  with  the  nielodye. 

Oh,  the  brume,  S^c. 

While  thus  we  spent  our  time,  by  turns. 

Betwixt  our  flncks  and  play, 
I  envied  not  the  fairest  dame, 

Though  e'er  so  rich  or  g  ly. 

Oh,  the  brume,  §c. 


•  The  cdcbrated  Tenducci  \\fei\  losing  thi;  sorR, 
wih  great  ifiVet,  in  St.  (Vi  ilia's  Hall,  at  Edinburgh, 
about  (ilty  \ears  Ago.  Mr  'l'\tler,  who  was  a  great  pa. 
tr.in  ol  that  oliMilile  place  of  anuisiniciK,  says,  in  nis 
Dis-eitation  on  Scottish  Music,  "  Wlio  could  heal 
with  iiiseii«.bi!ity,  oruiihoul  being  moved  in  the  high- 
est degree,  le  diicfi  -iiii.',  '  I'll  i  ever  leave  thee,"  or, 
•  The  Uraes  o'  Bjlleudean."  Tlic  air  uai  cunipuscd  b» 
Oiw.ild. 


^80 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Hard  fate,  that  I  should  banish'd  be, 
Gang  heavily,  and  mourn, 

Because  I  loved  the  kindest  swain 
That  ever  yet  was  burn. 

Oh,  the  brume,  Sfc. 

He  did  obli;re  me  every  hour  ; 

Cou\d  1  but  faithful' be  ? 
He  stawe  my  heart  ;   could  I  refuse 

Whate'er  he  ask'd  of  me  ? 

Oh,  the  brume,  §"c. 

My  doggie,  and  my  little  kit 
That  held  my  wee  soup  whey, 

My  plaidie,  brooch,  and  crookit  stick, 
May  now  lie  useless  by. 

Oh,  the  brume,  ^t. 

Adieu,  ye  Cowdenknowes,  adieu  ! 

Farewjel,  a'  pleasures  there  ! 
Ye  gods,  restore  me  to  my  swain—. 

Is  a'  I  crave  or  care. 

Oh,  the  brume,  y-c* 


THE  CARLE  HE  CAM  OWER  THE 
CRAFT. 

Tun^— ••  The  Carle  he  cam  ower  the  Craft." 

The  carle  he  cam  ower  the  craft, 

Wi'  his  beard  iiew-.«haven  ; 
He  looked  at  me  as  he'd  been  daft, — • 

The  carle  trowed  that  I  wad  hae  hira. 
Hnut  awa  !    I  winna  hae  him  ! 

Na,  forsooth,  I  winna  hae  him  ! 
For  a'  his  beard  new-shaven, 

Ne'er  a  bit  o'  uie  will  hae  him. 

A  siller  brooch  he  gae  me  neist, 

To  fasten  on  my  curchie  nookit ; 
I  wore  't  a  wee  upon  my  breist, 

IJut  soon,  alake  !    the  tongue  o't  crook'   ; 
And  sae  may  his  ;    I  winna  hae  him  ! 

Na,  forsooth,  I  winna  hae  him  ! 
Twice-a-bairii's  a  lassie's  jest  ; 

Sae  ony  foul  for  me  may  hae  him. 

The  carle  hiis  nae  fault  but  ane ; 

For  he  has  land  an<l  dollars  plenty  ; 
Dut,  wae's  me  for  him,  skin  and  bane 

Is  no  for  a  plump  lass  of  twenty. 
Hout  awa,  I  winna  hae  him  ! 

Na,  forsooth,  I  winna  h,u;  him  ! 
What  signifies  his  dirty  riggs. 

And  cash,  without  a  man  wi'  them  ? 


•  As  the  reader  may  be  supposed  nrxious  to  know 
•omcthiiiK  of  the  pl.ne  wliiili  h.is  thus  hccii  the  subject 
of  lo  much  poetry,  thocdilor  Ihniksit  proper  to  iiitorm 
him,  that,  ■'  the  (."owdcnknowcs,"  or,  as  sometimes 
(pt'lk'il  111  old  writings,  the  Ciildinpkiiowcs,  are  two 
little  hills  on  the  east  side  of  the  vale  of  l.audcidale, 
BiTwickshiie.  They  lie  immediately  to  the  south  of 
the  village  of  Krirlston,  ccliflnated  as  the  ru^id^•llce  of 
>hc  earliest  known  ijeotlish  poet,  Thomas  the  Khyiner, 


But  should  my   ankert  daddie  gar 

Me  tak  him  'gainst  my  inclination, 
1  warn  the  fumbler  to  beware 

That  antlers  dinna  claim  their  station 
Hout  awa  !    I  winna  hae  him  ! 

Na,  forsooth,  I  winna  hae  him  ! 
I'm  flee'd  to  crack  the  haly  band, 

S.ie  lawty  says,  I  shou'd  na  hae  him 


THE  WEE  THING. 

MACKEIL. 

TuTK — "  Bonnie  Dundee." 

Saw  ye  my  wee  thing  ?  saw  ye  my  ain  thing? 

Saw  ye  my  true  love  down  on  yon  lea  ? 
Cross'd  she  the  meadow  yestreen  at  the  gloaii>- 
in'? 
Sought  she  the  burnie  whar  flow'rs  the  haw- 
tree  ? 

Her  hair  it   is  lint-white  ;  her  skin  it  b  milk 
white ; 

Dark  is  the  blue  o'  her  saft-roUing  ee  ; 
Red  red  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses  : 

Whar  could  my  wee  thing  wander  frae  me  ? — 

I  saw  nae  your  wee  thing,  I  saw  nae  your  ain 
thing, 
Nor  saw  I  your  true  love  down  on  yon  lea  ; 
But  I  met  my  bunnie  thing  late  in  the  gloaniin. 
Down  by  the  burnie  whar  flow'rs  the  haw- 
tree. 

Her  hair   it  was   lint-white;   her  skin  it  was 
milk-white  ; 

Dark  was  the  blue  o'  her  saft-iolling  ee  ; 
Red  were  her  ripe  lips,  and  sweeter  than  roses; 

Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gae  to  me  !  — 

It  was  na   my  wee  thing,   it   was  na  my  ain 
thing, 

It  was  na  my  true  love  ye  met  by  the  tree  : 
Proud  is  her  leal  heart !  and  modest  her  nature  ! 

She  never  loed  onie  till  ance  she  loed  me. 

Her  name  it  is  Mary  ;  she's  frae  Castle- Cary; 

Aft  ha?  she  sat,  when  a  bairn,  on  my  knee ; 
Fair  as  your  face  is,  war't  fifty  times  fairer. 

Young  bragger,  she  ne'er  would  gie  kisses  to 

thee  !— 

It   was,   then,   your  Mary ;  she's  frae   Castle- 
Cary  ; 
It   was,  then,   your  true  love  I  met  by  the 
tree : 
Proud  as  her  heart  is.  and  modest  her  nature. 
Sweet  were  the  kisses  that  she  gae  to  nie. — 

Sair    gloom'd    his    dark    brow — blood-ieJ    hi# 
cheek  grew — 
Wild  flasli'd  the  tire  frae  his  red-rolling  ee  ' 


SONGS. 


81 


\e'se  rue  sair,   this  morning,  your  boasts  and  Tl  r  widow slie's  youthful,  ■*.iii  lu'ver  ae  hair 

Viiui"  si-oi  Mill;;  I'l  l.e  \v;iiir  ul'  cln'  wciniig,  iiiiit  Ikis  a  poivl  skaii* 

Defend  ye,  faust-  traitor!   iur  lunliy  m-  lie. —    ( )l' fvci  y  thj-.ii  iini-lv  ;   she's  witty  anil  fuir, 

And  li.is  a  rich  jniiituii',  uiy  kiiiilie- 


Awa  wi'  h/Pguilini^     cried  the  youth,  sinilm!^  : 
Aff  went   the   binnet;   tlie    liiit-wlii:e  locks 
floe  ; 


V\'kat   could   vc  wi>h   l)ctti.-r,    your  pleaiure  tc 
crown, 
I  Than  a  widow,  the  honniest  toast  in  the  town. 


ebcltcd plaid  la'injj,  her  white  bosuni  shaw-  I  With,  Naetliin>;  hut — iIimw  in  yotii-  stool  and  sit 


Fair  stoiid  the   loved   uia.d  ui'  the  daik-roll- 


.,.  I 


Is  It  ipy  wee  thin^  !   is  it  mine  ain  thing  ! 

Is  it  my  true  love  here  that  I  see  ! — 
0  J.iniie,  foi-jjie  me  ;   your   lieart's  constant  to 

me  ; 
I'll  never  mair  wander,  dear  '  ddie,  frae  thee  ! 


THE  WHITE  COCKADE. 

Ttinr—"  The  White  Cockade." 

Mv  love  wa-.  imrn  in  Aberdeen, 
The  bonniest  l,;d  that  e'er  was  seen  ; 
But  now  he  utakei  our  hearts  fu'  sad  — 
He's  ta'en  the  field  wi'  his  white  cockade. 
O,  lie's  a  riinting  nming  blade  I 
O,  lie's  a  hrisk  and  a  honni/  lad  ! 
Bitide  rcliat  mny,  r<iy  hctut  is  pl'id 
To  see  my  lad  wi'  hi.i  tcliite  coclidde. 

O,  leeze  me  on  the  phllabee;. 
The  hairv  houj^h,  and  gaiter'd  leg  ! 
Rut  aye  the  thing  that  glads  my  ee, 
Is  the  white  coc-kade  uboifu  the  bree. 
O,  lit's  a  ranting,  &-c. 

I'll  sell  my  rock,  I'll  sell  my  reel. 
My  rii)i)l;ng  kunie,  and  s))iimiug  wheel, 
To  buy  my  lad  a  tartan  plaid, 
A  hraidswoid  and  a  white  cockade. 
O,  he's  a  ranting,  Sfc. 

I'll  fell  my  rokely  and  my  tow, 
Jly  gude  grey  mare  atid  hawket  cow, 
That  every  loyal  Isuchan  lad 
May  tok  the  field  wi'  his  white  cockade. 
O    'le's  a  ranting,  Sfc. 


THE  WIDOW, 


ALLAN   RA.MSAY. 


The  widow  can  bake,  and  the  widow  can  brew, 
The  willow  can  shaiie,  and  the  widow  can  sew, 
And  niony  braw  thing*  the  widow  can  do  ; 

'1  hen  have  at  the  widow,  my  l.uldie. 
With  courage  att.iek  her,  baith  early  and  late: 
To  kiss  her  aiul  dap  her  ye  inaunna  he  blate  : 
Speak   Well,    and   do   better  ;   fur  that's  the  best 
gate 

To  win  a  young  widow,  m>  LuiOie. 


down. 
And  sj'ort  with  the  widow,  my  laddie. 

Tl'.en  till  her,  and  kill  her  with  courtesie  dead. 
Though  staik  love  liiid  kindness  be  all  you  cac 

plead  ; 
Be  heartsouie  and  airv,  and  hope  to  succeed 

With  the  Ixinnie  giv  widow,  mv  laddie. 
Strike    iron   while    'tis  het,    if  ye'd  Lave  it  to 

vrald  ; 
For  fortune  ay  favours  the  active  and  bauld, 
But  ruins  the  wooer  that's  thowless  and  cauld 

Unfit  for  the  widow,  my  laddie. 


THE  YELLOW-HAIR'D  LADDIZ. 

OLD   VERSES. 

Tung — "  The  ycllow-haii'd  LadiUt." 

The  yellow-hair'd  laddie  sat  down  on  yon  brae, 
Cried,    Milk  the  yowes,   lassie,  let  nane  o'  them 

gae; 
And  aye  as  she  niilkit,  she  merrily  sang. 
The  yellow-hair'd  luddle  shall  be  n.y  gudenaan. 
And  aye  as  she  jnilkit,  .she  nierrily  sang. 
The  ydluw-hair^d  laddie  shall  be  my  aude- 
man. 

The  weather  is  cauld,  and  my  cleadin  is  thin. 
The  yowes  are  new  dipt,  and  they  winna  buch* 

in; 
They  winna  bucht  in,  although  I  should  dee; 
Oh,  yellow-haird'd  laddie,  be  kind  unto  me. 
Attd  aye  us  she  milhit,  ifc. 

The  gudewife  cries  butt  the  house,  Jennie,  come 

ben  ; 
The  cheese  is  to  mak,  and  the  butter's  to  kirn. 
Though  butter,  and  cheese,  and  a'  should  gang 

sour, 
I'll  crack  and  I'll  kiss  wi'  my  love  ae  half  hour. 
It's  ae  tang  half  huur,  and  we'll  e'en  inuk  it 

three. 
For  the  y Mow-hair'' d  laddie  my  gudeman 
shall  be.» 


•  From  the  Tea-Table  Mi.scclLuiy,  17S4. 


183 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


IHE  YOUNG  LATRD  AND  EDINBURGH 
KATIE. 

RAMSAy. 

Tune — "  Tartan  Screen." 

Now  wat  ye  wha  T  met  yestreen, 

Coming  down  the  street,  my  joe  ? 
My  mistress,  in  her  taitan  screen, 

Fu'  boniiie,  braw,  and  sweet,  my  joe  ! 
]My  dear,  quoth  I,  thanks  to  the  nicht 

That  never  wiss'd  a  lover  ill. 
Sin'  ye're  out  o'  your  niither's  sicht, 

Let's  tak'  a  walk  up  to  the  hill.* 

Oh.  Katie,  wilt  thou  gang  wi'  me, 

And  leave  the  dinsome  toun  a  while  ? 
The  blossom's  sprouting  frae  the  tree, 

And  a'  creation's  gaun  to  smile. 
The  mavis,  nichtingale,  and  lark. 

The  bleating  lambs  anil  whistling  liynd, 
In  ilka  dale,  green  slww,  and  park, 

Will  nourish  health,  and  glad  your  mind. 

Sune  as  the  clear  gudeman  o'  dny 

Does  bend  his  niornin'  draught  o*  dew, 
We'll  gae  to  some  burn-side  and  plav, 

And  gather  (louirs  to  busk  your  brow. 
We'll  pou  the  daisies  on  the  groen. 

The  luc-ken-^owans  frae  the  bog  ; 
Between  hands,  now  and  then,  we'll  lean 

And  sport  upon  the  velvet  fog. 

There  's,  up  into  a  pleasant  glen, 

A  wee  piece  frae  my  f  ither's  tower, 
A  canny,  saft,  and  Hou-ery  den. 

Which  circling  birks  have  form'd  a  bower. 
Whene'er  the  sun  grows  high  and  warm. 

We'll  to  the  caller  shade  lemove  ; 
There  will  I  lock  thee  in  my  arm, 

And  love  ai.  I  kiss,  and  kiss  and  love. 


MY  MOTHER'S  AYE  GLOWRIN'  OWER 

ME; 

IN  ANSWER  TO  THE  VOUN'G   LAIRD  AND 
EDINUUKUII    KATV. 

RA.MSAV. 

A  une — "  My  Mother's  aye  glowrin'  ower  me.** 

tJlv  mother's  aye  glowrin*  ower  nic, 
Though  she  did  the  same  before  me  ; 

*  It  i-i  qnilp  ns  rRmarka'ilfl  as  it  Is  Irtit'.  tliiit  llic 
mod"  iif  hoiirtsliip  iimiiii;  prople  oftlio  iiiiiMli'  ranks 
ill  Kdinbnrili  Ims  uiidiTiiOiio  a  cumiilite  <liiin.M> 
in  the  course  of  no  morr  tli  in  Ihn  I  ist  tlilrly  yciirs. 
It  iis(,'(l  to  lie  custdiiriry  fell  li>virs  to  wiilk  tdsi'tlicr 
for  liciiiri,  l>()lli  iliirint;  tlic  diy  an  I  llie  evoiiii:;,  in 
ilio  Mp  ulows,  i)r  tlif  Kiii'm  I'iirk,  or  llio  li-lils  hum 
D'i'upii'd  l)y  ilir  New  Touii  ;  pr'.eticrs  now  only 
known  ti)  arlizuns  iin:l  srri  iiiu'-ijirj''. 

TliB  song  appeared  in  the  Tea-Tublo  Miscellany, 


I  canna  get  leave 
To  look  at  my  love, 
Or  else  she'd  be  like  to  devour  me. 

Right  fain  wad  I  tak'  your  oHTer, 
Sweet  Sir — but  I'll  tyne  my  tocher 
Then,  Sandy,  ye'll  fret, 
And  wyte  your  puir  Kate, 
Whene'er  ye  keek  in  your  toom  coffer 

For  though  my  fatlier  has  plenty 
Of  silver,  and  plenishing  dainty, 

Yet  he's  unco  sweir 

To  twine  wi'  his  gear  ; 
And  sae  we  had  need  to  be  tenty. 

Tutor  my  ])arent'  wi'  caution, 

Be  wylie  in  ilka  i    otion  ; 

Brag  weel  o'     -our  land, 
And,  there's  tiiy  leal  hand, 

Win  them,  I'll  be  at  your  devotion. 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 

OLD  VERSES. 

Tune—"  Wandering  Willie." 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie  ' 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  baud  awa  hame  : 

Lang   have  I  sought  thee,   dear  have  I  bough! 
tnce  ; 
Now  I  have  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

Through   the   lang  muir   I   have  followed  my 
Willie  ; 
Through  the  lang  muir  I  have  followed  liina 
hame. 
Whatever  betide  us,  nought  shall  divide  us  ; 
Love  ni  w  rewa  ds  all  my  sorrow  and  pain. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  here  awa,  .Willie  ! 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  here  awa,  hame  ! 
Come,  love,  believe  me,  nothing  can  grieve  me, 

Ilka  thing  pleases,  when  Willie's  at  hame.  • 


CA.M*  YE  O'ER  FRAE  FRANCE. 

Cam'   ye   o'er    frae   Frai.vC,   came  ye  doun  b) 

Liinnoii, 
Saw  ye  Geoidie  Whelps  and  his  bonny  woman 
War'  ye  at  the  place  ca'd  thi  kittle-housie. 
Saw  ye  Ueordie's  grace,  ridin'  on  a  goosie. 

Gporilio  he's  a  man,  there  's  little  doiiht  o't, 
He's  (lone  a'  he  can,  wha  can  do  without  il  ; 
Down  tlicro  cam' a  blade,  .iiikiii' like  alor<lie, 
lie  wad  (Irlvu  a  trade  at  the  loom  o'  Geurdie.1 


*  From  II  rd's  Collft'-tion,  I77I1. 
t  'I'liiM    piniiily    alludes    to  Ciiunt    Koui' gwnark 
nnd  tlie  Cluuun. 


SONGS, 


I8a 


TIic  the  cl;iitV  wltl-  bad,  l)lytliely  may  we  niffcr, 
Gin  we  get  a  wati,  it  iiiak'n  little  ilitTcr  ; 
We  liae  tint  our  jilaiil,  lidiinct,  lielt  anil  sworriie, 
lid's  and  nuillins  braid,  bat  we  hae  a  Geoidie. 

Hoy  fiT  Sandy  Don,  hey  for  cockolorum, 
Hey  lor  Bobbin'  Juliu  and  his  Highland  qiin- 

ruin  ; 
Many  a  sword  and  lance  swings  at  Highland 

hurdle, 
Huw  they'll  skij)  and  daucc  o'er  the  bum  o' 

Geui'die. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LADDIE. 

ANOTHER   SET. 

The  lawland  l.ifls  think  they  are  fine; 
But  O  they're  vain  and  idly  i;auily  ! 

How  niudi  unlike  tn.it  fjraeelii'  mien. 
And  manly  looks  of  my  iili,'hl.ind  Iidilie  ? 
O  nil/  hiiiinij,  biiiini/  liiyldnuil  Imtilie, 
Mg  /lani/sonie,  c/iirniniy  liiylilnnil  Iw/die  ; 
Mill/  heaven  still  guard,  and  lore  nwnrd 
Our  lawland  lass  and  lur  hiyldand  laddie. 

If  I  were  free  at  will  to  eluise 

To  be  tile  w<a!thie,-t  lawland  lady, 

I'd  take  yoiin^  Donald  without  trews, 
With  bonnet  blue,  and  belted  jdaidy. 
O  my  hunnij,  ^c. 

The  brawest  t)eau  in  borrows,  town, 
In  a'  his  airs,  with  art  made  ready, 

Coni|)ar'il  to  him,  he's  but  a  clown  ; 
He's  finer  far  iii's  taifan  plaidy. 
O  my  buiiuy,  Ifc. 

O'er  henty  hill  with  him  I'll  run. 

And  leave  my  lawland  kin  and  darty  ; 

Frae  winter's  cauld,  and  suinmer's  sun, 
He'll  sereen  me  with  his  highland  plaidy. 
O  my  bunny,  ifc. 

A  painted  room,  ami  silken  bed, 

May  please  a  l.iwlind  laird  and  lady  ; 

But  I  can  kiss,  and  be  as  ulad. 

Behind  a  bush  m's  liighland  plaidy. 
O  my  bonny,  ^'c. 

Few  compliments  between  us  pass, 
1  ca'  him  my  dear  highland  laddie, 

And  he  ca's  me  his  lawland  l.iss, 

Syne  rows  nie  in  beneath  liis  ulaidy. 
O  my  bunny.  &fc. 


N'ae  greater  joy  I'll  e'er  pretend. 

Than  thit  his  love  provL"  true  and  steady, 
Like  mine  to  bun,  which  ne'er  shall  end, 

While  heaven  |)resei'ves  my  highland  laddie. 
O  mj/  bonny,  ^c. 


JENNY  NETTLES. 

Saw  ye  Jenny  Nettles, 

Jenny  Nettles.  Jenny  Nettles, 
Saw  ye  Jenny  Nettles 

Coming  frae  the  maiket? 
Bag  and  baggage  on  her  back. 

Her  fee  and  bountith  in  her  lap; 
Bag  and  baggage  on  her  back, 

And  a  babie  in  her  oxtei  ? 

I  met  ayont  the  kairny, 

Jenny  Nettles,  Jenny  Nettles, 
Singing  till  her  bairny, 

Robin  Rattle's  bastard  ; 
To  flee  the  dool  upo'  the  stool, 

And  ilka  une  that  mocks  her. 
She  round  about  seeks  Robin  out, 

To  staji  it  in  his  oxter 

Fy,  fy  !    Robin  Rattle, 

Robin  Rattle,  Robin  Rattle; 
Fy.  fy  !    Robin  Rattle, 

Use  Jenny  Nettles  kindly  : 
Score  out  the  blame,  and  shun  the  shame, 

Anil  without  mair  debate  o't, 
Tak  hame  your  wean,  make  Jenny  fain 

The  Icel  and  leesome  gate  o't. 


O  MERRY  IMAY  THE  MAID  BE. 

SIR  JOHN   CI.EnK    or   ITNKVCUICK. 
Tune—"  Merry  may  the  Maid  be." 

O,  MERRY  may  the  maid  be 

That  marries  the  miller! 
For,  foul  day  or  fair  day. 

He's  aye  bringing  till  her. 
H'as  aye  a  penny  in  his  pouch, 

For  dinner  oi-  for  supper  ; 
Wi"  beef,  and  pease,  anil  melting  cheese, 

An'  lumps  o'  yellow  butter. 

Behind  the  door  stands  I)ags  o'  meal. 

And  in  the  ark  is  plenty. 
And  goorl  hard  cakes  his  iiiither  bakes. 

And  mony  a  sweeter  dainty, 
A  good  lat  sow,  a  sleeky  cow. 

Are  standing  in  the  byre; 
Whilst  winking  puss,  wi'  mealy  mou. 

Is  playing  round  the  fire. 


Good  signs  are  these,  my  mitl.er  says 

An<l  bids  me  take  the  miller; 
A  miller's  wife's  a  merry  wife. 

Anil  he's  aye  bringing  till  her. 
For  meal  or  maut  she'll  never  want, 

Ti'l  wood  and  water's  scanty  ; 
As  king's  there's  cocks  and  clockin   Leni» 

She'll  aye  hae  eggs  in  plenty. 


184 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


THE  TAILOR. 


The  Tailni  f.ll  tliro'  the  bed  tliinil)lcs  an'  a*, 
The  Tailiir  fell  thro'  the  lied  thiiiililes  an'  a', 
The  blankets  were  thin  ami  the  sheets  they  were 

sma', 
The  Tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed  thim'^l"s  an'  a*. 

TTie  lassie  was  sleepy  and  thoiir;ht  nn  nae  ill  ; 
The  weather  was  caiild  and  the  hussie  lay  still  ; 
The  ninth   |)art  o'   m.mliood   may  sure  hue  its 

will  ; 
She  kent  weel  tlie  Tailor  could  do  her  nae  ill. 

Tlie   Tailnr   grew   dioo-^y,    and    thought   in   a 

dream, 
How  he  caulked  out  the  claith,   and  then  felled 

in  tiie  seam  ; 
A  while  avonf  midniu'ht,  before  the  eocks  craw, 
The  Tailor  fell  thro'  the  bed  thimbles  an'  a". 

Tlie  day  it  has  come,  and  the  nicht  it  has  gone, 
S.iid    the    bonnie    young   lassie   when    sighing 

alane : 
Since  men  are  but  scant,  it  wad  gee  me  n:je 

pain, 
To  see  the  bit  Tailor  come  skippin  again. 


AWA,  WHIGS,  AWA! 


JACOBITE  SONG. 

TafU"— "  Awa,  \\Tiig3,  awa !" 

Our  thistles  fl.nirishVi  fresh  and  fair, 

And  bonny  bloimi'd  our  roses, 
llut  Whigs  came,  like  a  frost  in  June, 
And  witht-r'd  a'  our  posies. 
Awn,    M'/iii/x,  awa! 

Awa,    M'/iii/s,  awa  I 
Yv're  hut  a  puck  o'  trai'tnr  loons  ; 
Yc'll  neer  do  ff'wd  at  a'. 

Our  sad  deciv  in  church  and  state 

Surjtasses  my  ilescriving; 
The  Whigs  can'ie  v,'er  us  for  a  oirse. 

And  we  have  done  wi'  thriving. 

Awa,   Wliiys  !  uwa,  Sfc. 

A  foreign  '\Miiggish  loon  bought  seeds, 

In  Scottish  yiiil  to  cover; 
Lut  we'll  pu'  a'  his  dibbled  leeks, 

And  pack  him  to  Hanover. 

Awa,   WItiijsl  awn,  ^x. 

Our  nncient  crown's  fi'n  i'  the  dust, 
Deil  iilinil  them  wi'  the  stour  o't  ! 

Ami  writi;  th.ir  names  in  his  black  beuk, 
Wha  ga'e  the  Wliigs  the  j'nwL-r  o't  ! 
Awa,  Wh\      '  awa,  Jrc 


Grim  Vengeance  lansj  has  ti'en  a  i:ap. 

But  we  may  see  him  wauken  : 
Gude  hel(>  the  day,  when  royal  heads 

Are  hunted  like  a  m  iiikin  ! 

Aica,   WhitjS .'  awa,  §ti. 

The  deil  he  heard  the  stour  o'  tongues, 

And  ramping  cjime  amang  us  ; 
But  he  pitied  us,  sae  curbed  wi'  VMiigs,— 

He  turn'd  and  wadiia  wran?  ns. 

Awu,   Wltitjs  !  awa,  fye 

Sae  grim  he  sat  amting  the  reeK, 

Thrang  bundling  brimstone  matches  ; 
And  cioon'd,  'mang  the  beuk-taJking  Whigs, 
Scra])s  of  auld  Calvin's  catches. 
Au-a,   Whiqs,  awa  ! 

Awa,   Wliiijs,  own  ! 
Ytll  Tin  me  out  o'  wiin  spunks, 
And  ne'er  do  good  at  a'. 


LOCH-NA-GARR. 

BY  BON. 

Away  ye  gay  landscapes,  ye  gardens  of  roses, 
In  you  let  tiie  minions  of  luxury  rove  ; 
I'uistore  me  the  rocks  where  tlie  saovv-fiake  re 

poses, 
If  still  they  are  sacred  to  freedom  and  love. 
Yet,  Caledonia,  deur  are  thy  mountains. 
Round  their  white  summits  tho'  elements  war, 
Tho'  cataracts  foam,   'stead  of  smooth   flowing 

fountains, 
I  sigh  for  the  valley  of  dark  Loch-na-garr. 

vShades  of  the  dead  !   have  I  heard  your  voices 

Rise  on  the  nistht-rolling  breath  of  the  gaJe, 

Surely  the  soul  of  the  hero  rejoices, 

And  rides  on  the  wind,  o'er  his  own  Higldaad 
dale. 

Round  Loch-na-garr,  while  the  stormy  mist  ga- 
thers, 

Winter  jjresices  in  his  cnM  icy  car  ; 

Clouds  there  encircle  the  forms  of  my  fathers. 

They  dwell  *mid  the  tempests  of  dark  Loch- 
na-Rarr. 


TIIE  IMERRY  ]MEN,  O. 

WiirN  I  was  red,  and  ripe,  and  crouse, 
Ripe  and  crouse,  ripe  and  crouse, 

My  father  built  a  wee  house,  a  wee  hou»e. 
To  baud  me  fiae  the  men,  O. 

There  came  a  lad  and  gae  a  shout, 
Gae  a  shout,  gae  a  shout. 


185 


The  wa's  fi'II  In.  and  I  fill  otit, 
Amaiiij  the  inciiy  iiu'ii,  O. 

I  dream  sic  swi'i'f  fhin2^<  in  my  sslucp, 

In  my  sln-ii,  in  my  s!i'e|). 
My  iniiiny  says  I  wiima  ke.:!p, 

Aiii.iiitj  sac  iiii'tiy  men,  O. 
^  Sen  jiliims  are  ii|je,  they  sliiuild  lie  joo'd, 

Slidii!.!  he  |mii'(l,  shniilil  lie  jJoiiM, 
Wlien  maids  are  rip'",  tliey  sliould  be  woo'd 

At  seven  yeais  and  ten,  O. 

My  love,  I  erie<l  it,  at  the  port, 

At  the  port,  at  tlie  port, 
The  captain   bade  =1  tjuine.i  for't, 

Tlie  cdldiiel  he  l)ade  fen,  O. 
The  chaplain  lie  haiie  siller  for't, 

Siller  I'or't,  siller  tor't, 
Ihit  the  sergeant  bade  ine  naetbing  for't, 

Vet  he  cam  farthest  ben,  O. 


KENMURE'S  ON  AND  AWA,  WILLIE. 

T\nf — "  Kciunure's  on  and  awa." 

D,  Kfnml're's  on  ami  awa,  Willie, 

().  Kenmure's  on  and  awa; 
And  Kenmure's  lord's  tiie  bravest  lord 

That  ever  Galloway  saw. 

Succes  to  Kemniire's  band,  Willie, 

Success  to  Keiiimiie's  banil  ! 
There's  no  a  heart  that  fears  a  Whig;, 

That  rides  by  Kenmure's  hand. 

Here's  Kenmure's  health  in  wine,  Willie, 
Here's  Kemiuiie'.-.  health  in  wine  ! 

There  ne'er  was  a  coward  o*  Kenmure's  bludc, 
Aur  yet  o'  (jordon's  line. 

O,  Kermurc's  lads  are  men,  Willie, 

O,  Kenmure's  lads  are  men  ! 
Their  hearts  and  swonK  are  metal  true  ; 

And  that  their  laes  shall  ken. 

They'll  live  or  die  wi'  fame,  Willie, 

They'll  live  or  die  wi'  fame; 
But  tune  wi'  souml  and  vietoiie 

May  Kenmure's  lord  come  hame  ! 

Hire's  hint,  that's  fir  awa,  Willie, 

Here's  him  that's  tar  awa  ; 
And  here's  the  flower  that  1  lo'e  best, 

The  rose  that's  like  the  suaw. 


POLWART  ON  THE  GREEN. 

At  Polwart  on  the  green. 
If  you'll  meet  me  the  morn. 

Where  lasses  do  coiiveaf 
To  danee  about  the  t..orn, 


A  kindly  welcome  you  shall  meet 
Frae  her  wha  likes  to  view 

A  lover  an<l  u  lad  complete, 
The  lad  and  lover  you. 

Let  dorty  dames  say  Na, 

As  lani;  as  e'er  tiny  please. 
Seem  caulder  than  the  sna', 

N\  hile  inwardly  they  bleeze  ; 
Ikic  I  will  frankly  shaw  my  ipiod, 

And  yield  my  heart  to  «hee  ; 
Be  ever  to  the  captive  kind, 

Tiiat  langs  na  to  be  free. 

At  Polwart  on  the  green, 

Aman^  the  new-mawn  hay. 
With  sanjj;s  and  dancing  keen 

We'll  pass  the  heartsome  day. 
At  night,  if  beds  be  o'er  thrang  laid, 

And  thou  be  twin'd  of  thine. 
Thou  slialt  be  welcome,   my  dear  lad* 

To  take  a  jiart  of  mine. 


HAJIE  NEVER  CAME  HE. 

SAUDLEn,  and  bridled,  and  booted  rode  he, 
A  plume  in  his  helmet,  a  swiml  at  bis  knee  ; 
liut  toom  cam'  the  saddle,  all  bluiily  to  see. 
And  hiime  cam'  the  steed,  but  hame  never  cam 
he. 

Down  cam'  his  gray  father,  sabbin'  sap  sair, 
Diiwn  cam'  his  auld  mither,  teai  ing  her  hair, 
Down    cam'   his  sweet  wife  \vi'    bunnie   bairnj 

three, 
Ane  at  her  bosom,  and  twa  at  her  knee. 

There  stood  the  fleet  steed  all  foamin'  and  hot, 
There  shriek'd  his  sweet  wife,   and  sank  on  the 

spot. 
There  stood  his  gray  father,  weeping  sae  free. 
So  hame  cam'  liis  steed,   but  Iiame  never  cam 

he. 


THE  BOB  OF  DUMBLANE. 

Lassie,  lend  me  your  braw  hemp  heckle, 

And  I'll  lend  you  my  thripling  kaii:e; 
For  fainness,  deary,  I'll  gar  ye  keckle. 

If  ye'U  go  dance  the  Bob  of  Dumb! inc. 
Haste  ye,  gang  to  the  ground  of  your  trunkies,. 

Busk  ye  braw,  and  dimia  think  shame  ; 
Consider  in  time,  if  leading  i;f  .iionkies 

Be  better  than  dancing  the  Bub  of  Dumblase, 

Be  frank,  my  lassie,  lest  I  grow  fickle. 
And  tike  my  word  and  otfer  again. 

Syne  ye  may  chance  to  repent  it  mickle. 
Ye  did  ni  accept  the  Bub  of  Dumblane 


166 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


The  dinner,  tlie  jiiper,  and  priest  slnll  he  roa'iy, 
And  I'm  grcnvn  d.nvy   with  lyinsf  my  laue  ; 

Away  then,  leave  liaith  ininny  and  dady. 
And  try  with  me  the  Bob  of  Dumbldue. 


LOCHABER  NO  MORE 
T\tne — "  I.O(.jiaber  no  more." 

Faueweli,  to  Lnchiher,  and  farewell  uy  Jean, 
\\'here  lieait^ume  with  thee  I've  mony  day  been  ; 
Fur  Lociiaber  no  iiKire,  Loehaber  no  more, 
We'll  in.iy  lie  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 
Tiiese  tears  that  I  sht-d,  they  are  a'  for  my  dear, 
And  no  for  the  dinsrer*  attemling  on  weir, 
Tho    Iiore  on  roii<^h  seas  to  a  far  bloody  shore, 
May  be  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 

Tho*  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  ev'ry  wind. 
They'll   ne'er   make  a  tempest  like  that  in  my 

mind. 
Thn*  Iduilest  of  thunder  on  louder  waves  roar. 
That's  naethinp;  like  leavins;  my  love  on  the  shore. 
To  leave  thee  behiud  me  my  heart  is  sairpain'd, 
By  ease  that's  inolorious,  no  fame  can  bejrain'd. 
And  beauty  and  love's  the  reward  of  the  brave, 
And  I  mu>t  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  f;lory,  my  Jeany,  maun  plead  my  excuse, 
Since  honour  coniuiaiiris  me,  how  can  I  refuse? 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for  thee, 
And  without  thv  favour  I'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae  then,  my  l.iss.  to  win  honour  and  fame. 
And  if  1  shoulil  luck  to  come  gloriously  hame, 
I'd  briufj  a  heart  to  thee  willi  love  running  o'er. 
And  then  I'll  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no  more. 


JOCKY  SAID  TO  JEANY. 

JorjCT  8aiil  to  Jeany,  Jeany,  wilt  thou  do't  ? 
Ne'er  a  fit,  quo'  Jeanv,  for  my  tocher -good, 
For  my  tochi-r-good,  I  winna  marry  thee. 
E'ens  ye  like,  quo'  Jockey,  ye  may  let  it  be. 

I  hafi  gowd  and  gear,  I  hae  land  enough, 
I  hae  >even  good  owsen  ganging  in  a  plcugh, 
Ganging  in  a  pleugh,  and  linking  o'er  the  lee, 
And  gin  ye  winna  tak  me,  I  can  let  ye  be. 

I  hae  a  good  ha'  house,  a  barn  .".nd  a  byre, 
A  stack  afore  the  door,  I'll  make  a  rantin  fire, 
I'll  make  a  rantin  fire,   a;d  merry  inall  we  be: 
And  gin  ye  winna  tak  mo,  I  can  let  ye  be. 

Jeany  said  to  Jocky,  Gin  ye  winna  fell, 
Ve  (thall  be  the  lad,  I'll  be  the  lass  niysell. 
Ye're  u  bonny  lad,  and  I'm  a  lassie  free, 
V'e're  weleomer  to  tak  me  than  to  let  me  be. 


THE  LOWLANDS  OF  HOI  LANO 

ANOTHER   VEllSION 

The  luve  that  I  hae  chosen 

I'll  therewith  be  content ; 
The  saut  sea  will  be  frozen 

Before  that  I  repent  ; 
Repent  it  will  I  ne"»r 

Until  the  day  I  die. 
Though  the  Lowlands  of  Holland 

Hae  twined  my  love  and  me. 

My  luve  lies  in  the  saut  sea, 

And  I  am  on  the  side  ; 
Enough  to  break  a  young  thing's  heart 

Wha  lately  was  a  bride — ■ 
Wha  lately  was  a  happy  bride 

And  pleasure  in  her  ee  ; 
But  the  Lowlands  of  Holland 

Hae  twined  my  love  aud  me 

Oh  !  Holland  is  a  barren  jjlace, 

In  it  there  grows  nae  grain, 
Nor  ony  habitation 

Wherein  for  to  remain  ; 
But  the  sugar  canes  are  plenty, 

And  the  wine  diaps  fi.ie  the  tree, 
But  the  Lowlands  of  Holland 

Hae  twined  my  love  and  me. 

My  love  he  built  a  bonnie  s'nip, 

And  sent  her  to  the  .-ea, 
Wi'  seven  score  guid  mariners 

To  bear  her  companie. 
Three  score  to  the  bottom  gaed, 

And  three  score  died  at  sea  ; 
And  the  Lowlands  of  H<il!and 

Hae  twined  my  love  aud  me. 


JENNY  DANG  THE  WEAVE* 

Jenny  lap,  and  Jenny  flang, 

Jenny  dang  the  weaver  ; 
The  piper  played  as  Jeiiny  sprang. 

An'  aye  she  dang  the  weaver. 

As  I  cam  in  by  Fisherrow, 

IMusselburgh  was  near  ine, 
I  threw  afT  the  niussel-[)uck. 

And  courtit  wi'  my  deerie. 

Had  Jenny's  apron  bidden  down 
The  kirk  wad  ne'er  hae  ken'd  it  5 

But  now  the  word  's  gane  thro   the  towa, 
The  devil  canna  mend  it. 

Jenny  lap,  and  Jenny  fling, 

Jeimy  dang  the  weaver  ; 
The  piper  played  as  Jenny  sprang, 

A  r;d  aye  bhe  dang  the  weaver. 


SONGS                                                  1S7 

1 

A*J  I  WENT  OUT  AE  MAY  MORNING , 

We'll  piss  ye  'neath  the  claymore's  shear. 

Thou  feckless  German  lairdie  ! 

As  I  went  oat  ae  M.iy  mornins;. 

Ae  May  niorniri!;;  it  hii|i|)eneil  t)  be, 

Auld  Scotland,  thou'rt  ewer  cauld  a  hole 

0  thore  I  saw  a  very  bonnie  lass 

For  nursin'  siccan  vermin  ; 

Cimie  liiikin'  o'ev  the  ItM  to  me. 

But  the  very  doui;s  o'  England's  court 

And  O  she  was  a  wfL-l-f.iuii  Kis'', 

Tliey  bark  anil  howl  in  German. 

Swi'i't  as  the  fli>wcr  sae  newly  sprung; 

Then  keep  thy  dil)b!e  in  thy  ain  hand, 

I  sai<l,  f.iir  iiiiiiil,  an*  ye  fancy  me, 

Thy  spade  but  and  thy  yardie; 

When  she  laughing  said,  I  am  too  younj. 

For  will  the  deil  hae  we  gotren  for  a  kingi 

But  a  wee,  wee  German  laiidie  ? 

To  be  your  bride  I  am  too  youngf. 

And  far  our  proud  to  be  your  loon  ; 
This  is  thi!  merry  month  of  May, 

But  I'll  he  aulder.  Sir,  in  June. 

The  hawthorns  flourished  frer-h  and  fair. 

THE  FORAY. 

And  o'er  our  hcails  the  small  birds  sing, 
And  never  a  word  the  lassie  said. 

SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 

But,  gentle  Sir,  I  am  too  young. 

The  last  of  our  steers  on  *!ie  board  has  bcea 

spread. 

And  the  last  llask  of  wine  in  our  goblets  is  rei  : 
Uj),  up,   my  brave  kinsmeu  ! — belt  swords  and 

begone  ; 

THE  WEE,  WEE  GERMAN  LAIRDIH. 

There  are  dangers  to  dare,  and  there's  spoil  to 
won  ! 

WiiA  the  deil  hae  we  gotten  for  a  king, 

The  eyes  that  so  lately  mixed  glances  with  ours, 

But  a  wee,  wee  Geiman  lairdie  ? 

For  a  space  must  be  dim,  as  they  gaze  from  th« 

.\w\,  when  we  gaed  to  brinij  him, 

towers. 

He  was  delving  in  his  yardie  : 

And  strive  to  distinguish,  through  tempest  and 

Sheughing  kail,  and  layin:;  leeks, 

gloom, 

But  the  hose,  and  but  the  brceks  ; 

The   prance  of  the  steeds  and   the  top   of  the 

And  up  his  beggar  duds  be  cleeks — 

plume. 

This  wee,  wee  German  lairdie. 

The  rain  is  descending,  the  wind  rises  loud, 

And  he's  clapt  down  in  our  gudemau's  chair, 

The   moon    her   red    beacon   has  veiled   with  a 

The  wee,  wee  German  lairdie  ; 

cloud — 

And  he's  l)rou'_;ht  f<uitii  o'  foreign  trash, 

'Tis  the  better,  my  mates,  for  the  warder's  dull 

And  dibbled  them  in  his  yardie. 

eje 

He's  |iu'd  the  rose  o*  English  loons. 

Shall  in  confidence  slumber,  nor  dream  we  are 

And  broken  the  harp  o'  Iiish  clowns; 

nigh. 

Rut  our  thistle  tu])8  will  jag  his  thumbs^ 

O 

This  wee,  wee  Geriiiaa  lairdie. 

Our  steeds  are   impatient — I   hear   my  blythe 

Come  up  amang  our  Highland  hills, 

There  is  life  in  his  hoof-clang  and  hope  in  his 

Thou  wee,  wee  German  lairdie. 

neigh  ; 

And  see  the  Stuart's  lang-kail  thrive 

Like  the  flash  of  a  meteor,   the  glance  of  his 

We  dibbled  in  our  yardie  : 

mane 

And  if  a  stock  ye  daie  to  pu'. 

Shall  marshal   your  march  through  the   dark- 

Or baud  the  yoking  o'  a  plough. 

ness  and  rain. 

We'll  break  your  sceptre  o'er  your  mru  , 

Thou  wee  bit  German  lairdie. 

The   draw-bridge  has  dropped,   and  the  bugle 

has  blown  ; 

Our  hills  are  steep,  our  glens  are  deep, 

One  pledge  is   to  quaiT  yet — then  mount  and 

Nae  fitting  for  a  yardie  ; 

begone  : 

And  our  Norland  thistles  winna  pu*. 

To  their  honour  and   peace  that  si>atl  rest  vv:th 

Thou  wee  bit  German  lairdie  : 

the  sl.iin  ! 

And  we've  the  trenching  blades  o*  weir. 

To  tlieir  heahh  and  their  glee  that  see  Teviot 

^  id  piuoe  je  o'  your  Gerinaa  gear— 

again  ! 

'                   '                                   ■           ■                                            --            1 

18S 


BURNS'S   SONGS. 


ADIEU:  \  HEART-WARM  FOND  ADIEU! 
Tune—"  The  Peacock." 

Adieu  !   a  lieart-warrn  fond  adieu  ! 

Dear  brothers  of  the  rnyst'c  tie  ! 
Ye  fiivour'd,  ye  eiilighten'd  few. 

Companions  of  my  sociiil  joy  ! 
Thougli  I  to  foieion  lands  must  hie, 

PuiMiing  Fortune's  sliddry  ba', 
Witli  melting  iie.ut.  and  brimful  eye, 

I'll  mind  you  stdl,  though  far  awa*. 

Oft  have  [  met  ynnr  social  band, 

And  K|ietit  tlit-  cheerful  festive  night; 
Oft,  honour'd  with  supreme  i-ommaDd, 

Presideii  o'er  the  sons  of  light ; 
And  liy  that  hieioglyphie.  bright, 

Which  none  but  craftsnien  ever  saw  ! 
Strong  memiirv  on  my  heart  sliali  write 

Those  lidpj'V  scenes  when  far  awa  ! 

May  fieedom,  harmony,  and  love, 

Unite  vtiu  in  the  grand  design, 
Beneath  the  Omniscient  Eye  above. 

The  glorious  architect  divine  I 
That  you  :..-/  keep  th'  unerring  line, 

Still  rising  Iv  the  plummet's  law, 
Till  ordei-  bright  completely  shine — 

Shall  be  my  prayer  when  far  awa. 

And  yon,  farewell  I   whose  merits  claim. 

Justly,  that  highest  bad.;e  to  wear! 
Heaven  bless  your  honour'd,  noble  name, 

To  niasjjnry  and  Scotia  dear  I 
A  last  reiiuest  permit  me  here, 

When  yearly  ve  as-euible  a', 
One  round,  1  a-k  it  with  a  tear, 

To  him,  the  bard,  that's  far  awa,* 


AE  FOND  KISS. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 

Ae  farewell,  alas,  lor  ever  ! 

Dfcp  in  beait-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

War  in  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 


•  Written  as  a  Rori  of  farewell  u,  the  Masonic  com- 
(>:tniona  of  liif  vmiih,  wticn  ilic  (ux'i  was  un  the  punil 
of  Icaktiiu  Scoil^ul  liii  Jamaica,  'TUtJ. 


MHio  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  hisa. 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  theerfu'  twinkle  lights  me; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  thy  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy; 
But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her  ; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly  ; 
Never  met — or  never  parteil. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare  thee  well,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare  thee  well,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure  ! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  ; 
Ae  farewell,  alas,  for  ever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  tbE9, 
War  in  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 


AFTON  WATER. 

Tune—"  The  VcIIow-hair'd  Laddie." 

Flow  pently,   sweet   Aflon,  among  thy  greea 

braes. 
Flow  gently,  Fll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise, 
IMy  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuiing  stream  ; 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  distuib  not  her  dream. 

Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds  througl 
the  glen, 

Ye  wild-whistling  blackbirds,  in  yon  flowery 
den. 

Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  for- 
bear, 

I  charge  you,  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair. 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills; 
Far  mark'd  with  the  courses  of  clear-winding 

rills  ; 
There  daily  1  wander,  as  mora  rises  high, 
My  Cocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  jdcasant  thy  lianks  and  green  valleys  below 
^\'lu•l■e  wild  in  the  woodlaiuls  the  jjriniioses  blow 
There  oft,  us  nidd  evening  creeps  o'e'  the  lea. 
The  swee!  .scented  birk  shades  my  Marv  and  ma 


rJ 


SOXGS                                                   .89 

Tliy  crystni  ftroam,  Affon,  now  lovciy  itjiliilos, 

'  But  he  still  wa*  faithful  to  his  can, 

And  wimls  l)y  the  cot  whvrc  my  Mary  icsidci  ! 

My  gallant,  braw  John  Highlandnian  ! 

How  wanton  tliy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 

Sni'f  /ley,  mi/  hrmv  Jo/m  Iluihlamlman  ! 

As,   gatli'ring   sweet   flow'rets,    she   stems   thy 

SiiKj  ho,  nil/  hrtiw  John  /Jii/hlandmanl 

clear  wave ! 

Thire's  ni.t  a'  lad  in  a  the  luntl. 

Was  match  for  my  braw  John  IJiyhlandmanl 

Flow  gently,   sweet  Afton,   among  thy   green 

braes  ; 

With  his  phllaheg  and  tartan  plaid, 

Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  tlie  theme  of  my  lays  ; 

And  glide  claymore  down  by  his  side, 

My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  uiurmuring  stream  ; 

The  ladies*  hearts  he  did  trepan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Ilighlandinan. 

riow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  di^turb  not  her  dream. 

Sing  hey    ifc. 
We  ranged  a*  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 

AGAIN  REJOICING  NATURE  SEES. 

And  lived  like  lords  and  ladies  gay  ; 
For  a  Lawland  face  he  feared  none, 

TuHe—"  Johnnie's  Grey  Breeks." 

My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

Siny  hey,  Sj-c. 

Again  rejoicing  nature  sees 

Her  rohe  assume  its  vernal  hues  ; 

They  banished  him  beyond  the  sea ; 

Her  leafy  locks  wave  in  the  breeze, 

But,  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 

All  freshly  steep'd  in  morning  dews. 

A  down  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran. 

Embracing  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 

In  vain  to  me  the  cowslips  blaw  ; 

Siny  hey,  Sfc. 

In  vain  to  me  the  vi'lets  spring ; 

In  vain  to  me,  in  glen  or  shaw, 

But,  och !  they  catched  him  at  the  last. 

The  mavis  and  the  lintwhite  sing. 

And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast; 

My  curse  upon  them  every  one. 

The  merry  plouglihoy  cheers  his  team  ; 

They've  hanged  my  braw  John  Highlandman ' 

Wi"  joy  the  tentie  seedman  stauks  ; 

Siny  hey,  Sfc. 

Bat  life  to  me's  a  weary  dream, 

A  dream  of  ane  that  never  wauks. 

And  now,  a  widow,  I  must  mourn 

Departeil  joys  that  ne'er  return, 

The  wanton  coot  the  water  skims  ; 

No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can, 

Amang  the  reeds  the  ducklings  cry  ; 

When  I  think  on  John  Highlandiran. 

The  stately  swan  niaie>tic  swims  ; 

Siny  hey,  ^-c. 

And  every  thing  is  blest  but  I. 
The  shepherd  steeks  his  fauMing  slips, 

And  o'er  the  moorland  whistles  shrill ; 

Wi'  wild,  unequal,  wandering  step, 
I  meet  him  on  the  dewy  hill. 

AMANG  THE  TREES  WHERE  HUM 

MING  BEES. 

And  when  the  lark,  'tween  light  and  dark, 

Tune-"  The  King  of  France,  he  rade  «  Rar» 

Blithe  waukens  by  the  daisy's  side, 

Amang  the  trees  wliere  humming  befs 

And  mounts  and  sings  on  flutterino-  win"-s. 

At  buds  and  flowers  were  hinging,  0  j 

A  woe-worn  ghaist,    I  hameward  glide. 

Auld  Caledon  drew  out  her  drone, 

And  to  liei  pipe  was  sin>;ing,  O  ; 

Come,  Winter,  with  thine  angry  howl. 

'Twas  Pibroch,  sang,  strathspey,  or  rcelf 

Ai.J  raging  benil  the  naked  tree  ; 

She  dirl'd  them  afT,  fu'  clearly,  O  ; 

Thy  g'.oom  will  soothe  my  clieerless  soul. 

When  there  cam  a  yell  o'  foreign  sque*'* 

When  nature  all  is  sad  like  me  ! 

That  dang  her  tapsalteerie,  O — 

Their  capon  craws  and  queer  ha  ha's. 
They  made  our  lugs  grow  eerie,  O 

1 

The  hungry  bike  diil  scrajie  and  pike 
'Till  we  were  wae  and  weary,  O — 

A  HIGHLAND  LAD  MY  LOVE  WAS 

BORN. 

But  a  royal  ghaist  wha  ance  was  cas'd 

A  prisoner  aiighteen  year  awa, 

THE    "  RAUCLE   CARI.INe's"  SONG   IN  111  E 

He  tir'd  a  fiddler  in  the  North 

"  JOLI.Y   BEGGARS." 

That  dang  them  tapsaltcerie,  O. 

Tune—"  O  an  ye  war  dead,  guTdinan  !" 
A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born, 

The  Lawhnd  laws  he  held  in  scorn  ; 

■■                                       .     1 

100 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


A  JIAN'S  A  MAN  FOR  A'  THAT. 
Tune—"  For  a"  tliat,  and  a'  that. 

Is  there,  for  honest  pnvertyi 

Tli;it  hiinjijs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  <'<)\vard-!-l.ive,  we  pass  him  by  j 

We  daur  lie  puir  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  ot)scure,  and  a'  that, 
riie  rank  is  hut  the  giinea-stamp— 

The  man's  the  goud  fur  a'  that. 

What  though  en  hamely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodilin-ijrey,  and  a'  that  ? 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine; 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that; 
For  a*  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that, 
riie  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  puir, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord,, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a*  that ; 
Thou;;h  humlreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  cuif  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  kin;;  can  make  a  belted  knight, 

A  m.uquis,  duke,  and  a'  that  ; 
Bi\t  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  micht, 

Glide  faith,  he  maunna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 
The  pith  o*  sense,  the  pride  o*  worth, 

.\re  higher  ranks  for  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray,  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will,  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth, 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  th.at. 
For  a'  tliat,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coMiin'  yet  for  a"  that, 
That  man  to  nran,  the  warld  o'er. 

Shall  brothe  3  be  for  a'  that. 


ANNA. 


TKine—"  Banks  of  Banna." 

Yksti'.i:en  1  had  a  pint  o'  wine, 

A  place  where  body  saw  na  ; 
Ytt-treen  lay  on  this  breast  o'  mine 

The  raven  locks  of  Anna. 
The  hungry  Jew  in  wilderness, 

krjoiciiig  ower  his  UiSima, 
Was  naething  to  my  hinriy  bliss, 

Ujxin  the  lips  of  Anna. 

Ye  r-onarchs  tak  the  cast  and  west, 
Frae  Indus  to  Savannah  1 


Gie  me  within  my  straining  grasp 

The  melting  form  of  Anna. 
There  I'll  dt-spise  imperial  charms, 

An  empress  or  sultana, 
While  dying  raptures,  in  her  arms 

I  give  and  take  with  Anaa. 

Awa,  thou  flaunting  god  of  day  ! 
Awa,  thou  pale  Diana  ! 

Ilk  star  gae  hide  thy  twinkling  ray- 
When  I'm  to  meet  my  Anna. 

Come,  in  thy  raven  plumage,  night, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  withdrawn  »*  ^ 

And  bring  an  angel  pen  to  write 
My  transports  with  my  Anna.* 


ANNIE. 
Tunt—"  Allan  Water." 

I  wAi.KFD  out  with  theJIuseum  in  my  hand, 
and  turning  up  Allan  Water,  the  words  appeared 
to  me  rather  unworthy  of  so  fine  an  air,  so  I  sat 
and  raved  under  the  shade  of  an  old  thorn  till  I 
wrote  one  to  suit  the  measure. 

Bv  Allan  stream  I  chanced  to  rove, 

Wliiie  Phoebus  sank  beyond  Benledi, 
The  winds  were  whisp'ring  through  the  grorc> 

The  yellow  corn  was  waving  readv  : 
I  listen'd  to  a  lover's  sang. 

And  thought  on  )iiuthful  pleasures  many; 
And  aye  the  wild-wood  echoes  rang 

O,  dearly  do  I  love  thee,  Annie  ! 

O,  happy  be  the  woodbine  bower  ; 

Nae  nightly  bogle  mak  it  eerie ; 
Nor  ever  so-row  stain  the  hour. 

The  place  and  time  I  meet  my  dearie ! 
Her  head  U|]on  my  thro':bing  breast, 

She,  sinking,  said,  I'm  thine  for  ever  ! 
While  many  a  kiss  the  seai  impress'd. 

The  sacied  vow,  we  ne'er  should  sever. 

The  haunt  o'  Spring's  the  primrose  brae ; 

The  Simmer  joys  the  flocks  to  follow; 
How  cheerie,  through  her  short'ning  day, 

Is  Autumn  in  her  weeds  o."  yellow  ! 
But  can  they  melt  the  glowing  heart, 

Or  chain  the  soul  in  speechless  pleasure. 
Or  through  each  nerve  the  rapture  dart. 

Like  meeting  her,  our  bosom's  treasure  ? 


»  Thissong.  like  "  Ilijhlaml  Mary,"  aflxinls a  strong 
proof  of  the  pciwer  which  I'oetry  possesses  of  rHising 
anil  siihliiiiiiif;  olijccts.  Ilighlanil  Mary  was  theilairv- 
niaiil  of  L'olMitlil ;  Anna  is  said  to  have  l)ccn  tome- 
thind  meaner.  The  poet  sure  was  in  a  fine  phrcnzy 
rolhi)«  when  he  s.iict,  '<  1  think  this  is  the  best  kiv* 
long  1  ever  wrote." 


?ONGa 


191 


A  RED  RED  ROSE. 
Tune — "  Low  down  In  the  Brume.' 

0,  JiY  luve's  like  a  red  red  r«se. 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June  ; 

O,  my  luve's  like  the  nielodie. 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bnnnie  lass, 

Sae  dee|>  in  luve  am  I  ; 
Anil  I  will  love  thee  still,  my  dear. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gann;  diy,  my  dear. 
And  the  rocks  melt  \vi'  the  sun; 
will  love  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  lite  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve. 
And  fare  thee  weel  a  while  ! 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 
Thoujrh  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


A  ROSE-BUD  BY  MY  EARLY  WALK. 

This  song  I  composed  on  Miss  Jenny  Crnik- 
shank,  only  child  to  my  worthy  friend  Jlr. 
William  Ciuikshank  of  the  High-School,  Edin- 
burgh. The  air  is  by  David  Sillar,  quondam 
merchant,  now  schoolmaster,  in  Irvine  :  the 
Davie  to  whom  I  address  my  poetical  cpiitle. 

A  ROSE-BUD  by  my  eirly  walk, 
Adown  a  corn-inclosed  bawk, 
Sue  gently  bent  it-;  thorny  stalk, 
All  on  a  dewy  morning. 

Ere  twice  the  shades  o'  dawn  are  fled, 
In  a'  its  crimscm  glory  spread, 
And  drooping  rich  the  dewy  head. 
It  scents  the  early  morning. 

Within  the  bush,  her  covert  nest 
A  little  linnet  tondiy  piest, 
The  dew  sat  chilly  on  her  breast 
Sae  early  in  the  morning. 

She  soon  shdl  sc^  her  tender  brood. 
The  pride,  the  pleasure  o'  the  wood, 
Amai;g  the  fVe>h  green  leaves  bedewed. 
Awake  the  early  morning. 

So  thou,  de  ir  bird,  young  Jeany  fair, 
On  tremhiing  siring  or  vocal  air. 
Shall  sweetly  ])ay  the  tender  care 
That  tents  thy  early  morning. 

So  thou,  sweet  ro^e-bnd,  young  and  gay, 
Sh.ilt  beauteous  blaze  upon  the  day, 
And  bless  the  parent's  evening  ray 
That  watched  thy  eajly  morning. 


A  SOUTHLAND  JENNY. 

Tins  is  a  popular  Ayrshire  song,  though  tlie 
notes  were  never  taken  down  before, — It,  a» 
Well  as  many  of  the  ballad  tunes  in  this  co.lt;- 
tion,  was  written  from  Mrs.  Burns's  voice. 

A  Southland  Jenny  that  was  right  bonny, 
Had  for  a  suitor  a  Norland  Jidnmie, 
But  he  was  sicken  a  bashlu*  wooer. 
That  he  could  scarcely  speak  unto  her. 

But  blinks  o'  her  beauty,  and  hopes  o'  her  siller 
Forced  him  at  last  to  tell  his  mind  till  her; 
My  dear,  quo'  he,  we'll  nae  langer  tarry. 
Gin  ye  can  lo'e  me,  let's  o'er  the  moor  and  marry 

Come  awa  then,  my  Norland  laddie, 
Tho'  we  gang  neat,  some  are  mair  gaudy  ; 
Albeit  I  hae  neither  land  nor  money. 
Come,  and  I'll  ware  my  beiuty  on  thee. 

Ye  lasses  o'  the  South,  ye'rc  a'  for  drei^sin  ; 
Lasses  o'  the  North,  mind  mil!%iii  and  threshin  ^ 
My   minnie  wad    be   angry,    and    sae   wad   nij 

(laddie, 
Should  1  marry  ane  as  dink  as  a  lady. 

I  maun  h.ae  a  wife  that  will  rise  i'  the  mornin, 
Cruddle   a'   the   milk,    and   keep   the  house  a 

scauldin  ; 
Tulzle  wi'  her  neebors,  and  learn  at  my  minnie, 
A  Norland  Jocky  maun  hae  a  Norland  Jenny, 

My  father's  only  dochter,   wi' faims  and  Si — 

ready, 
Vi'ad  be  ill  bestowed  upon  sic  a  clownish  body  ; 
A'  that  I  said  was  to  try  what  was  in  thee, 
Gae  hanie,   ye  Norland  Jockie,   and  court  yout 

Norland  Jenny  ! 


AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

SirouLD  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot, 

And  never  brought  to  mind? 
Should  auUl  acquaintance  be  forgot, 
And  auld  lang  syne  ! 

7'or  auld  lang  syne,  my  jo, 

Fur  auld  lan^  ■>yiie, 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 
For  auld  lanff  syne  ! 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint  stoup  ! 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine ! 
And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

For  aulii  lang  syne. 
Fur  auld,  §-c. 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes. 
And  pou't  the  gowans  fine  ; 

But  we've  waiuler'd  mony  a  weary  fost 
Sin  auld  lang  syne. 
Fur  auld,  ^-c. 


192 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


We  twa  Viae  paMI't  i'  the  biMn, 

Fr:ie  iniiriiiiis;  sim  'till  liiriL- ; 
But  seas  Uetween  ii;<  braid  hae  roai'd, 
Sin  aiikl  I.mt^  syne. 
For  aulJ,  Sfc. 

And  there's  a  han",  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  ^ifs  a  ban'  n'  thine  ! 
Anil  we'll  tik  a  right  gude  willy-waught 

For  auld  lang  syne  ! 
For  auld,  Sfc. 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 

There's   auld   Rob  Morris,   that  wins  in  yon 

glen, 
He's  the  king  o'  gude  fellows,  and  wale  of  auld 

men  ; 
He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers  ;  he  has  ousen  and 

kine, 
And  ae  bounie  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 

She's  fresh  in  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May  ; 
She's  sweet  as  the  evening  among  the  new  hay  ; 
As  blytlie,   and   as  artless,    as  the  Limb  on  the 

lea  ; 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  ee. 

But  oh  !  she's  an  heiress  :  auld  Robin's  a  laird, 
And  niy  d.iddie  has  nought  but  a  cothouse  and 

yard. 
A  wooer  like  me  mauna  hope  to  come  speed. 
The  woutids  I  must   hide  that  will  soon  be  my 

dead. 

The  day  comes  to  me,   but  delight  brings  me 

n.me  ; 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is  gane  ; 
I  wander  my  lane  like  a  night-troubled  gliaist. 
And    I   sigii  as   my  heart   it  wad  burst   in  my 

breast  ! 

Oh  had  she  but  been  of  a  lower  degree, 

I  then   might    hae  ho])'u   she  wad  sniil'd    upon 

me ; 
O  how  pa^t  deserving  Iiad  then  been  my  bless, 
As  now  my  distraction,  no  words  can  express. 


DESSY  AND  HER  SPINNING  WHEEL. 

Tune—"  The  uottom  of  the  Punch  Bowl." 

O  i.Ei  ZK  m-j  on  my  spinning-wheel  ! 
O  leeze  me  on  my  lock  and  leel  ! 
Frae  tiip  to  tae  that  deeds  me  bien. 
And  haps  me  feil  *    and  warm  at  e'en! 
I'll  set  uic  doun,  atid  sing,  and  spin, 
While  laigh  dest-ends  the  simmer  sun  ; 


•  Covers  me  with  a  stuff  »2n*e>il'  fo  the  iKin. 


Rlest  wi'  content,  and  milk,  and  meal'-« 
O  leeze  nie  oa  my  spinning-wheel ! 

On  ilka  hand  the  burnics  trot, 
And  meet  below  my  theekit  cot  ; 
The  scented  birk  and  hawthorn  white 
Across  the  pool  their  arms  unite. 
Alike  to  screen  the  birdie's  nest. 
And  little  fishes'  caller  reist  ; 
The  sun  blinks  kindly  in  the  biel, 
Where  blythe  I  turn  my  spmning-whed 

On  lofty  aiks  the  cushats  wail, 
And  echo  cons  the  doolfu'  tale  ; 
The  lintwhites  in  the  hazel  braes, 
Delighted,  rival  ither's  lays  : 
The  craik  amang  the  clover  hay. 
The  paitrick  whirring  ower  the  lea. 
The  swallow  jinkin'  roumi  my  sluel 
Amuse  nie  at  my  spinning-wheel. 

Vt'i'  sma'  to  sell,  and  less  to  buy, 
Aboon  distress,  below  envy, 
O  wlui  wad  leave  this  humble  state* 
Fi.r  a'  the  pride  of  a'  the  great? 
Amid  their  flaring  idle  toys, 
An'.id  their  cumbrous,  Jinsome  jnvs 
Can  they  the  peace  and  pie  i-ure  feel 
Of  Bessy  at  her  spiuuing-whcel  i 


BEWARE  O'  BONNIE  ANf» 

I  COMPOSED  this  song  out  of  cnnipUment  to 
Miss  Ann  Masterton,  the  daughter  of  m^  triend; 
Allan  Masterton,  the  author  of  the  air  of  Strath' 
aUdti's  Lament,  and  two  or  three  others  ia  thif 
work. 

Ye  gallants  bright  T  red  ye  right, 

Beware  o'  bonnie  Ann  ; 
Her  comely  face  sae  fu'  o'  giace, 

Your  heart  she  will  trepan. 
Her  een  sae  bright,  like  stars  by  night. 

Her  skin  is  like  the  swan  ; 
Sae  jimply  lac'd  her  genty  waist. 

That  sweetly  ye  might  span. 

Youth,  grace,  and  love,  attendant  moT-, 

And  pleasure  leails  the  van  : 
In  a'  their  charms,  and  conquering  «rau, 

1  ney  wait  on  bonnie  Ann. 
The  captive  bands  may  chain  the  'lands^ 

But  Iiive  enslaves  the  man  ; 
Ye  gallants  braw,  I  red  you  a'. 

Beware  o*  bonnie  Ann. 


SONGS 


193: 


BEHOLD  THE  HOUU,  THE  BOAT 
AUKIVi:. 

Tunt — "  Oran  Gaoil." 

BsHoi.n  the  hour,  ttie  Ixiat  arrive  ; 

Tluiu  »j(>est,  t'.uiu  (l.irlintr  of  my  heart! 
Sfvi'i'tl  from  tlifc.  nil  I  survive? 

But  fitf  h.is  nillM,  and  we  must  part. 
['11  often  ijreet  tlii*  surijirig  swell, 

Yon  distant  isle  wjII  often  hail  : 
*"  y.  cii  heie  I  took  my  last  farewell, 

There  latest  mark'd  her  vauish'd  sail." 

.\lon?;  the  solitary  shore. 

While  fllttin^'  sea  fowl  round  me  cry, 
Across  the  roiiiiisj,  da-^hlug  roar, 

I'll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye  : 
Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I'll  say, 

Where  now  my  Nancy  s  path  may  be  ! 
While  throu^'h  thy  sweets  she  loves  to  stray. 

Oh,  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me  ? 


BEYOND  THEE,  DEARIE. 

It  is  remark  ihle  of  this  air,  that  it  is  the  con 
fine  of  that  country  where  the  greatest  part  of 
our  Lowland  music,  (so  far  as  from  the  title, 
words,  &c.  we  can  localize  it),  has  heen  com- 
posed. From  Crai^ie-hurn,  near  IMotfat,  until 
one  leaches  the  West  Highlands,  wo  have  scarce- 
ly one  slow  air  of  any  antiquity. 

The  snna;  was  composed  on  a  passion  which 
a  Mr.  Gillespie,  a  particular  fiiend  of  mine,  had 
for  a  .Mis<  Lorimer,  afterwards  a  Mrs.  Wlielp- 
(iale. — The  young  lady  was  born  at  Craigie- 
burn  wood — Tne  chorus  is  part  of  an  old  fool- 
isii  ballad. — 

Beyond  thee.,  dearie,  hei/nnd  thee,  dearie, 

And  O  til  be  li/inr)  bujiind  titee, 
0  siveetlij,  XDunilly,  wiel  may  lie  sleep, 

I'liat's  laid  ill  the  btd  beyuad  thee. 


CRAIGIE-BURN  WOOD. 

Sweet  clones  the  evening  on  Craigie-burn  wood, 

And  blythely  awakens  the  morrow  ; 
But  the  pride  of  the  spring  in  the  Craigie-burn 
wood, 
Can  yiel<l  me  to  nothing  but  sorrow. 
Jiiyond  ihee,  ^c. 

I  see  the  spreading  leaves  and  flowers, 

I  heir  the  wild  birds  singing  ; 
But  pleiiNure  they  hae  nane  for  me. 

While  care  my  heart  is  wringing 
Heyond  thee,  SfC. 

eaniis  tell,  I  maun  na  tell, 
I  dire  Dd  for  your  anger ; 


But  secret  love  will  break  my  heart» 
If  I  conceal  it  langer. 

Jieyond,  tliee,  J-c. 

I  see  thee  graccfu',  straight  and  talL 
I  see  thee  sweet  and  bonuie, 

But  oil,  what  will  my  torments  be. 
If  thou  refuse  thy  Jivjnie  ! 
Heyond  thee,  ^c. 

To  see  thee  in  anither's  arms. 
In  love  to  lie  and  languish, 

'Twad  be  my  dead,  that  will  be  Keen, 

My  heart  wad  burst  wi'  anguish. 

Beyond  thee,  S^c. 

But  Jeanie,  say  thou  wilt  be  mine, 
Say,  thou  lo'es  nane  belote  me  ; 

And  a'  my  days  o'  life  to  cuiiie, 
I'll  gratefully  adore  thee. 
Beyond  thee,  Jfc. 


BLYTHE  HAE  I  BEEN  ON  YOr    ftHl. 
Tunt — "  Liggcram  co«h." 

Bltthe  hae  I  been  on  yon  hill, 

As  the  lambs  before  me  ; 
Careless  ilka  thought  and  free, 

As  the  breeze  flew  o'er  me  : 
Now  nae  latiger  sport  and  play, 

IMirth  or  sang  can  please  me  : 
Lesley  is  sae  fair  and  coy, 

Care  and  anguish  seize  me. 

Heavy,  heavy  is  the  task, 

Hiipeless  love  declaiiiig: 
Trembling,  1  dow  noclit  but  glonx 

Sighing,  dumb,  despairing! 
If  she  winna  ease  the  tliiaws, 

In  my  bosom  swelling  ; 
Underneath  the  grass-green  sod, 

Soon  maua  be  my  dwelling. 


BLYTHE  WAS  SHE. 

Bh/tlie,  llythe  and  merry  teas  shty 
Blythe  teas  she  but  ntid  ben  ; 

Bhjthe  by  the  banks  of  Km, 
And  blythe  in  Gleiiturit  glen, 

Bv  Oughtertyre  grows  the  aik. 

On  Yarrow  banks,  the  blrken  shaW 

But  Phemie  was  a  honnnier  lans 
Than  braes  o*  Yarrow  ever  saw. 
Blythe,  ^c. 

Her  looks  were  like  a  flow'r  in  JTay, 
Her  smile  was  like  a  simmer  mora  : 


194 


BURNS    WORKS, 


She  tripped  by  tlie  banks  of  Ern, 
As  light's  a  bird  upon  a  thorn. 
Blytlm,  Sfc. 

Her  bonny  face  it  was  as  meek 

As  ony  lamb  upon  a  lee ; 
The  evening  fin  was  ne'er  sae  sweet 

As  was  the  blink  o'  Phemie's  e'e. 
Blythe,  Sfc, 

The  Highland  hill's  Tve  wander'd  wide, 
And  o'er  the  Lowlands  I  hae  been  ; 

But  Phemie  was  the  blythest  lass 
That  ever  trod  the  dewy  green. 
nil/the,  §-e. 


BONNIE  WEE  THING 
Tunir— "  Bonnie  Wee  Thing." 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  cannie  wee  thing; 

Loveiy  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 
I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 

Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tme 

Wistfully  I  look  and  languish 
In  that  bonnie  face  o'  thine  ; 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguish, 
Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 

WLt,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beauty, 

In  ae  constellation  shine  ; 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty, 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine  1 

Bonnie  wee  thing,  canuie  wee  thing, 
Lovely  wee  thing,  wert  thou  mine, 

I  wad  wear  thee  in  my  bosom, 
Lest  my  jewel  I  should  tine. 


BONNIE  BELL. 

The  smiling  Spring  comes  in  rejoicing, 

And  surly  Winter  grimly  flies  ; 
Now  crystal  clear  are  the  falling  waters, 

And  bonnie  blue  are  the  sunny  skies  ; 
Fresh  o'er  the  mountains  breaks  forth  the  mor- 
ning. 

The  ev'ning  gilds  the  ocean's  swell  ; 
All  creatures  joy  in  the  sun's  returning. 

And  I  rejoice  in  my  bonnie  Bell. 

The  flow'ry  Spring  leads  sunny  Summer, 
And  yellow  Autumn  presses  near. 

Then  in  his  turn  comes  gloomy  Winter, 
Till  smiling  Spring  as^ain  appear. 

Thus  seasons  dancing,  life  advancing, 

Old  Time  and  N.iture  their  changes  tell. 

But  never  rariijing,  still  unchanging 
I  adore  mv  bonnie  Bell. 


BONNIE  LESLEY. 
Tune—"  The  Colliei's  bonnie  Lacsie. 

O,  SAW  ye  bonnie  Lesley, 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  Border  ? 
She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther* 
To  see  her  is  to  love  her. 

And  love  but  her  for  ever  ; 
For  nature  made  her  what  she  i«, 

And  never  made  anither  ' 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 

Thy  subjects  we  before  thee : 
Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley  ; 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 
The  Deil  he  couldna  scaith  thee. 

Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 
He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face. 

And  say,  I  canna  wrang  thee  1 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee, 

Misfortune  shanna  steer  thee  ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely, 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  the* 
Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  asrain  sae  bonnie.' 


BONNIE  JEAN. 
TunC'-"  Bonnie  Jean." 

There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair. 
At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen  ; 

When  a'  the  fairest  maids  were  met, 
The  fairest  maid  was  bonnie  Jean. 

And  aye  she  wrought  her  maminie's  wark, 
And  aye  she  sang  sae  merrilie  ; 

The  blythest  bird  upon  the  bush 
Had  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 

But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 
That  bless  the  little  lintwhite's  nest; 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers. 
And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

Young  Robie  was  the  brawest  lad. 
The  flower  and  pride  of  a'  the  glen  ; 

And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye. 
And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 

He  gaed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  tryste. 

He  (lanceil  wi'  Jeanie  on  the  down  ; 

And  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist. 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stown. 


•  Written  in  hoiinur  of  Miss  I.cslw  Baillicof  Ayf 
sliirc,  (now  Mrs  Cminnini;  of  l.ofjie),  wlieu  on  bm 
way  to  Kiigland,    iiroiifih  Dumfries. 


SONGS 


ISd 


A»  in  the  bosom  o'  the  stream 

The  moonbeam  dwells  at  dewy  e'en, 

So  treiiiblins^,  pure,  wms  tender  love, 
Within  the  breast  o'  bonuie  Jean. 

And  now  she  works  her  mamniie's  wark, 
And  aye  she  sl^jhs  wi'  grief  and  pain; 

Yet  wistna  what  her  ail  might  be, 
Or  what  wad  make  her  weel  again. 

But  didna  Jeanie's  heart  loup  light, 
And  didna  joy  blink  in  her  ee, 

As  Robie  tauld  a  tale  o'  love, 
Ae  e'ening,  on  the  lily  lea? 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 
The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove  ; 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest, 
And  whisper'd  thus  his  tale  of  love  : 

O  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo'e  thee  dear  ; 

O  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me  ? 
Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie's  cot, 

And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi'  me  ? 

At  barn  nor  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge, 
Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee  ; 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells, 
And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi'  me. 

Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do? 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na  : 
At  length  she  blush'd  a  sweet  consent. 

And  love  was  aye  between  them  twa. 


HEY  TUTTIE  TAITTIE. 

I  have  met  the  tradition  universally  over 
Scotland,  and  particularly  about  Stirling,  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  scene,  that  this  air 
was  Robert  Brace's  march  at  the  Battle  of  Baa- 
nockburn. 

BRUCE'S  ADDRESS 

TO  HIS  TROOPS  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  OF 
BANNOCKBURN. 

Tune—"  Hey  tuttie  taittie." 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  ! 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  al'ten  led  ! 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bi;tl, 
Or  to  victorie ! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour  : 
Bee  the  front  of  battle  lour  : 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slaverie  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
MTia  can  fill  a  coward's  grave** 
MMia  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 
Let  hio:  tun       A  flee  < 


Win,  for  Scotland's  kf'/jf  and  law. 
Fretdoin  s  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 
Let  him  follow  me  ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains, 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains. 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 
But  they  shall  be  free. 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low, 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe. 
Liberty's  ir<  every  blow. 
Let  us  do,  or  die  ! 


CA'  THE  YOWES  TO  THE  KN0WK8 

Ca'  the  yowes  to  the  knowes, 
Ca'  them  where  the  heather  grows, 
Ca'  them  where  the  burnie  rowes. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Hark,  the  mavis'  evening  sang. 
Sounding  Chiden's  woods  amang; 
Then  a-faulding  let  us  gang, 
iMy  bonnie  dearie. 

We'll  gang  doun  by  Cluden  side, 
Through  the  hazels  spreading  wide 
O'er  the  waves  that  sweetly  glide. 
My  bonnie  dearie. 

Yonder  Cluden's  silent  towers. 
Where,  at  moonshine  midnight  hours, 
O'er  the  dewy  budding  flowers 

The  ♦"•liries  dance  sae  checiie. 

Ghaist  nor  bogle  shalt  thou  fear ; 
Thou'rt  to  love  aud  heaven  sae  dear, 
Nocht  of  ill  may  come  thee  near. 
My  'ipnnie  dearie. 

Fair  and  lovely  as  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  stoun  my  very  heart; 
I  can  die — but  canna  part, 
Jly  bonnie  dearie 


CANST  THOU  LEAVE  ME  THUS,  JH 
KATY? 

Tune—"  Roy's  wift." 

Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Casst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ? 
Well  thou  knowest  my  aching  heart. 
And  canst  thou  leave  me  thus  for  pity  ? 

Is  this  thy  plighted  fond  r'gard, 

Thus  cruelly  to  part,  my  Katy? 
Is  this  thy  faithful  swain's  reward— 

An  aching,  broken  heart,  my  Katv' 


L_ 


196 


BURNS    vVORKS. 


Fireweli  !   and  ne'er  such  sorrows  tear 
That  fickle  heart  of  thine,  my  Katy  ! 

Thou  may'st  find  those  will  love  thee  dear — 
But  not  a  love  like  mine,  my  Katy. 


REPLY  TO  THE  ABOVE 

?T  A  YOUNG  ENGLISH  GENTLEWOMAN.  FOUND 
AMONGST  BURNS'S  MANUSCRIPTS  AFTER  HIS 
DECEASE. 

Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me, 
Stay,  my  Willie — yet  believe  me; 
'Tweel,  thou  kiiow'st  na  every  pans: 
Wad  wring  my  bosom  shouldst  thou  leave  me. 

Tell  me  that  thou  yet  art  true. 

And  a'  my  wrongs  shall  be  forgiven  ; 

And  when  this  heart  proves  false  to  thee, 
Yon  sun  shall  cease  its  course  in  heaven. 

But  to  think  I  was  betray'd. 

That  falsehood  e'er  our  loves  should  sunder  ! 
To  take  the  floweret  to  my  breast, 

And  find  the  guilefu'  serpent  under  ! 

Couin  I  hope  thou'dst  ne'er  deceive  me, 
Celestial  pleasures,  might  I  choose  'em, 

I'd  slight,  nor  seek  in  other  spheres 

That  heaven  I'd  find  within  thy  bosom. 


He  wanders  as  free  as  the  wind  on  his  mountains, 
Save  love's  willing  fetters — the  chains  of  hif 
Jean.* 


CHLOE. 

ALTERED  FROM  AN  OLD  ENGLISH  SOUS 

It  was  the  charming  month  of  May, 
When  all  the  flowers  were  fresh  and  gay, 
One  morning  by  the  break  of  day. 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe  ; 

From  peaceful  slumber  she  arose, 
Girt  on  her  mantle  and  her  hose. 
And  o'er  the  flowery  mead  she  goes, 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe. 
Lovely  was  she  by  the  dawn, 

Yonthful  Chloe,  chariiiing  Chloe, 
Tripjiing  o'er  the  pearly  litwn. 
The  youthful,  charming  Chloe, 

The  featber'd  p'  tile  you  might  see 
Perch'd  all  around  on  every  tree, 


CALEDONIA. 

Their  groves  O  sweet  myrtles  let  foreign  lands 
reckon. 
Where  bright-beaming  summers  exalt  the  per- 
fume ; 
Far  dearer  to  me  yon  lone  glen  o'  green  breckan, 
With  the  burn  stealing  under  the  lang  yellow 
broom. 

Far  dearer  to  me  yon  humble  broom  bowers, 
Where    the  blue  bell  and  gowan   lurk   bwly 
unseen  ; 

I'or  there,  lightly  tripi)ing  amang  the  wild  flowers, 
A  listening  the  liiinet,  aft  wanders  my  Jean. 

Though  rich   is   the  breeze,  in  their  gay  sunny 
vallics, 
And  cauld  Caledonia's  blast  on  the  wave  ; 
Their   sweet-scented   woodlauds,    that  skirt  the 
prou'l  palace, 
Wliat  are  tlicy  ^. — the  haunt  o'  the  tyrant  and 
slave ! 

The    g'live's    npicy    forests    and    gold-bubbling 
f'uiQtains, 
The  br;ivc  Cukduaian  view*  wi'  disdain ; 


•  Bums  wrote  this  song  in  eomp'iment  to  Mrs.  Buraj 
ri\iring  Ihi  ir  honeymoon.  The  air.  with  many  other» 
ofe(]iial  beauty,  was  the  comiiDsJtion  of  a  Mr.  Mar- 
shall, who,  in  Burns'i  time,  v.'as  butler  to  the  Duke 
of  Ciorilon. 

This  beautiful  song — beautiful  for  iKith  its  amatory 
ami  its  patriotic  sentiment — seems  to  have  been  com. 
posed  by  Bums  during  tlie  period  when  he  was  court- 
ing tlie  lady  wlui  afterwards  became  his  wife.  The 
present  generation  is  much  iiitLMC-ted  in  this  lady,  and 
deservedly ;  as,  in  addition  to  her  (loetical  history, 
which  is  an  extremeU  interesting  one,  she  is  a  persiin- 
asze  of  the  greatist  private  worth,  and  in  every  respect 
deserving  to  be  esitemeil  as  the  widow  of  Scotland's 
best  and  most  endeared  bard.  The  following  anecdote 
will  pel  haps  be  lield  as  testifying  in  no  ineonsiderahle 
degree,  to  a  quality  which  she  may  not  hitherto  liave 
been  siip|>".seil  to  possess — her  wit. 

It  isgcnerally  known,  that  Mrs.  liiirns  has,  ever  since 
her  husband's  ileaih,  o  ciipicd  exactly  the  same  house 
in  Dumfries,  which  she  iiihabiti d  before  that  event, 
and  that  it  is  custrmiary  for  strangers,  who  happen  to 
piuis  through  or  visit  the  town,  to  pay  their  rcs|iects  to 
her,  with  or  without  letters  of  introduction,  prcci>ely 
as  they  do  to  the  churchward,  the  bridge,  the  harl«)ur, 
or  an\  other  public  object  of  curiosity  about  the  pl.icc. 
A  gav  young  Kngli>h  gentleman  one  day  visited  Mn 
IJu rills,  and  after  he  hiid  seen  all  that  she  had  to  show 
— iheliedroom  in  vhich  the  jioct  died,  his  original  |)or. 
trait  by  Nasmyth,  his  fainily-bible,  with  the  name*  and 
birthd.iysof  himself,  his  wife,  and  children,  written  on 
a  blaidi-leaf  by  his  own  hai^d,  and  some  other  little 
trifles  of  the  same  nature — he  piocccded  to  intreat  that 
she  would  have  the  kindness  to  present  him  wiih  soiu» 
relic  of  the  poet,  which  he  might  carry  away  with  him, 
■as  a  wonder,  to  show  m  his  own  country.  "Indeed, 
Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Hums,  "  I  have  given  awav  so  many  re- 
lics of  Mr.  Hums,  that,  to  tell  >e  ihe  truth,  I  have  not 
one  Icit" — "Oh,  you  must  surely  have  tiomelliing," 
said  the  persevering  .Saxon  ;  "  any  thing  will  do— any 
liitle  scrap  of  his  handwriting— :he  le.ist  thing  you 
please.  All  I  want  \$.ju.\t  a  relic  <f  the  poet;  and  an» 
thing,  you  know,  will  ito  t'or  a  rilic."  Some  furihr 
aiterc.-it-on  took  place,  the  lad.  reasserting  that  she  hi- 
no  relic  to  gi\«,  and  he  as  repeatedly  renewing  hi*  r 
quest.  At  length,  fairly  tiriil  out  with  the  man's  i:» 
portiinitics,  Mrs.  Hum's  said  to  him,  with  a  siiuU', 
"  'Deed,  Sir,  unlcs..  ye  tak  mi/sell,  then,  I  dinna  si'e 
how  \ou  are  to  get  what  you  want ;  for,  really,  i'm  the 
only  relic  o'  him  that  1  keu  o'."  The  j>etiauner  at  once 
,  wiu-^rew  his  request. 


SON 

vJS.                                                 197 

In  i.ttts  ''sue  test  niflody 

She,  the  fair  sun  oJ  all  her  «eX) 

Tlicy  lia  I  the  ch.iniiiiig  Cliloe  ; 

1 1, IS  blest  my  glorious  day  : 

And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 

Til',  paintin;^  pay  tlie  eastfrn  skies, 

Wy  worship  to  its  ray  ? 

Tlie  gliniiias  sun  lii'sjin  to  rise, 

OutrivallM  l>y  the  r.uliarit  eyes 
Of  youthful,  chai  iiiins;  Cliloe. 

Luvely  was  Jie,  ifc. 

CONTENTIT  WI'  LITTLE. 

Tune—"  Lumps  o'  Puddin." 

CIILORIS. 

CoNTENTiT  wi'  little,  and  cantie  wi"  mair. 

3^i»*— "  My  Lodging  ia  on  the  Cold  Ground." 

Whene'er  1  forgather  wi'  sorrow  and  care, 
I  gie  them  a  skelp,  as  they're  creepin'  alang. 

My  Chloris,  mark  how  green  the  groves, 

Wi'  a  cogue  o'  gude  swats  and  an  auld  Scottisi 

The  primrose  b.inks  how  fiir  ; 

sang. 

The  bahny  gales  awake  the  flowers. 

And  wave  thy  flaxeu  hair. 

I  whiles  claw  the  elbow  o*  troublesome  thocht ; 

But  man  is  a  sodii-jr,  and  life  is  a  faucht : 

The  lav'rock  >huns  the  palare  gay, 

My  mirth  and  gude  hutiiour  are  coin  in  ray  pouch, 

And  o'er  the  cottiige  sings; 

And   my   freidom's   ray  lairdship  nae  monarch 

For  nature  smiles  as  s-weet,  I  ween, 

daur  touch. 

To  shepherds  as  to  kings. 

A  towmond  o*  trouble,  should  that  be  my  fa , 

Let  minstrels  sweep  the  skilfu'  string 

A  nicht  o'  gude  fellowship  sowthers  it  a'  : 

In  lordly  lec'uit  ha'  ; 

When  at  the  blythe  end  o'  our  journey  at  last. 

The  shepherd  s'cjjs  his  simple  reed, 

"yha  the  deil  ever  thinks  o'  the  road  he  has  past  ? 

Blythe,  in  the  birken  sbaw. 

Blind  chance,  let  her  snapper  and  stoite   'u  her 

The  princely  revel  may  survey 

way;  ^ 

Our  rustic  dance  wi'  scorn  ; 

Be't  to  me,  be't  frae  me,  e'en  let  ..le  jaud  gae ; 

But  are  their  hearts  as  light  as  ours, 

Come  ease  or  cotne  travail,  come  ])leasure  or  pxia^ 

BMeath  the  milk-white  thorn? 

My  warst  word  is — Welcome,  and  wficome,  a- 

gain! 

""'e  shtrdierd,  in  the  flow'ry  glen. 

In  shepherd's  phrase  will  woo; 
The  courtier  tells  a  fairer  tale. 

But  is  his  heart  as  true  ? 

COME,  LET  ME  TAKE  THEE  TO  MY 

V«-»e  wild-wood  flowers  I've  pu'd,  to  deck 

BREAST. 

That  s.potless  breast  of  thine  ; 

The  courtier's  gems  may  witness  love. 

Tune—"  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen." 

But  'tis  na  love  like  v 

Come,  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast. 

And    pledge  we  ne'er  shall  sunder; 

" 

And  1  shuil  *purn,  as  vilest  dust. 

The  warld's  wealth  and  grandeur  : 

.'tARINDA.' 

And  do  I  hear  my  Jeanie  own. 

That  equal  traiispoi  ts  move  her  ? 

Clarikda,  »r.  stress  of  my  soul. 

I  «^k  for  dearest  life  alone 

The  mea>ur'd  time  is  run  ! 

That  I  may  live  to  love  her. 

The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole^ 

So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

Thus  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thy  charms. 

I  cla>p  my  countless  treastiiH."  ; 

To  what  dark  cave  if  frozen  night 

I'll  seek  nae  mair  o'  heavei:  to  sharej 

Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie  ;            . 

Than  sic  a  moment's  pleasure  : 

Depriv'd  of  thee,  his  life  and  light, 

And,  by  thy  een  sae  bminie  blue, 

The  sun  of  all  his  joy. 

I  swear  I'm  thine  for  ever  ! 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

We  part. — but  by  these  precious  drops, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never. 

That  fill  t!iy  lovel>  eyes  ! 

Nil  other  light  sluill  s^uide  my  steps. 

Till  ihy  bright  beams  ari>e. 

•  Th   widow  alludec  <  In  tlie  Lift 

98 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


COUNTRY  LASSIE. 

In  simmer  when  the  hay  was  mawn, 

And  corn  wavM  green  in  ilka  field, 
While  claver  blooms  white  o'er  the  lea, 

And  roses  blaw  in  ilka  bield  ; 
Blythe  Bessie  in  the  milking  shiel, 

Says,  I'll  be  wed  come  o't  what  will ; 
Out  spake  a  dame  in  wrinkled  eild, 

O'  gude  advisement  comes  nae  ilL 

Its  ye  hae  wooers  mony  a  ane, 

And,  lassie,  ye* re  but  young,  ye  k^n  ; 
Then  wait  a  wee,  and  cannie  wale, 

A  routhie  butt,  a  routhie  ben  : 
There's  Johnie  o'  the  Buskie-glen, 

Fu'  is  his  barn,  fu'  is  his  byre  ; 
Tak  this  frae  me,  my  bonnie  hen, 

It's  plenty  beets  the  luver's  fire. 

For  Johnie  o*  the  Buskie-glen, 

I  dinna  care  a  single  flie  ; 
He  lo'es  sae  weel  his  craps  and  kye. 

He  has  nae  luve  to  spare  for  nie  : 
But  blythe's  the  blink  o'  Robie's  e'e, 

And  weel  I  wat  he  lo'es  me  dear  : 
Ae  blink  o'  him  I  wad  na  gie 

For  Buskie-glen  and  a'  his  gear. 

O  thoughtless  lassie,  life's  a  faught, 

The  canniest  gate,  the  strife  is  sair ; 
But  aye  fu'  lian't  is  fechtin'  best, 

A  hungry  care's  an  unco  care  : 
But  some  will  spend,  and  some  will  spare, 

And  wilfu'  folk  maun  hae  their  will; 
Syne  as  ye  brew,  my  maiden  fair. 

Keep  mind  that  ye  maun  drink  the  yill. 

O  gear  will  buy  me  rigs  o'  land, 

And  gear  will  buy  me  sheep  and  kye; 
But  the  tender  heart  o'  leesome  luve, 

The  gowd  and  siller  canna  buy  : 
AVe  may  be  poor,  Robie  and  I, 

Light  is  the  burden  luve  lays  on  ; 
Content  and  love  brings  peace  and  joy, 

What  mair  hae  queens  upon  a  throne  ? 


equal  to  their  wit  and  humoui  they  would 
merit  a  place  in  any  col!  (ction.— The  liistetanu 
is. 

Being  pursued  by  a  drigoon. 
Within  my  bed  he  was  laid  down  ; 
And  well  I  wat  he  was  worth  his  room. 
For  he  was  my  daintie  Davie. 


DAINTIE  DAVIE. 

Tfns  song,  tradition  says,  and  the  composi- 
tion itself  confirms  it,  was  composed  on  the  Rev. 
David  Wilfiamsnn's  getting  the  daughter  of 
Lady  Cherrytrees  with  child,  while  a  party  of 
ilragoons  were  searching  htr  house  to  apprehend 
him  for  being  an  adherent  to  the  sulemn  league 
and  covenant. — Tbe  pious  woui  lu  had  ])ut  a 
lady's  ni^ht-cap  on  hini,  and  bad  laid  him  a-h-.d 
with  her  own  daughter,  iinil  passed  him  to  the 
toldiery  as  a  lady,  her  daughter's  bed-fellow. 
— A  mutilated  stanza  or  two  are  to  be  found  in 
HcrcFi,  cnllirdon,  but  the  original  sung  consists 
sf  five  or  six   stanza'*,   and  were  their  dtlicacy 


DAINTY  DAVIE. 

Tune—"  Dainty  Davie." 

Now  rosy  May  comes  in  wi'  flowers, 
To  deck  her  gay  green  birken  bowers, 
And  now  come  in  ray  happy  hours, 
To  wander  wi'  my  Davie. 

Meet  me  on  the  warlock  knowe, 

Daint'j  Davie,  dainty  Davie  t 
Tliere  I'll  upetid  the  day  wi'  you. 
My  ain  clear  dainty  Davie. 

The  crystal  waters  round  us  fa', 
The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a', 
The  scented  breezes  round  us  blav, 
A-wandering  wi'  my  Davie. 
3Ieet  me  on,  §"c. 

When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare, 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare. 
Then  through  the  dews  I  will  repair. 
To  meet  my  faithfu'  Davie. 
Meet  me  on,  S^c. 

When  day,  expiring  in  the  west, 
The  curtain  draws  o'  Nature's  rest, 
I'll  flee  to  his  arms  I  lo'e  best. 
And  that's  my  dainty  Davie. 
Meet  me  on,  ^'c. 


DELUDED  SWAIN,  THE  PLEASURE 
Tune—"  The  Collier's  Bonnie  Lassie.** 

Deluded  swain,  the  pleasure 

The  fickle  fair  can  give  thee 
Is  but  a  fairy  treasuie — 

Thy  hopes  will  boon  deceive  the& 

The  billows  on  the  ocean, 

The  breezes  idly  roaming. 
The  clouds'  uncertain  motion. 

They  are  but  types  of  woman. 

O  !   art  thou  not  ashamed 

To  doat  upon  a  feature  ? 
If  man  thou  wuuldst  be  named, 

Despise  the  silly  creature. 

Go,  find  an  honest  fellow  ; 

Good  claret  set  before  thee : 
Hold  on  till  thou  art  mellow; 

And  then  to  bed  in  glory 


SONGS.                                                   199 

DOES  HAUGHTY  GAUL. 

DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Tuite-^"  Push  about  tl.e  Jorum.' 

Dr.  Blacklock   informed   me  that  he   i.ad 

AprU,  l-'J5. 

often  heard  the  tradition  that  this  air  was  cout- 

posed  by  a  carman  in  Glasgow. 

Dors  haiifjhty  Gaul  invasion  threat  ? 

Then  lot  the  loons  beware,  Sir, 

Duncan  Grav  cam  here  to  woo. 

There's  wooden  walls  upon  our  seas, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wonini/  o't. 

And  volunteers  on  shore,  Sir. 

On  blythe  yule  night  when  we  were  foU| 

The  N!th  shall  run  to  Corsineon,* 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooini/  n't. 

And  CritTel  sink  in  Sc)lway,f 

^Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 

Ere  we  ])orniit  a  foreis^n  foe 

Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigji  ; 

Ou  British  ground  to  rally  ! 

Gart  poor  Duncan  stanil  abeigh  ; 

Fall  de  rail,  ^-c. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wool/iff  o't. 

0  let  us  not,  like  snarling  tykes, 

Duncan  fleech'd  and  Duncan  pray  d  ; 

In  wrangling  be  divided  ; 

Ha,  ha,  Sfc. 

Till  slap  come  in  an  unco  loon 

Meg  was  deaf  as  .\ilsa  Craig,  • 

And  wi'  a  rung  decide  it. 

Ha,  hn,  Src 

Be  Britain  still  to  Britain  true. 

Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in. 

Ainang  oursels  united  ; 

Grat  his  e'en  baith  bleert  and  Win, 

For  never  but  by  British  hands 

Spak  o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn  j 

Maun  British  wrangs  be  righted. 

Ha,  ha,  §-c. 

FaU  de  rail,  ifc. 

Time  and  charvce  are  but  a  tide. 

Tlie  kettle  o'  the  kirk  and  state. 

Ha,  ha,  §-c. 

Perhaps  a  clout  may  fail  in't  ; 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide. 

But  deil  a  foreign  tinkler  loon 

Ha,  ha,  Sfc. 

Shall  ever  ca'  a  nail  in't. 

Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quo'  he. 

Our  fathers'  bluid  tlie  kettle  b(Uight, 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ; 

And  wha  wad  dare  to  spoil  it  j 

She  may  gae  to — France  for  me ! 

By  heaven  the  sacrilegious  dog 

Ha,  ha,  §-c. 

Shall  fuel  be  to  boil  it. 

FaU  de  rail,  §-c. 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell. 

Ha,  ha,  §-c. 

The  wretch  that  wad  a  tyrant  own. 

Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  heal. 

And  the  wretch  his  true-bo:n  brother. 

Ha,  ha,  Sj-c. 

W^ho  would  set  the  mob  aboon  the  throne. 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings. 

May  they  be  damned  together  ! 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings  ; 

^Tio  will  not  sing   "  God  save  the  king," 

And  O,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things ! 

Shall  hang  is  high's  tte  sterple  ; 

Ha,  ha,  §-c. 

But,  while  we  sing  "  God  save  the  king,' 

We'll  ne'er  forget  the  people. 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace. 

Fall  de  rail,  §-c. 

Ha,  ha,  &fc. 

Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case, 

Ha,  ha,  Sfc. 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death. 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath  ; 

Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith. 

DOWN  THE  BURN  DAVIE. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooirg  o't. 

TinSE  ADDED  BV  BURNS  TO  THE  OLD  SOXG.      1 

As  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 
And  through  the  fliwery  dale, 

EVAN  BANKS. 

His  clietk  to  hers  he  aft  did  lay. 

Slow  spreads  *hc  gloom  my  soui  aesireC) 

And  love  was  aye  the  tjle 

The  sun  from  India's  shore  retires  ; 

With — Mary  when  shall  we  return, 

To  Evan  banks,  with  teinn  rate  ray. 

Such  pleasure  to  renew  ? 

Home  ol  my  youtn,  it  ieaUs  me  day. 
Oh  !   banks  to  me  for  ever  dear  ! 

Quoth  Mary,  love,  I  like  the  burn. 

And  aye  will  follow  you. 

Oh  !  stream  whose  murmurs  still  I  hear  ! 

All,  all  my  hopes  of  biiss  reside, 
Where  Evan  mingles  with  the  Clyde. 

1 

>  hiRhhillat  thesoureeoftheNith.                     i 
*  A  well-known  niountanat  the  mouth  of  the  lame 

«ver. 

•  A  wen-Known  rock  m  tte  Frith  of  Clyde 

200 


And  Sfne,  in  simple  bpntity  drcst. 
Whose  ima<^e  lives  witliiii  my  breast; 
Who  trembling  heir.l  my  pi'.'rcing  sigh, 
Aud  long  piiisuM  me  with  her  eye  ! 
Does  she,  with  he.irt  unclringM  as  mine, 
)ft  in  the  vocal  bowers  recline  ? 
Or  where  yon  grot  o*eih mg**  the  tide, 
Muse  while  the  Evan  seeks  the  Clyde. 

Ye  lofty  banks  that  Evan  bound  ! 
Ye  lavish  woods  that  wave  around, 
And  o'er  the  stream  your  shadows  throw, 
Which  sweetly  wiuils  so  far  below  ; 
What  secret  charm  to  mein'ry  brings, 
All  that  on  Evan's  border  springs? 
Sweet  banks  !   ye  bloom  by  Mary's  side  : 
Blest  stream,  she  views  thee  haste  to  Clyde. 

Can  all  tht  wealth  of  India's  coast 

Atone  for  years  in  alxence  lo^t  ? 

Return,  ye  moments  of  delight, 

With  richer  treasures  bless  my  sight  ! 

Swift  from  this  desert  let  me  part. 

And  fly  to  meet  a  kindred  heart  ! 

Nor  more  may  aught  my  steps  divide 

From  that  dear  stream  which  flows  to  Clyde. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 

FAIREST  MAID  ON  DEVON  BANKsi, 


FAIR  ELIZA. 


A    GAELIC  AIR. 


TuRSf  again,  thou  f.ur  Eliza, 

Ae  kind  blink  before  we  part, 
Rew  on  thy  despairing  lover  ! 

Canst  thou  break  his  fiithfu*  hear: 
Turn  again,  thou  fiii  I^liza  ; 

If  to  love  thy  heart  dt-iiies, 
For  pity  hide  'lie  crurl  sentence 

Uuiler  fiienilship's  Kind  disguise! 

Thee,  dear  maiil,  hae  I  offended  ? 

The  offence  is  loving   tlicc  . 
Canst  thou  wreck  his  peace  for  ever 

Wlia  for  thine  wid  t;l.id!y  ilie  ! 
While  the  life  beats  in  my  bosom, 

Thou  shalt  \n'.x  in  ilka  throe: 
Turn  again,  thou  lnvely  inaidt-n, 

Ae  sweet  suiile  on  me  Ix'stow. 

Not  the  bee  upon  the  l>li)ssom, 

In  the  pride  o'  siiiiiy  imou  ; 
Not  the  little  sporting  fairy, 

All  beneath  the  sm'ioer  moon; 
Not  the  p>iet  in  the  iiuimeut 

Fancy  lightens  on  his  ee. 
Kens  the  pleasure,  fecU  the  rapture 

That  thy  presence  gies  to  me. 


Tune — "  Rothiemurchie.* 

Fairest  mniil  nn  Devrm  hunks, 

Cri/slitl  Devon,  wiml'my  De-eon^ 
Wilt  thnu  1(11/  thiit  friiwn  usuie. 
And  smile  as  Ihuu  wert  wont  to  da 

Full  well  thou  knowest  I  love  thee  deaTj 
Couldst  thou  to  malice  lend  an  ear! 
O  did  not  love  exclaim,   "  F'uibcar  ! 
Nor  use  a  fiithful  lover  so. 
Fairest  maid,  ^c. 

Then  come,  thnu  fairest  of  the  fair. 
Those  wonted  smiles,  O  let  me  share; 
And  l)y  that  beauteous  self  I  nweir. 
No  love  but  thine  my  heart  bli«ll  know. 
Fairest  maid,  &i'c.* 


FATE  GAVE  THE  WORD> 
Tune—"  Finlaysion  Houm." 

Fate  gave  the  word,  the  arrow  sptnl, 

And  pierced  my  darling's  heart: 
And  with  him  all  the  joys  are  fled 

Life  can  to  me  impart. 
My  cruel  hands  the  sapling  drops, 

In  dust  dishonour'd  laiil  : 
So  fell  the  pride  of  all  my  hopes. 

My  age's  future  shade. 

The  mother  linnet  in  the  brake 

Bewails  lier  ravished  young  ; 
So  1  for  my  lost  darling's  sake. 

Lament  the  live-d  ly  long. 
Death,  oft  I've  fear'd  thy  fifal  blow, 

Now  fond  1  bare  my  breast, 
O  do  thnu  kindly  lay  me  low 

With  him  1  love  at  rest ! 


TOR  THE  SAKE  OF  SOMEBODY 

Mr  heart  is  sair,  I  dare  nae  tell. 
My  lieart  is  siii  feu-  sonubody  ; 
I  could  wake  a    vintcr  in!;ht 
For  the  sake  of  somel"idy. 

Oh-hon  !    foi   siimeboily  ! 
Oh-ln'y  !   for  soiuelioily  ! 

•  Tlioso  verses,  and  the  Ictler  endosinR  them,  an 
wnltiii  ill  .T  eliar.icier  Iti.ii  iiia:k<  ihc  very  l(«l>l.  •si"" 
of  tlirir  aii;lii.r.  Mr.  -vmc  »  •'!'  >>l'iii'>n  tliil  lie  omM 
iiol  have  '.)  en  m  any  ,';ii.i;cr  ••f  .i  J.ul  al  Dionfriis, 
where  cerUiiilv  he  hi.l  inanv  linn  Iruii.!..  (i.ir  umlei 
anv  lucesMly  "I  iin,.l..riiit;  ,i  il  fro  n  r,il.iil»ir(>h.  Iliit 
nl«iiil  llu^liioe  Ills  m.iiJ  !>.■,;, M  l>  lie  .1  lures  iiiisct- 
tl.d.  an.)  (he  horrors  ,<l  a  ja.:  |..ri.eliialK  liauntnl  hu 
iiiLiciniUDO.     lie  aiLsl  on  tlie  Jlsi  of  Ihiii  moiilh. 


SONGS.                                                   201 

I  roulil  ran^c  tlii*  wni-ld  around, 

But  the  last  throb  that  leaves  my  hearl 

For  the  s;ike  of  sonicliiidy. 

While  diMth  stands  victor  by, 

That  throb,  lil'za.  is  thy  part, 

Ye  [>o\viT<  tli.it  smile  on  virttiniis  love, 

And  thine  tiiat  latest  si^h.  • 

0  swcitiv  smili'  on  ■iiiiiiilinily  ! 

Frae  ilka  d.iii'_"'i  keep  liiiii  fur, 
Anil  send  iiit  vif(;  my  smiu-lxidy. 

Oh -lion  !    for  somehody  ! 

Oli-bey  !   for  sonii'lmdy  ! 

GALA  WATER. 

I  wad  do — wiiiit  wad  I  not, 

Fo.  the  sake  of  soincliody  ! 

Tune^"  Gala  Water. 

There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  Vae«, 

That  wander  through  theblumiiii;  healLer  j 
But  Yarrow  braes,  nor  littrick  sliaws, 

FORLORN,  MY  LOVE. 

Can  match  the  lads  o'  Gala  Water. 

Tune — "  Let  me  in  this  ae  night." 

But  there  is  ane,  a  secret  ane, 

Abiine  them  a'  1  loe  him  better; 

FoRi.ORN',  my  love,  no  comfort  near. 

And  I'll  be  his,  and  he'll  be  mine. 

Far,  far  from  thee  1  wander  here  ; 

The  bonnie  lad  o'  Gala  Water. 

Far,  far  from  tliee.  the  fate  severe 

At  wliirli   I  mo^t  ivpiiie,  love. 

Although  his  daddle  wa.s  nae  laird. 

O  wert  tlion  lure,  hnt  near  me, 

And  thougli  I  hae  na  miekle  tocher  } 

Tint  iienr,  iifnr,  nrtir  me  ; 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love, 

Huir  khiiUy  t/iiiit  ifii'ili/st  cheer  me, 

We'll  tent  our  flocks  ou  Gala  Wate'. 

And  mingle  sicj/is  with  mine,  love. 

It  ne'er  was  wealth,  it  ne'er  wa.s  wealth, 

Around  me  seowls  a  ^rintry  sky, 

That  coft  contentment,  jjeace,  or  pleasure; 

Tliat  hlists  eacli  Inid  of  linpe  and  joy  ; 

The  bands  and  bliss  o'  mutual  love, 

And  >lielti'r,  shade,  nor  home  have  I, 

0  that's  the  chiefest  warld's  treasure  ! 

Save  in  these  arms  of  thine,  love. 

0  wert,  &c 
Cold,  altor'd  friendship*'*  cruel  part. 

To  poison  fortune's  nitlilcss  dart- 

GLOOMY  DECEMBER. 

Let  me  not  hreik  thy  faithful  heart, 

And  say  tli  it  fate  is  mine,  love. 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  Decemhei, 

O  wtrt,  ij-c. 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  wi'  sorrow  and  cue; 

Sad  was  the  parting  thou  makes  me  remember; 

But  dreary  tho'  the  moments  fleet. 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  Oh  !    ne'er  to  meet  mair 

0  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet ! 

Fond  lovers  parting  is  sweet  painful  pleasure, 

That  only  ray  of  solaee  sweet 

Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting  hour 

Can  on  thy  Ciiloris  shine,  iove. 

But  the  dire  feeling,    O  farctvell  for  ever. 

O  wert,  &-C, 

Is  anguish  unmingl'd  and  agony  pure. 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 
'Till  the  last  leaf  o'  the  summer  is  flown. 

FROM  TIIF.E,  ELIZA. 

.Such  is  the  tem])est  has  shaken  my  bosom. 
Since  my  hist  hope  aiid  last  comfort  is  gone 

Tun*—"  Gilderoy." 

Still  as  I  hail  thi'e,  thou  gloomy  December, 
Still  shall  1  hail  tliee  wi*  sorrow  and  care  ; 

Prom  thee,  Hliza,  I  must  go. 

For   sad   was   the  parting  thoa  makes  me  re- 

And from  my  n.itive  shore  ; 

member. 

The  cruel  fates  hetween  us  throw 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  Ob,  ne'er  to  meet  mair. 

A  boundless  ocean's  roar  : 
But  boundless  oceans,  roaring  wide 
Between  my  luve  anil  me. 

•  Miss   Miller  of  Mauclilinc,   (prolwh'y   the  sam« 

lady  wtiom  the  poet  h.is  eeiebraleil  in  tus  catalogue  of 

They  never,  never  can  divide 

tne  beauties  of  1  hat  viliajje — 

My  heart  and  soul  trom  thee. 

"Mils  Miller  is  fine" ) 

afterwards  Mrs.  Tcmpleton,  wai  the  heroine  of  this 

Farewell,  farewell.  I^liia  clear. 

beautiful  sonj^. 

The  maid  that  I  ailore  ! 

A  hodiuf;  voice  is  in  mine  ear. 
We  part  to  meet  no  more. 

I'a 

I 

ki}'^ 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES: 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,   O  .' 
Green  prow  the  rashes,   O  f 

The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  1  spend, 
Are  spent  amang  the  lasses,   O  I 

There's  nought  but  care  on  every  ban', 
In  every  hour  that  passes,  O ; 

What  ^ignifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An*  'twere  na  for  the  lasses,  O. 
Green  grow,  Sfc. 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 
An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  O  ; 

Kii   though  at  last  they  catch  them  fast. 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  tljem,  O. 
Green  grow,  Sec 

But  gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 

An'  warly  cares,  an'  waily  men, 
May  a  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 

Green  grow,  8fc. 

For  you  so  douse,  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  O  ; 

The  wisest  man  the  warld  e'er  saw, 
He  dearly  loved  the  lasses,  O. 
Green  grow,  Sfc, 

Auld  nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 
Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O  ; 

Her  '|irentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 
Green  grow,  Sfc. 


GUDEWIFE,   COUNT  THE  LAWIN. 

TuTie—"  Gudewife,  count  the  Lawin." 

Gane  is  the  rlay,  and  mirk's  the  night; 
Rut  we'll  ne'er  stray  for  faut  o'  light ; 
For  ale  and  brandy's  stars  and  moon. 
And  blude-red  wine's  the  rising  sun. 

Then,  gudewife,  ciiiint  the  lawin. 

The  lawin,  the  lawin. 

Then,  gudewife,  count  the  lawiit, 

A.nd  bring  a  coygie  mair. 

There's  wealth  and  ease  for  gentlemen, 
And  seniple  folk  maun  feclit  and  fen; 
Rut  here  we're  a'  in  ae  accord, 
For  ilka  man  that's  drunk's  a  lord. 
Thai,  gudewife,  §-c. 

\[y  cdcgie  is  a  li.i'v  po(,l, 

r;j,it  iualii  tlie  uuiiiio's  o"  care  «nd  dor'  ; 


AnJ  pleasure  is  a  wanton  tijut — 

An'  ye  drink  but  deep,  ye'll  find  him  ocK, 

Then,  gudeicife,  count  the  lawin. 

The  lawin,  the  lawin, 

Then,  gudewife,  count  the  lawi». 

And  hring's  a  coggie  mair. 


HANDSOME  NELL. 
Tune — "  I  am  a  man  unmarried 

O,  ONCE  I  lov'd  a  bonnie  lass, 

Ay,  and  I  love  her  still, 
And  w  ailst  that  virtue  warms  my  bresst^ 

I'll  love  my  handsome  Nell. 
Tal  lal  de  ral,  §-c. 

As  bonnie  lasses  I  hae  seen, 

And  mony  full  as  braw, 
But  for  a  modest  gracefu'  mien 

The  like  I  never  saw. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  Ifc. 

A  bonnie  lass,  I  will  confess. 

Is  pleasant  to  the  ee. 
But  without  some  better  qualities 

She's  no  a  lass  for  me. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  ^c. 

But  Nelly's  looks  are  blithe  and  sweet, 

And  what  is  best  of  a' 
Her  reputation  was  complete, 

And  fair  without  a  flaw. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  Sfc. 

She  dresses  aye  sae  clean  and  neat, 

Both  decent  and  genteel  ; 
And  then  th>jre's  something  in  her  guift 

Gars  ony  dress  look  weel. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  §-c. 

A  gaudy  dress  and  gentle  air 

May  slightly  touch  the  heart, 
But  it's  innocence  and  modesty 

That  polishes  the  dart. 

Tal  lal  de  ral,  Sfc 

Tis  this  in  Nelly  pleases  me, 

Tis  this  enchants  my  soul ; 
For  absolutely  in  my  breast 
She  reigns  without  control. 
Tal  lal  de  ral,  ^c. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  these  lines  give  » 
indication  of  the  future  genius  of  Rurns  ;  bu' 
he  himself  teems  to  have  been  fond  of  them^ 
probably  from  the  recollections  they  excited. 


'  The  Golden    hours ,  on  angel  -vvings  , 
Hew.  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  d(^ax  to  me ;  a,s  liglil  and   life  , 
1113-  sweet  Sighl.-md  Mai'v." 


rrAD  I  A  CAVK 


SONGS. 


203 


jS'  , 


'his  wjti. 


Aye,  and  Luke  (i 

Come  love  me  an  ' 

Rubin  Adair. 


i:?  TTAKnr. 


iawie  up  the  tr 


glance. 


'•.  that  io'' 

uin  my  L    :.;f, 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary, 


.,st, 

')■'■ 


oil,  fur  him  buik  again  J  ^c. 


HER  FLOWl? 


Oh,  fur 


tne  M  inlander's  Karewell  to  Ireland,  witl»  some  alter- 1 
»tions,  sung  slowly.  J 


SONGS. 


203 


HAD  I  A  CAVE. 


Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild  distant  shore, 
V\Tiere  the  winds  howl  to  tlie  waves'  dashing  roar, 
Tl'.cro  would  I  weep  niy  woes, 
There  seek  my  lost  repose, 
Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close, 
Ne'er  to  wake  more. 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare 
•All  thy  fond  plighted  vows — fleeting  as  air  ! 

To  thy  new  lover  liie, 

Laugh  o'er  th;^  perjury, 

Then  in  thy  bosom  try 
What  peace  is  there. 

Compare  this  with  the  old  crambo-cHuk, — to 
the  same  air — 

You  R  wciCome  to  Paxton,  younj  Robin  Adair, 
Your  welcome,  but  asking,   sweet  Robin  Adair. 

How  does  Johnnie  Mackeral  do? 

Aye,  and  Luke  Gardener  too? 

Come  love  me  and  never  rue," 
Robin  Adair. 


HIGHLAND  HARRY. 

Mr  Ha.  ry  was  a  gallant  gay  ; 

Fu'  stately  strode  he  on  the  plain  ; 
But  now  he's  bani>h'd  far  away, 
I'll  never  see  him  back  again. 
Oh,  for  him  brick  again  ! 

Oh,  fir  him  back  again  ! 
I  lead  gie  a    Ktiockhaspie's  land 
Fur  Highland  Harry  hack  again. 

Wlien  a'  the  lave  gae  to  their  bed, 

I  wander  dowie  up  the  glen  ; 
I  sit  me  down,  and  greet  my  fill, 

And  aye  I  wish  him  back  again. 

Oh,  for  him  back  again  !  §-c. 

Oh,  were  some  villains  hangit  hie, 

And  ilka  body  had  their  ain, 
Then  I  micht  see  the  joyfu'  sicht, 

My  Highland  Harry  back  again. 

Oh,  for  him  back  again  !  §*c. 

Sad  was  the  day,  and  sad  the  hour. 

He  left  me  in  his  native  plain. 
And  ru>h'd  his  much-wrong'd  prince  to  join  ; 

i3ut,  oh  !  he'll  ne'er  come  back  again  I 
Oh,  for  him  back  again  I  Sfc. 

Strong  was  my  Harry's  arm  in  war, 
Unmatch'd  in  a'  Culloden's  plain  ; 

But  vengeance  marks  him  for  her  ain— 
I'll  never  see  him  back  again.* 

Oh,  for  him  back  again  !  Sfc. 

•  The  first  three  verses  of  this  soiif;,  excejitinp  the 
thorns,  are  by  Hiiriis.  The  air  to  which  it  is  sung,  is 
the  H ^'hlaiidcr's  Farsweil  to  Ireland,  wilh  some  alter- 
»lions,  sung  slowly. 


HIGHLAND  MARY. 
Tune—"  Kathcrine  Ogie." 

Ye  hanks,  and  braes,  and  streams  arocnd 

The  Castle  o*  Montgomery  !  * 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flow  r% 

Your  waters  never  drum  lie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  they  langest  tarry  ! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk  i 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom  ! 
As,  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom  ' 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender  ; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

M'e  tore  ourselves  asunder  : 
But,   oh  !   fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clsjr, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  ]\Iary  J 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly  ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance. 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ; 
And  mould'ring  now  in  silent  dust. 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core. 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


HER  FLOWING  LOCKS: 

A  FRAGMENT. 

Her  flowing  locks,  the  raven's  winj, 
Adown  her  neck  and  bosmn  hing; 

How  sweet  unto  that  breast  to  cling. 
And  round  that  neck  entwine  her  , 

Her  lips  are  roses  wat  wi'  dew, 
O,  what  a  feast,  her  bonnie  mou  ! 

Her  cheeks  a  mair  celestial  hue, 
A  crimson  still  diviner. 


•  Coilsfield  House,  near  Mauehlinc  :  but  poetinUi 
titled  as  above,  on  account  of  Oie  name  cf  tb»  pio. 
pnetor. 


204. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


HERE'S,  A  BOTTLE   AND  AN  HONEST 
FRIEND. 

Here's,  a  bottle  and  an  honest  friend! 

Wliat  \VM(I  ye  wish  for  inair,  man  i 
Wha  kens,  bifiire  his  life  may  end, 

What  his  share  may  be  of  care,  man. 
Then  catch  the  moments  as  they  fly, 

Aad  Use  them  as  ye  ought,  man  :— 
Believe  me,  happini^s  is  shy, 

And  comes  not  ay  when  sought,  man. 


HERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  THE.M 
THAT'S  AWA. 

PATRIOTIC — UNriNISHED. 

Hzre's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa ; 

And  wIm.  winna  wish  gude  luck  to  our  cause, 

Slay  never  gude  luck  be  their  fa'  ! 

It's  gude  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It's  gude  to  be  honest  and  true, 

It's  gude  to  support  Caledonia's  cause, 

And  bide  by  the  bufif  and  the  blue. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa, 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa  ; 

Here's  a  health  to  Charlie,  the  chief  o' the  clan, 

Altho'  that  his  band  be  sma'. 

May  liberty  meet  wi'  success  ! 

May  prudence  protect  her  frae  evil ! 

Xlay  tyrants  and  tyranny  tine  in  the  mist. 

And  wander  their  way  to  the  devil  ! 

Here's  a  Lc£.h  to  them  that's  awa. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 

Here's  a  health  to  Tammie,  the  Norland  laddie. 

That  lives  at  the  lug  of  the  law  ! 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  read, 

Here's  freedom  to  him  that  wad  write! 

There's  nane  ever  fear'd  that  the  truth  should 

be  heard, 
But  they  wham  the  truth  would  Indite. 

Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 
Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa. 
Here's   Chieftain  Jl'Leod,    a   Chieftain   'vorth 

gowd, 
Tbo'  bred  amang  mountains  o'  snaw  I 


Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  kind  lovert 

meet. 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear,  Jessie  ! 

Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine— 
Although  even  hope  is  denied — 

'Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside,  Jessie ! 

I  mourn  through  the  gay  gaudy  day. 
As  hopeless  I  muse  on  thy  charms ; 

But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slumber, 
For  then  I  am  look'd  in  thy  arms,  Jessie  ! 

I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 

I  gue.-A  by  the  love- rolling  ee  ; 
But  why  urge  the  temler  confession, 

'Gainst  fortune's  fell  cruel  decree,  Jessie" 


KERE'S  A  HEALTH  TO  ANE  1  LO'E 
DEAR. 

T^nt—"  Here's  a  Health  to  them  that's  iwa." 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lu'e  drar— 
Hwe'ii  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear  ; 


HOW  CRUEL  ARE  THE  PARENTS 

ALTERED  FROM   AN  OLD  ENGLISH  SONQ. 

Tune—"  John  Anderson  my  ja" 

How  cruel  are  the  parents 

\Vh»  riches  only  prize, 
And  to  the  wealthy  booby, 

Poor  woman  sacrifice. 
Meanwhile  the  hapless  daughter 

Has  but  a  choice  of  strife  ; 
To  shun  a  tyrant  father's  hate, 

Become  a  wi  etched  wife. 

The  ravening  hawk  pursuing, 

The  trembling  dove  thus  flie^ 
To  shun  impelling  ruin 

A  while  her  pinions  tries ; 
'Till  of  escape  despairing, 

No  shelter  or  retr'-at. 
She  trusts  the  ruthless  falconer, 

And  drops  beneath  his  feet. 


HOW  LANG  AND  DREARY  IS   niE 
NIGHT. 

Tune—"  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen 

How  lang  and  dreary  is  the  night. 

When  I  am  frae  my  dearie  • 
I  restless  lie  frae  e'en  to  morn, 

Though  1  we:e  ne'er  sae  weary. 

Fur,  oil,  her  luneli/  nights  are  lang. 
And,  oh,  htr  itremns  are  eerie, 

uind,  oh,  her  wiJuw'd  heart  is  sair, 
That's  ubsi  nl  frae  her  dearie. 


•  Written  upon  Mrss  l.cwars,  now  Mrs.  Thomson 
of  t)uii'fri(s;  3  true  fr .end  anri  agre.it  favourilc  o- 
thi' port,  and,  at  liisi'rah,  one  of  the  most  tyrap* 
tliiziiig  tnends  ul'  Ins  althelcU  widow. 


SONGS. 


205 


Wlien  I  tliiiik  on  the  lightsome  days 
I  Kpent  wi'  thee,  my  dearie  ; 

And  now  what  seas  between  us  roar, 
lluw  can  I  but  be  eerie? 
For,  oh,  Sfc. 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours  ; 

The  joyless  day  how  dreary  ! 
It  wisna  sae  ye  glinted  by, 

When  1  wiis  wi'  my  dearie. 
1-^ur,  oh,  §"c. 


I  AM  A  SON  OF  MARS. 
Tunc—"  Soldier's  Joy." 

I  AM     son  of  Mars  who  lave  been  in  mary 

wars, 

And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I  conie  ; 
Tliis  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that  other  in  a 

trendi. 
When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  of 

the  drum. 

Z,al  de  dandle,  §-c. 

My    'prenticeship    I    past     where    my   leader 

hreith'd  his  last. 
When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights  of 

Abram ; 
I  served  out  ray  trade  when  the  gallant  game 

was  play'd, 
And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the 

drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  §"c. 

I  lastly  was  with  Curtis,   among   the  floating 

batt'ries. 
And  there  I  left  for  witness  an  arm  and  a  limb  ; 
Yet   let   my  country  need  me,   with   Elliot  to 

head  me, 
I'd  clatter  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 
JjoI  de  daudle,  &•€. 

And  now  tho'  I  must  beg  with  a  wooden  arm 

and  leg, 
And  many  a  tatter'd  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 
I'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle  and  my 

callet, 
As  when  I  os'd  in  scarlet  to  follow  a  drum. 
Ziol  de  daudle,  Sec. 

Whit  tho'  with  hoary  locks,  I  must  stand  the 

winter  shocks. 
Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  often  times  for  a 

home, 
When  the   tother  bag   I   sell,   and   the   tother 
bottle  tell, 
could  meet  a  troop  of  hell  at  the  sound  of  the 
drum. 

JjoI  de  daudle,  Sfc. 


I  DREAIM'D  I  LAY  WHERE  FLOWERS 

WERE  springi:ng. 

These  two  staiuas  I  composed  when  I  wa« 
seventeen,  and  aie  among  the  oldest  of  my  prinU 
ed  pieces. 

I  DUEA5i'i)  I  lay  where  flowers  were  sprbg'.ng, 

Gaily  in  the  sunny  beam  ; 
List'ning  to  the  wilil  blrd.i  singing, 

By  a  falling,  crystal  stream  : 
Strai;(ht  the  sky  grew  black  and  daring  ; 

Thro*  the  woods  the  whirlwinds  rave ; 
Trees  with  ageil  arms  were  warring. 

O'er  the  swelling,  drumlie  wave. 

Such  was  my  life's  deceitful  morning. 

Such  the  pleasures  1  enjoy 'd  ; 
But  lang  or  noon,  loud  tempests  stormtDg, 

A'  my  flow'ry  bliss  destroy'd, 
Tho'  tickle  fortune  has  deceiv'd  me, 

She  promis'd  fail-,  and  perforni'd  but  illj 
Of  mony  a  joy  and  hope  bereav'd  mo, 

1  bear  a  heart  shall  su])port  me  still. 


I'LL  AYE  CA'  IN  BY  YON  TOUW 
Tune — "  I'll  gang  nae  malr  to  yon  towa" 

I'li,  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  tnun. 

And  by  yon  garden  green  again  j 

I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  toun. 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 

There's  nane  shall  ken,  there's  nane  shall  gnss 
What  brings  me  back  the  gate  again, 

But  she,  my  fairest  fiithfu'  lass  ; 
And  stowlins  we  shall  meet  again. 

She'll  wander  by  the  aiken  tree, 

When  trystin  time  draws  near  again  ; 

And  when  her  lovely  form  I  see, 
O  haith,  she's  doubly  dear  again. 

I'll  aye  ca'  in  by  yon  toun. 

And  by  yon  garden  green  again; 

I'll  aye  ca'  iu  by  yon  toun. 

And  see  my  bonnie  Jean  again. 


I'M  O'ER  YOUNG  TO  MARRY      iif. 


The  chorus  is  old  : 
IS,  is  mine. 


-the  rest  of  it,  such  u  h 


I'm  my  mammy's  ae  bairn, 

Wi'  unco  folk,  I  weary,  Sir; 
Anil  lying  in  a  man's  bed, 

I'm  fley'd  wad  mak  me  irie.  Sir. 
I'm  o'er  young,  I'm  o'er  ynurg, 
I'm  o'er  poung  to  marry  yet.- 


Sru6                                           BURNS' 

WORKS. 

Tm  o*er  young,  twad  he  «  tin 

If  ye  wad  woo  me,  love, 

To  tah  i<ie  frae  my  n^rnmi/  yet. 

Wha  can  espy  thee  ? 

I'm  far  aboon  fortune,  love, 

Hallowmas  is  :;orae  and  gane, 

When  I  am  by  thee. 

The  nights  are  lang  in  winter,  Sir ; 

And  you  and  I  in  ae  bed, 

I  come  from  my  chamber 

In  trowth  I  darena  venture,  Sir. 

When  the  moon's  glowing  ; 

/'m  o'er  young,  ^c. 

I  walk  by  the  streamlet 
'Mang  the  broom  flowing. 

My  minnie  coft  me  a  new  gown. 

The  bright  moon  and  stars,  loT6>* 

The  kirk  maun  hae  the  gracing  o't  ; 

None  else  espy  me  ; 

War  I  to  lie  wi'  you,  kind  Sir, 

And  if  ye  wad  win  my  love. 

I'm  fear'd  ye'd  spoil  the  lacing  o't. 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

Fm  o'er  young,  S^c. 
Fu'  loud  and  shrill  the  frosty  wind 

Blaws  thro'  the  leafless  timmer,  Sir  ; 

But  should  ye  come  this  gate  again, 

JOCKIE'S  TA'EN  THE  PARTING  KIS& 

I'll  aulder  be  gin  simmer,  Sir. 

I'm  o'er  young,  Sfc, 

Jogkie's  ta'en  the  parting  kiss, 
Ower  the  mountains  he  is  gane  ; 

And  with  him  is  a'  my  bliss  ; 

Nought  but  griefs  wi'  me  remain. 

Spare  my  love,  ye  winds  that  blaw, 

IT  IS  NA,  JEAN,  THY  BONNIE  FACE. 

Flashy  sleets,  and  beating  rain  ! 
Spare  my  love,  thou  feathery  snaw, 

These  were   originally  English   verses  : — I 

Drifting  o'er  the  frozen  plain  ! 

gave  them  their  Scotch  dress. 

When  the  shades  of  evening  creep 

It  is  na,  Jean,  thy  bonnie  face, 

Ower  the  day's  fair  gladsome  ee. 

Nor  shape  that  I  admire, 

Sound  and  safely  may  he  sleep. 

Altho'  thy  beauty  and  thy  grace 

Sweetly  blythe  his  waukening  be ! 

Jlight  weel  awauk  desire. 

He  will  think  on  her  he  loves. 

Something  in  ilka  part  o'  thee 

Fondly  he'll  repeat  her  name  ; 

To  praise,  to  love,  I  find ; 

For,  where'er  he  distant  roves. 

Pdt  dear  as  is  thy  form  to  me. 

Jockie's  heart  is  still  at  hame. 

StiJI  dearer  is  thy  miud. 
Nae  raair  ungen'rous  wish  I  hae, 

Nor  stronger  in  my  breast, 

JOHN  BARLEYCOR^.  • 

Than,  if  I  canna  mak  thee  sae, 

At  least  to  see  thee  blest. 

A  BALLAD. 

Content  am  I,  if  heaven  shall  give 

But  happiness  to  thee  : 

There  were  tLree  kings  into  the  east/ 

And  as  wi'  thee  I'd  wish  to  live, 

Three  kings  both  great  and  high. 

For  thee  I'd  bear  to  die. 

An*  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 

, 

John  Barleycorn  should  die. 
They  took  a  plough  and  plough'd  him  iiWHf 

Put  clods  upon  his  head. 

JAMIE,  COJIE  TRY  ME. 

And  they  hae  sworn  a  solemn  oath 
John  Barleycorn  was  deM. 

Jamie,  come  try  me, 

Jamie,  come  try  me  ; 

But  the  cheerful  spring  came  kindly  on. 

If  ye  wad  win  my  love. 

And  show'rs  began  to  fall  ; 

Can  ye  na  try  me  ? 

John  Barleycorn  g(it  up  again. 

If  ye  should  ask  my  love. 

And  sore  surpris'd  them  all. 

Could  1  deny  thee  ? 

If  ye  wad  win  my  love, 

The  sultry  suns  of  summer  came, 

Jamie,  come  try  me. 

And  he  grew  thick  and  strong, 
His  head  weel  arm'd  wi'  pointed  spears, 

My  heart  leaps  light,  my  lore. 

That  no  one  should  him  wrong. 

When  ye  come  nigh  n\e ; 
If  1  had  wings,  my  love. 

•  This  is  partly  composed  on  the  plan  of  an  oU 

Think  na  I'd  fly  thee. 

■ODg  known  by  the  same  name. 

SONGS. 


20" 


Ye'll  blear  out  a'  your  een,  John,  ar«i  why 
should  you  do  so, 

Gang  sooner  to  your  bed  at  e'en,  John  Ajader'son, 
my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John,  when  nature  first 

began 
To  try  her  canny  hand,  John,  her  master-wc:k 

was  man  ; 
And  you  amang  them  a',  John,  sue   trig  fra# 

tap  to  toe. 
She  proved  to  be  nae  journey-work,  John  An 

derson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John,  ye  were  my  fire* 
conceit, 

And  ye  na  think  it  strange,  John,  tho*  I  ca'  y* 
trim  and  neat ; 

Tho'  some  folk  say  ye're  auld,  John,  I  never 
think  ye  so. 

But  I  think  ye're  ave  the  same  to  me,  John  An- 
derson, my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  Joho,  we've  seen  our 

bairns'  bairns. 
And  yet,  my  dear  John  Anderson,   I'm  haiipy 

in  your  arms. 
And  sae  are  ye  in  mine,  John — I'm  sure  ye', 

ne'er  say  no, 
Tho'  the  days  are  gane,  that  we  have  seen,  Joht 

Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John,  what  pleasuni 
does  it  gie 

To  see  sae  mony  sprouts,  John,  spring  up  'tween 
you  and  me. 

And  ilka  lad  and  lass,  John,  in  our  footsteps  to  go, 

Makes  perfect  heaven  here  on  earth,  John  An- 
derson, my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John,  when  we  were 
first  acquaint. 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven,  your  bonnia 
brow  was  brent. 

But  now  your  head's  turned  bald,  John,  your 
locks  are  like  the  snaw, 

Yet  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow,  John  Ander- 
son, my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John,  frae  year  to  yeai 
I  we've  past, 

'  And  soon   that  year   maun    come,    John,    will 
bring  us  to  our  last : 
But  let  nae  that  affright  us,  John,  our  heart* 

were  ne'er  our  foe, 
While  in  innocent  delight  we  lived,  John  An- 
lOIIN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO,  IMPROVED.  Person,  my  jo. 

John  Akdersok,  my  jo,  John,  I  wonder  what   Jjhn  Anderson,  my  jo,  John,  we  clam  the  hi! 

you  metn,  thegither,  , 

To  rise  so  soon  in  the  morning,  and  sit  up  M    And  mony  a  canty  day,  John,  we've  had  wi 

late  f.t  e  en,  J  aue  aoither ; 


The  doher  autumn  ent«r'd  mild, 
^VTicn  he  grew  wan  and  pale  ; 

Il'i  bending  joints  and  drooping  head 
Show'd  lie  began  to  fail. 

His  colour  sicken'd  more  and  more, 

He  faded  into  age  ; 
And  then  his  enemies  began 

To  show  their  deadly  rage. 

They've  ta'e»  a  weapon  long  and  sharp, 

And  cut  him  by  the  knee  ; 
Then  ty'd  him  fast  upon  a  cart. 

Like  a  rogue  for  forgerie. 

They  laid  him  down  upon  his  back. 

And  ciidgell'd  him  full  sore  ; 
Tliey  hung  him  up  before  the  storm, 

And  tum'd  him  o'er  and  o'er. 

They  filled  up  a  darksome  pit 

With  water  to  the  brim, 
They  heaved  in  John  Barleycorn, 

There  let  him  sink  oi  swim. 

Ihey  laid  him  out  upon  the  floor, 

To  work  him  farther  woe, 
And  still  as  signs  of  life  appear'd. 

They  toss'd  him  to  and  fro. 

They  wasted  o'er  a  scorching  flame, 

The  marrow  of  his  bones  ; 
But  a  miller  used  him  worst  of  all, 

For  he  crush'd  him  between  two  stones. 

,\nd  they  hae  ta'en  his  very  heart's  blood 
And  drank  it  round  and  round  ; 

And  still  the  more  and  more  they  drank, 
Their  joy  did  more  abound. 

John  Barleycorn  was  a  hero  bold, 

Of  noble  enterprise. 
For  if  you  do  but  taste  his  blood, 

'Twill  make  your  courage  rise. 

Twill  make  a  man  forget  his  woe ; 

'Twill  heighten  all  his  joy  : 
Twill  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing, 

Tho'  the  tear  were  in  her  eye. 

Then  let  us  toast  John  Barleycorn, 

Each  man  a  glass  in  hand  ; 
And  may  his  great  posterity 

Ne'er  fai  in  old  Scotland  ! 


208 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Now  we  mriun  totter  down,  Jolin,  but  hand  in 

hand  we'll  go. 
And  we'll  sltep  the^ither  at  the  foot,  John  An- 

deisou,  my  jo. 


LAST  MAY  A  BRAW  AVOOER. 

Tune—"  The  Lothian  Lassie," 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam'  down   the  lang 
glen, 
And  sair  wi'  his  Inve  he  did  deave  me  ; 
I  said  there  was  naethlng  I  hattd  like  men  : 
The  deuce  gae  wi'  him  to  believe  me,  believe 

me. 
The  deuce  gae  wi'  him  to  believe  me  ! 

He  spak'  o'  the  darts  o'  my  bonnie  black  eea. 
And  Vdw'd  for  my  love  he  was  dcein'. 

I  said  he  niicht  dee  when  he  liked  for  Jean  ; 
The  giiid  forgi'e  me  tor  leein',  for  leeiu', 
The  guid  forgi'e  me  for  leein'  ! 

A  wecl-stockit  mailin',  himsell  for  the  laird, 
And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffer. 

I  never  loot  on  that  I  kfiin'd  it  or  cared  ; 
But  thoch»  I  might  hae   a  waur  offer,  waur 

offer, 
But  thought  I  might  hae  a  waur  offer. 

But,  what  wad  ye  think,  in  a  fortnicht  or  less, — 
The  deil's  in  his  taste  to  gang  near  her  ! — 

He  up  the  lang  loan  to  my  black  cousin  Bess — 
Guess   ye   how,   the  jaud  !   I  could   bear  her, 

could  bear  her. 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jaud  !   I  could  bear  her  ! 

But  a'  the  neist  week,  as  I  fretted  wi'  care, 
I  gaed  to  the  tryst  o"  Dalgarnoek  ; 

And  wha  l)ut  ray  braw  fickle  wooer  was  there  ? 
Whd  glowr'd    as   he  had   seen  a  warlock,   a 

warlock, 
Wha  glowr'u  as  he  had  seen  a  warlock. 

Out  ower  my  left  shouther  I  gi'ed  him  a  blink, 
Lest  necbors  micht  say  I  was  saucy  ; 

My  wooer  he  caper'd  as  he'd  been  in  drink, 
And  vow'<l  I  was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie. 
And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie. 

I  speir'd  for  my  cousin,  fou  couthie  and  sweet. 

Gin  she  had  recover'd  her  hearin'  ? 
\nd   how  my  auld  shoon  fitted  her  shauchled 
feet  ?'• 
Gude  sauf  us !  how  he  fell   a-swearin',   a- 

swearin', 
Gude  sauf  us  !  how  he  fell  a-swearin'. 


•  In  Scotland,  when  a  cast-ofT  lover  pays  his  ad. 
dresses  to  a  new  mistress,  tliat  new  mistress  is  saiil  to 
have  pot  the  auld  slioon  (old  shoes)  of  the  former  one. 
Here  the  mota])hor  is  made  to  cirrv  an  extremely  in- 
genious sarcatm  at  tlie  ciunisiuess  of 'he  new  mislrc'sit'i 
person. 


He  begged,  for  gudesake  !  I  wad  be  hi»  wl£g^ 
Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi"  sorrow  ; 

Sae,  e'en  to  preserve  the  piiir  body  in  life, 
1  think  I  maun  wed  hitn  to-morrow,  to-BiiK^ 

row, 
I  think  I  maun  wed  hiin  to-morrow. 


LASSIE  WI*  THE  LINT-WHITE  LOCKS 

T^ne — "  Rothiemurchus'  Rant." 

Lassie  tci'  the  Ihii  white  locks, 
Jionnie  luisie,  itrtless  lassie. 
Wilt  thou  wi'  me  tend  thejincks  ? 
Wilt  thou  be  mi/  dearie,   O  ? 

Now  Nature  cleads  the  flowery  lea. 
And  a*  is  young  and  sweet  like  thee, 
O,  wilt  thou  share  its  jv)ys  wi'  me. 
And  say  thou'lt  be  my  dearie,  O  ? 
Lassie  ud',  ^c. 

And  when  the  welcome  simmer  shower 
Has  cheer'd  ilk  dniopinj^  little  fliiwer. 
We'll  to  the  breathing  v/nodhine  bower, 
At  sultry  noon,  my  dearie,  O. 
Lassie  wt,  §x. 

MHien  Cynthia  lights,  wi'  silver  ray, 
The  weary  shearer's  hameward  way, 
Through  yellow-waving  fields  we'il  stray, 
And  talk  o'  love,  my  dearie,  O. 
Lassie,  wi',  §-c. 

And  whem  the  howling  wintry  blast 
Disturbs  my  lassie's  midnignt  rest, 
Enclasped  to  my  faithiul  breast, 
I'll  comfort  thee,  my  dearie,  O. 
Lassie,  wi',  §-c. 


LAY  THY  LOOP  IN  MINE,  LASS 

Tune—"  O  lay  tlie  loof  in  mine.  Ism.* 

O  LAY  thy  loof  in  mine,  lass. 
In  mine,  lass,  in  mine,  lass  ; 
And  swear  on  thy  white  hand,  lass, 
That  thou  wilt  be  my  ain. 

A  slave  to  love's  unbounded  sway, 
He  aft  has  wrought  me  niuckle  wae ; 
But  now  he  is  my  deadly  fae, 
Unless  thou  be  ray  ain. 

There's  mony  a  lass  has  broke  my  rest^ 
That  for  a  blink  I  hae  lo'ed  best ; 
But  thou  art  queen  within  my  breaity 
For  ever  to  remain. 


SONGS.                                                  W9 

I.Ef     NOT  V\'OMAN  E'ER  COMPLAIN. 

Again  the  merrv  mor.th  o*  l^fay, 

Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay; 
The  birds  lejoice  in  leafy  bowel s. 

Tune—"  Duncan  Gray." 

Let  not  woman  e'rr  complain 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flo77aa  , 

Of  inconstancy  in  love  ; 

Blythe  morning  lilts  his  rosy  eve, 

Let  not  u-dtiKin  e'er  complain, 

And  evening's  tears  are  tears  of  joy  : 

Fickle  man  is  a()t  to  rove. 

My  soul,  (lelightless,  a'  surveys, 

While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Look  abroad  tlirouijh  nature's  range, 

Natnrc's  mighty  law  is  change; 

Within  yon  milk-white  hawthorn  buzh) 

Ladies,  would  it  not  l)e  strange, 

Ainang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush  : 

Man  should,  then,  a  monster  prove  ? 

Her  faithfu'  mate  will  share  her  toil. 

Or  wi'  his  song  her  cares  beguile  ; 

Hark  the  winds,  and  mark  the  skies  ; 

But  I,  wi"  my  sweet  nurslings  licre, 

Ocean's  ebb,  and  ocean's  flow. 

Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer, 

Snn  and  moou  bnt  set  to  rise  ; 

Pass  wiilow'd  nights  and  joyless  days, 

Hound  aiid  round  the  seasons  go. 

While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

Wiy,  then,  ask  of  silly  man, 
To  oppose  great  nature's  plan  ? 

O  wae  upon  you,  men  o*  state. 

That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate  ' 

We'll  be  constant  while  we  can, 

As  ye  make  mony  a  fond  heart  mourn, 

You  can  Ih;  no  inoie,  you  know. 

Sae  may  it  on  your  heads  return  ! 

How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy. 

The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry;*                          •, 

But  soon  may  jjeace  bring  happy  days, 

LONG,  LONG  THE  NIGHT 

And  Willie,  hame  to  Logan  braes  ! 

Tuve—"  Aye  wakin'." 

ZtOnp,  long  tlie  night. 

J/ravg  ciimrs  the  mnrrow, 

While  my  soul's  delight. 

Is  on  her  bed  of  sorrow. 

LORD  GREGORY. 

Can  I  cease  to  care. 

Oh,  mirk,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour. 

Can  I  cease  to  languish, 

And  loud  the  tempests  roar  ; 

While  my  darling  fair 

A  waefu'  wanderer  seeks  thy  tower. 

Is  on  the  conch  of  anguish  ? 

Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door  ! 

Zfong,  §-c. 

An  exile  frae  her  father's  ha'. 

Every  hope  is  fled. 

And  a'  for  loving  thee; 

Every  fear  is  terror 

At  least  some  pity  on  me  shjw. 

Slumber  e'en  I  dread, 

If  love  it  may  na  be. 

Every  dream  is  horroi 

■Long,  ifc. 

Lord  Gregory,  mind'st  thou  not  the  gr:3!»' 

By  bonnie  Irvine  side. 

Hear  me,  pow'rs  divine  ! 

Where  first  I  own'd  that  virgin  love 

Oh,  in  pity  hear  nie  ! 

I  lang  lang  had  denied  ? 

Take  aught  else  of  mine, 

But  my  Chloiis  s])are  me  ! 

How  aften  di(Nt  thou  pledge  the  vow, 

jLung,  Sfc. 

Thou  wad  for  aye  be  mine  ! 

And  m.y  fond  heart,  it-ell  sae  true, 

It  ne'er  mistrusted  tliiae. 
Hard  is  thy  heart,  Lord  Gregory, 

LOGAN  BRAES. 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast  ! 

Tune—"  Logan  Water." 

Thou  dart  of  heaven  that  flashes  by. 

0,  Logan  sweeetly  didst  thou  glide. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride  ; 
'       And  years  sinsyne  hae  o'er  us  run, 
Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above, 

Your  willing  victim  see  ; 

But  now  the  flowery  banks  appear 

Like  drumlie  winter,  dark  an  drear, 

•  Originally, 

While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faei. 

"  Ye  mind  na  'mid  yoor  criirl  joy:, 

}      Far,  fur  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

••  I  lie  widow's  tears,  the  orpli;i."'s*ijri»i! 

1 

21C 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Bat  spare  anf»  pardon  my  false  love 
His  wrongs  to  heaveu  and  me  !  • 


LINES  ON  LORD  DAER. 

This  wot  ye  all  whom  it  concerns, 
I,  Rhymer  Robin,  alias  Burns, 

October  twenty-third, 
A  ne'er-to-be-forgotten  day, 
Sae  far  1  sprackled  +  up  the  brae, 

I  dinner'd  wi'  a  Lord. 

I've  been  at  dru.:kenyt'r(7er5'  |  feasts, 
Nay,  been  bitch  fou  'mang  godly  priests, 

Wi'  rev'rence  be  it  spoken  ; 
I've  even  join'd  the  honour'd  jorura, 
When  mighty  Squireships  of  the  quorum. 

Their  hydra  drouth  did  sloken. 

But  wi   a  Lord — stand  out  my  shin, 
A  Lord — a  Peer — an  Earl's  son, 

Up  higher  yet  my  bonnet ; 
An'  sic  a  Lord — lang  Scotch  ells  twa. 
Our  peerage  he  o'erlooks  them  a' 

As  I  look  o'er  a  sonnet. 

But  O  for  Hogarth's  magic  power  ! 
To  show  Sir  Bardy's  willyart  glowr,§ 

And  how  he  stared  and  stammer'd, 
Whan  goavan  ||  as  if  led  wi'  branks,^ 
An'  stumpan  on  his  ploughman  shanks. 

He  in  the  parlour  hammer'd. 


I  sidling  shelter'd  in  a  nook. 
An'  at  his  Lordship  steal't  a  look, 

Like  some  portentous  omen ; 
Except  good  sense  and  social  glee. 
An'  (what  surprised  me)  modesty, 

I  marked  nought  uncommon. 

I  watch'd  the  symptoms  o'  the  Great, 

The  gentle  piide,  the  lordly  state 

The  arrogant  assuming; 
The  fient  a  piidc,  nae  pride  had  he, 
Nor  sauce,  nor  state  that  I  could  see, 

Mair  than  an  honest  ploughman. 

Then  from  his  Lordship  I  shall  learn, 
Hencefortn  to  meet  with  unconcern, 

One  rank  as  well's  another  ; 
Nae  honest  icorthy  man  need  rare, 
To  meet  with  noble  youthful  Daek, 

For  he  but  meets  a  brother. 

These  lines  will  be  read  with  no  common  in- 
Ifcrcst  by  all  who  remember  the  unaffected  sim- 


plicity of  appearance,  the  sweetness  of  ccunte. 
nance  and  manners,  and  the  unsuspecting  bene« 
volence  of  heart,  of  Basil,  Lord  Daer. — It  was  r 
younger  brother  of  his  who,  as  Earl  of  Selkirk, 
became  so  well  known  as  the  advocate  of  volun- 
tary emigration,  and  who  settled  the  CiMaj 
upon  the  Red  River. 


MACPHERSON'S  FAREWELL. 
Tune—"  Macpherson's  Rant. ' 

Fareweil,  ye  prisons  dark  and  strong, 

The  wretch's  destinie ! 
Macpherson's  time  will  not  be  long 
On  yonder  gallows  tree  ! 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly, 

Sae  dantonly  gaed  he. 
He  play''d  a  spring,  and  danced  it  TCKJ^dt 
Heneath  the  gallows  tree  ! 

Oh,  what  is  death,  but  parting  breath  ? 

On  mony  a  bluidy  plain 
I've  daur'd  his  face,  and  in  this  place 

I  scorn  him  yet  again. 

Sae  rantingly,  Sfc. 

Untie  these  bands  frae  aff  my  hands. 

And  bring  to  me  my  sword  ; 
And  there's  nae  man  in  a'  Scotland 

But  I'll  brave  him  at  a  word. 
Sae  rantingly,  §-c. 

I've  lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife  ; 

I  die  by  treacherie  : 
It  buins  my  heart  I  must  depart, 

And  not  avenged  be. 

Sae  rantingly,  Sfc. 

Now  farewell,  light,  thou  sunshine  bright, 

And  all  bpncLith  the  sky  ! 
May  coward  shame  distain  his  name, 

The  wretch  that  dares  not  die  ! 
Sae  rantingly,  8rc. 


*  This  song  was  eompo'^od  upon  tlic  sulvect  of  tile 
well. known  and  very  beautiful  balL-iil,  cntiUed  "  The 
Lass  of  Loiliroyaii. 

t  Clambered.  i  Attorneys. 

t  Frightened  stare.  ||  Walkiiij;  stupidly. 

1  A  kind  of  bridle. 


MARIA'S  DWELLING. 
Tufte—"  The  last  time  I  cam  o'er  the  Moor." 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  winding  flow* 

Around  Maria's  dwelling  ! 
Ah  cruel  inem'ry  !  spare  the  threes 

AVithin  my  bosom  swelling  : 
Condemn'd  to  drag  a  ho])eless  chain, 

And  still  in  secret  languish ; 
To  feel  a  fire  in  ev'ry  vein, 

Yet  dare  not  speek  my  anguish. 

The  wretch  of  love,  unseen,  unknown, 
I  fain  my  crime  would  cover  : 


SONGS. 


211 


llie  hurstiiisj  sigh,  th'  unweeting;  groan 

Betray  the  hopeless  lover. 
I  know  iny  doom  must  be  despair, 

Thou  wilt,  nor  canst  relieve  me  ; 
But  oh,  M.uia,  hear  one  prayer, 

For  pity's  sake  forgive  me. 

The  music  of  thy  tongue  I  heard, 

Nor  wist  while  it  enslav'd  me  ; 
I  saw  thine  eyes,  yet  nothing  fear'a, 

'Till  fears  no  more  had  saved  me. 
The  unwary  sailor  thus  aghast. 

The  wheeling  torrent  viewing  ; 
'i^Ii'l  circling  horrors  yields  at  last 

To  overwhelming  ruin. 


MARK  YONDER  POMP. 
Tunt—"  Dei)  tak'  the  wars." 

Mark  yonder  pomp  of  costly  fashion. 

Round  the  wealthy,  titled  bride  : 
But  when  compared  with  real  passion. 

Poor  is  all  that  princely  pride. 

V/hat  are  their  showy  treasures  ? 

What  are  their  noisy  pleasures  ? 
The  gay,  gaudy  glare  of  vanity  and  art. 

The  polish'd  jewel's  bhize, 

M.iy  draw  the  wonrl'ring  gaze, 

And  courtly  grandeur  brigiit. 

The  fancy  may  delight. 
But  never,  never  can  come  near  the  heart. 

But  did  you  see  my  dearest  Chloris, 

In  simplicity's  array  ; 
Lovely  as  yonder  sweet  opening  flower  is, 

Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  day. 

O  then  the  heart  alarming. 

And  all  resistless  charming. 
In  Love's  delightful  fetters  she  chains  the  wil- 
ling soul ! 

Ambition  would  disown 

The  world's  imperial  crown, 

Even  Av'rice  would  deny 

His  worshipp'd  deity, 
And  feel  thro'  every  vein  Love'a  raptures  roll. 


MARY  MORISON. 
Tune—"  Bide  ye  yet" 

0,  Mary,  at  thy  window  be  ; 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trjsted  hour : 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor. 
How  blyfhely  wad  I  byde  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  fiae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 

Tie  iov^»'y  Mary  Morison  ! 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  stented  string 
The  dance  gaed  through  the  lichtit  ha'. 


To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing— . 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw. 
Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  bra\7 

And  you  the  toast  o'  a    the  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a'. 

Ye  are  na  JMary  Morison. 

O,  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gic. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ; 
A  thocht  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thocht  of  Alary  Morison. 


MEG  O'  THE  MILL. 

Tune—"  O  bonnie  lass,  will  you  lie  in  a  barrack  "^ 

O,  KEM  ye  what  Meg  o'  the  Mill  has  gotten. 
An'  ken  ye  what  Jleg  o'  the  Mdl  has  gotten  ? 
She  has  gotten  a  coof  wi*  a  claut  o"  siller. 
And  broken  the  heart  o'  the  barley  miller. 

The  miller  was  strappin',  the  miller  was  ruddy; 
A  heart  like  a  lord,  and  a  hue  like  a  lady : 
The  laird  was  a  wuddiefu'  bleerit  knurl  ; 
She's  left  the  guid  fallow,  and  ta'en  the  churl. 

The  miller  he  hecht  her  a  heart  leal  and  loving: 
The  laird  did  address  her  wi'  matter  niair  mo- 
Ting  ; 
A  fine  pacing-horse  wi'  a  clcar-chain'd  bridle, 
A  whip  by  her  side,  and  a  bonny  side-saddle. 

O  wae  on  the  siller,  it's  sae  prevailing ; 
And  'vae  on  the  love  that's  fix'd  on  a  mailin* ! 
A  tocher's  nae  word  in  a  true  lover's  paile. 
But,  Gie  me  my  love,  and  a  fig  for  the  worl  ! 


MUSING  ON  THE  ROARLXG  OCEAN. 

I  COMPOSKD  these  verses  out  of  compliment 
to  a  Mrs.  M'Lachlan,  whose  husband  is  an  of- 
ficer in  the  East  Indies. 

Tune—"  Drumion  Dubh." 

Ml'sing  on  the  roaring  ocean, 
Which  diviiles  my  love  and  me  ; 

Wearying  heaven  in  warm  devotion, 
For  his  weal  where'er  he  be. 

Hope  and  fear's  alternate  billow 

Yielding  late  to  nature's  law, 
Whispring  spirits  round  my  pillow, 

Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa. 

Ye  whom  sorrow  levcr  wounded, 
Ye  who  never  shed  a  tear, 


212 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


Care-untronl)li.'d,  joy-surrounded, 
Gdudy  (lay  to  you  is  dear. 

Gentle  night,  do  tliou  befriend  me, 
Downy  sleep  the  curtain  draw  ; 

Spirits  kind,  again  attend  me, 
Talk  of  him  that's  far  awa ! 


MY  BONNIE  IMARY. 

This  air  is  Oswald's  ;   the   first  half-stanza 
of  the  song  is  old,  the  rest  mine.* 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o*  wine, 

An'  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie ; 
That  I  may  drink  hefore  I  go, 

A  service  to  my  honnie  lassie  ; 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  ])ier  o'  Leith  ; 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  fiae  the  ferry  ; 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  lea'e  my  bonuie  Mary. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready  ; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afor, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody  ; 
But  it's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langcr  wish  to  tarry  ; 
Nor  shouts  o'  war  that's  heard  afar. 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonuie  Maty. 


MY  HEART'S  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

BIv  heart's   in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not 

here — 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer  ; 
A-chasing  the  wilil  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
Mv  heart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  1  go. 
Farewell    to    the     Highlands,    farewell    to    the 

North, 
The  biith-place  of  valour,  the  country  of  worth  ; 
Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  for  ever  I  love. 

Farewell   to  the   mountains  high  cover'd   with 

snow  ; 

Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below  ; 

.  Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild  hanging  woods  , 

Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 

My  heart's   in   the  Highlands,    my  heart  is  not 

here  ; 
My  heart's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer, 
Chasing  the  wild  deer  and  following  the  roe— 
My  J'.eart's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 


•  IMjis  Minp,  wliicli  Iliims  here  nckno'Aiedfjcj  to  he 
bis  own,  was  first  ijilrodiii-i-il  by  him  in  a  Idler  to 
Urs.  Dunlop,  iis  two  o'J  itanzai. 


MY  LADY'S  GOWN  THERE'S  GAIRS 
UPON'T. 

Mt  lady's  gown  there's  gairs  upon't, 
And  gowden  flowers  sae  rare  upon't ; 
But  Jenny's  jimps  and  jirkinet, 
RIy  lord  thinks  muckle  mair  upon't. 

My  lord  a-hunting  he  is  gane. 

But  hounds  ot  hawks  wi'  him  are  nane*. 

By  Colin's  cottage  lies  his  game. 

If  Colin's  Jenny  be  at  hame. 

My  lady's  white,  my  lady's  red, 
And  kith  and  kin  o'  Cassilis'  blude, 
But  her  ten-pund  lands  o'  tocher  gude 
Were  a'  the  charms  his  lordship  lo'ed. 

Out  o'er  yon  moor,  out  o'er  yon  moss, 
Whare  gor-cocks  through  the  heather  pase  •, 
There  wons  auld  Colin's  bonny  lass, 
A  lily  in  a  wilderness. 

Sae  sweetly  move  her  genty  limbs. 
Like  music  notes  o'  lover's  hymns  ; 
The  diamond  dew  is  her  een  sae  blue. 
Where  laughing  love  sae  wanton  swims. 

My  lady's  dink,  my  lady's  drest. 
The  flower  and  fancy  o'  the  west ; 
But  the  lassie  that  man  lo'es  the  best, 
O  that's  the  lass  to  mak  irim  blest. 


MY  NANNIE'S  AWA. 

Tun^—"  There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comei 
hame." 

Now  in  her  green  mantle  blythe  nature  arrays. 
And  listens   the  lambkins  that  bleat  ower  the 

braes. 
While  birds  warble  welcome  in  ilka  green  shaw ; 
But  to  me  it's  delightless — my  Nannie's  awa. 

The  snaw-drap  and   primrose    our  woodlandf 

adorn. 
And  violets  bathe  in  the  weet  o'  the  morn  ; 
They  pain  my  sad  bosom,  sae  sweetly  they  blaw  ! 
They  mind  me  o'  Nannie — and  Nannie's  awa. 

Thou  laverock,   that  springs  frae  the  dews  of 

the  lawn. 
The  shepherd    to  warn  of  the   grey-breaking 

dawn  ; 
And  thou  mellow  mavis,  that  hails  the  night-fa' ; 
Give  over  for  pity — my  Nannie's  awa. 

Come,  autumn,  sae  pensive,  in  yellow  and  grey, 
And  soothe  me  wi'  tidings  o'  nature's  decay  : 
The  daik,  dreary  winter,  and  w ild-driving  snaw, 
Alane  can  delight  me — my  Nannie's  awa. 


SONGS. 


213 


MY  NANNIE,  O. 
t^nt  -"  My  NanB  .o,  O." 

Behind  yon  hills  whore  Stiiichar  flows, 

Mang  moors  an'  mosses  many,  O, 
The  wintry  sun  the  <l:iy  has  dos'd, 

And  I'll  awa  to  Nannie,  O. 
Tlie  wcstland  wind  lilaws  h)ud  an*  shrill  ; 

The  niijht's  baith  mirk  and  rainy,  O  ; 
But  I'll  get  my  plaid  and  out  I'll  steaJ, 

An'  owre  the  hills  to  Nannie,  O, 

My  Nannie's  charmin;^,  sweet,  an'  younj ; 

Na*  artfu'  wiles  to  win  ye,  O  ; 
May  ill  befa'  the  flatterin<j  tongue 

That  wad  beguile  my  Nannie,  O. 
Her  face  is  fair,  her  heart  is  true, 

As  spotless  as  sIm's  bounie,  O  : 
The  opening  gowan,  wet  wi'  dew, 

Nae  purer  is  than  Nannie,  O. 

A  country  lad  is  my  degree. 

An'  few  there  be  that  ken  me,  O  ; 
But  what  c»re  I  how  few  they  bo, 

I'm  welcome  aye  to  Nannie,  O. 
My  riches  a'  's  my  penny-fee. 

Ail'  I  maun  guide  it  cannie,  O  ; 
But  warl's  gear  ne'er  troubles  me, 

My  thoughts  are  a'  my  Nannie,  O. 

Our  auld  Guidman  delights  to  view 

His  sheep  an'  kye  thrive  bonnie,  O  ; 
But  I'm  as  blythe  that  bauds  his  plough, 

An'  has  nae  care  but  Nannie,  O. 
Come  weel,  come  woe,  I  care  na  by, 

I'll  tike  what  Heaven  will  sea'  me,  O ; 
Nae  ither  care  in  life  hae  I, 

But  live,  an'  love  my  Nannie,  O. 


MY  PEGGY'S  FACE. 

My  Peggy's  face,  my  Peggy's  form 
The  frost  of  Hermit  age  might  wai'm  ; 
My  Peggy's  worth,  ray  Peggy's  mind, 
Might  charm  the  first  of  human  kind  : 
I  love  my  Peggy's  angel  air. 
Her  face  so  truly,  heavenly  fair, 
Her  native  grace  so  void  of  art, 
But  I  adore  my  Peggy's  heart. 

The  lily's  hue,  the  rose's  dye, 
The  kindling  lustre  of  an  eye  ; 
Who  l)ut  owns  their  magic  sway, 
Who  but  knows  they  all  decay ! 
The  tender  thrill,  the  pitying  tear. 
The  generous  purpose,  nobly  dear, 
The  gentle  look,  that  rage  disarms, 
Thesp  are  all  immortal  charms. 


MY  SODGER  LADDIE, 


THE  soldier's  doxy's    SON*;    IN    "  THE  J0LL1 
IIEGGAKS." 

Tune—"  Sodger  Laddie." 

I  ONCE  was  a  maid,  tho'  I  canna  tell  when. 
And  still  my  delight  is  in  proper  young  men  ; 
Some  one  of  a  troop  of  dragoons  was  my  daddie,— 
No  wonder  I'm  fond  of  a  sodger  laddie. 
Sine/,  Lai  de  lul,  §-c. 

The  first  of  my  loves  was  a  swaggering  blade, 
To  rattle  the  thundering  drum  was  his  trade  ; 
His  leg  was  so  tight,  and  his  cheek  was  so  ruddy, 
Transported  I  was  with  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sinff,  Lai  de  lal,  Sfc. 

But  the  godly  old  chaplain  left  him  in  the  lurch, 
The  sword  I  forsook  for  tho  sake  of  the  church. 
He  ventur'd  the  soul,  and  I  risked  the  bo'Ji/, 
'Twas  then  I  prov'd  false  to  my  sodger  laddie. 
Siny,  Lid  de  lal,  ^-c. 

Full  soon  I  grew  sick  of  my  sanctified  sot, 
The  regiment  at  large  for  a  husband  I  got; 
From  the  gilded  spontoon  to  tho  fife  I  was  ready, 
I  asked  no  more  but  a  sodger  laddie. 
S'uKj,  L'A  de  lal,  ^'C. 

But  the  peace  it  reduc'd  me  to  beg  in  de-pair, 
Till  I  met  my  old  boy  at  Cuiminghim  fair  ; 
His  ray  regiinetit(d  tliey  flutter'd  so  gamly, 
My  heart  it  rejoic'd  at  my  sodger  laddie. 
Sing,  Lnl  de  lal,  fre. 

And  now  I  have  liv'd — I  know  not  how  long, 

And  still  I  can  join  in  a  cup  or  a  song  ; 

But  wliilst  with  both  hands  I  can  hold  the  g  3M 

steady, 
Here's  to  thee,  my  hero,  my  sod:;er  ladJie. 
Sing,  Lal  de  lal,  §"c. 


MY  SPOUSE  NANCIE. 
Tune—"  My  Jo,  Janet." 

Husband,  husband,  cease  your  itrlfe^ 
Nor  longer  idly  rave.  Sir; 

Though  I  am  your  wedded  wife, 
Yet  I'm  not  your  slave,  Sir. 

One  of  two  must  still  obey, 

Nancie,  Nmcie ; 
Is  it  man  or  woman,  say. 

My  spouse  Nancie  ? 

If  'tis  still  the  lordly  word. 

Service  and  obedience  ; 
I'll  de-sert  my  soverei;^!!  lord. 

And  BO  good-bye  allcgiauc* 

6a/l  will  I  be  so  bereft, 
Nancie,  Nancie  ; 


2H                                       BURNS' 

WORKS. 

Yet  I'll  try  to  mal  e  a  soift, 

The  warld's  wrack  we  share  »'% 

BIy  spouse  Nantie. 

The  warstle  and  the  care  o't ; 

W'  her  I'll  blythely  bear  it, 

My  poor  heart  then  break  it  must, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

My  last  hour  I'm  near  it ; 

When  you  lay  me  in  the  dust, 

Think — think  how  you  will  bear  it. 

T  will  hope  and  trust  in  Heaven, 

NAE-BODY. 

Nancie,  Nancie, 

Strength  to  bear  it  will  be  given, 

I  HAE  a  wife  o'  my  ain. 

My  spouse  Nancie. 

I'll  partake  wi'  nae-body  ; 

I'll  tak  cuckold  frae  nane, 

■Well,  Sir,  from  the  silent  dead, 

I'll  gie  cuckold  to  nae-body. 

Still  I'll  try  to  daunt  you  ; 

Ever  round  your  midnight  bed 

I  hae  a  penny  to  spend, 

Horrid  sprites  shall  haunt  you. 

There — thanks  to  nae-body; 

I  hae  naething  to  lend. 

Ill  wed  another  like  my  dear 

I'll  borrow  frae  nae-body. 

Nancie,  Nancie ; 

Then  all  hell  will  fly  for  fear, 

I  am  nae-body's  lord, 

]My  spouse  Nancie  I 

I'll  be  slave  to  nae-body ; 

I  hae  a  guid  braid  sword, 

I'll  tak  dunts  frae  nae-body 

I'll  be  merry  and  free, 
I'll  be  sad  for  nae  body  ; 

MY  TOCHER'S  THE  JEWEL. 

0  MElKLE  thinks  my  luve  d'  my  beauty. 

If  nae-body  care  for  me, 

And  meikle  thinks  my  hive  o'  my  kin  ; 

I'll  care  for  nae-body. 

But  little  thinks  my  luve  I  ken  brawlie, 

Jly  tocher's  the  jewel  has  chainis  for  him. 
It's  a'  for  the  apple  he'll  n(iuri>h  the  tree  ; 

It's  a'  for  the  hinney  he'll  cherish  the  bee. 

Mv  laddie's  sae  meikle  in  luve  wi'  the  siller. 

NANCY. 

He  canna  hae  luve  to  spare  for  me. 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair^ 

Your  profTcr  o'  hive's  an  arle  penny, 

Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy  ; 

My  tocher's  the  bargain  ye  wad  buy  ; 

Ev'iy  pulse  along  my  veins, 

But  an'  ye  be  crafty,  I  am  cunnin, 

Ev'ry  roving  fancy. 

Sae  ye  wi'  anitlier  your  fortune  maun  try. 
Ye're  like  to  the  tin.nier  o'  yon  rotten  wood, 
Ye're  like  to  the  baik  o'  yon  rotten  tree, 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart. 

There  to  thiob  and  languish  ; 

Ye'U  slip  frae  me  like  a  knotiess  thread, 

And  ye'll  crack  your  ciedit  wi'  mae  nor  me. 

Tho'  despair  had  wrung  its  core, 

That  would  heal  its  anguish. 

Take  away  these  rosy  lips. 
Rich  with  balmy  treasure  : 

Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love, 

JIY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

Lest  I  die  with  pleasure. 

Tunt—"  My  wife's  a  wanton  wee  thing." 

What  is  life  when  wanting  love  ? 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 

Night  without  a  morning  : 

She  is  a  handsume  wee  thing, 

Love's  the  cloudless  summer  sun 

She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 

Nature  gay  adorning. 

This  sweet  wee  wife  o*  mine  ! 
I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  loo'd  a  dearer ; 

And  neist  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

NOW  SPRING  HAS  CLAD  THE  GROVB 

IN  GREEN. 

She  is  a  winsome  woe  thing, 

Now  spring  has  cl.id  the  grove  m  green, 

She  is  a  hutKJMime  wre  thing, 

And  strew'd  the  lea  wi'  flowers  ; 

She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 

The  fiirrow'd  waving  corn  is  seen 

Thin  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

Rejoice  in  fostering  shower*  . 

-J 

SONGS. 


215 


IThlle  ilka  tiling  in  nature  join 

Their  sorrows  to  forej;o, 
0  why  thus  all  alone  are  mine 

The  wcaiy  steps  of  woe  ! 

The  trout  within  yon  wim])ling  burn 

Glides  swift,  a  silver  dart, 
And  safe  beneath  the  shady  thorn 

Defies  tlie  angler's  art  ; 
My  life  was  ance  that  careless  stream, 

That  wanton  trout  was  I  ; 
But  love,  wi'  unrelentinij  beam, 

Has  seorch'd  uiy  fountains  dry. 

The  little  flow'ret's  peaceful  lot, 

In  yonder  cliff  that  grows, 
V\'hich  save  the  linnet's  flight,  I  wot, 

Nae  ruder  visit  knows, 
Was  mine  ;   till  love  has  o'er  me  past, 

And  blighted  a'  my  bloom. 
Add  now  beneath  the  withering  blast, 

My  youth  and  joy  consume. 

The  waken'd  lav'rock  warbling  springSi 

And  clim'os  the  e.irly  sky, 
IVinnowing  blythe  he;  dewy  wings 

In  mornir.g's  rosy  eye  ; 
As  little  reckt  I  sorrow's  power, 

Until  the  flowery  snare 
0'  witching  love,  in  luckless  hour, 

Made  me  the  thrall  o'  care. 

0  bad  my  fate  been  Greenland's  snows, 

Cr  Afric's  burning  zone, 
Wi'  man  and  nature  leagued  my  foes. 

So  Peggy  ne'er  I'd  known  ! 
The  wretch  whase  doo.-n  is,   "  hope  nae  mair,' 

That  tongue  his  woes  cau  tell  ! 
Within  wha^e  bosom,  save  despair, 

Nae  kinder  spirits  dwell. 


NOW  BANK  AND  BRAE  ARE  CLAD 
IN  GREEN. 

Now  bank  and  brae  are  clad  in  green 

An'  scatter'd  cowslips  sweetly  spring. 
By  Girvan's  fiiry  haunted  stream 

The  birdies  flit  on  wanton  wing. 
Tc  Cassil'is'  banks  when  e'ening  fa's, 

Theij  wi'  my  .Alary  l^t  nie  flee. 
There  catch  her  ilka  glance  of  love 

The  bonnie  blink  o'  Mary's  ee  ! 

The  cliild  wha  boasts  o'  warld's  walth. 

Is  atten  laird  o'  ineikle  care  ; 
But  .Mary  she  is  a'  my  ain. 

Ah,  tortiine  carina  gie  me  mair  ! 
rii.ii  let  me  ran-e  by  Cassillis*  banks, 

Wi'  h;T  tie  lassie  dear  to  me, 
Ap.'I  catch  her  ilka  glance  o'  lora 

The  bonnie  blink  o'  Marv's  ee 


NOW  WESTLIN*  WINDS. 
Tune—"  I  had  a  horse,  I  had  nae  ncair." 

Now  westlin'  winds,  and  slaughtering  guns. 

Bring  autumn's  pleasant  weather  ; 
The  niU)rcock  springs,  on  whirring  wings, 

Ainang  the  blooming  heather. 
Now  waving  grain,  wide  o'er  the  plain, 

Delights  the  weary  fanner  ; 
And  the  moon  shine's   bright,  when  I  rove  a 
night, 

To  muse  upon  my  charmer. 

The  partridge  loves  the  fruitful  fells  ; 

The  plover  loves  the  mountiiins  ; 
The  woodcock  haunts  the  lonely  dells  ; 

The  soaring  hern  the  fountains. 
Through  lofty  groves  the  cushat  roves, 

Tlie  path  of  man  to  shun  it ; 
The  hazel  bush  o'erhangs  the  thrush. 

The  spreading  thorn  the  iinnet. 

Thus  every  kind  their  pleasure  find. 

The  savage  and  the  tender  ; 
Some  social  join,  and  leagues  combine ; 

Some  solitary  wander  : 
Avaunt,  away  !   the  cruel  sway. 

Tyrannic  man's  dominion  ; 
The  sportman's  joy,  the  murdering  cry, 

The  flutt'ring,  gory  pinion. 

But,  Peggy  dear,  the  evening's  cleat, 

Thick  flies  the  skimming  swallow  ; 
The  sky  is  blue,  the  fields  in  view. 

All  lading  green  and  yellow  : 
Come  let  us  stray  our  gladsome  wav, 

And  view  the  charms  of  nature  ; 
The  ru-tling  corn,  the  fruited  thorn, 

And  every  happy  creature. 

We'll  gently  walk,  and  sweetly  t.i'.k, 

Till  tlie  silent  moon  shine  clearly  ; 
I'll  grasp  thy  waist,  and  fondly  press't, 

And  swear  I  love  thee  dearly. 
Not  vernal  showers  to  budding  flowers, 

Not  autumn  to  the  farmer. 
So  dear  can  be  as  thou  to  me. 

My  fair,  my  lovely  charmer ! 


OF  A'  THE  AIRTS  THE  WIND  CAN 
BLAW. 

Tune~~"  Miss  Admiral  Gordon's  StrattSDCy." 

I  COMPOSED  this  song  out  of  compliment  te 
Mrs.  Burns.      It  was  during  the  honey-moon» 

Or  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lass  that  I  loe  best  : 
Tho'  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  rovr, 

Wi'  inony  a  hill  betwtt  », 


216 


BURNS'  WORKS 


Balth  day  and  niglil,  my  fancy's  flight 
Is  erer  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flow'r, 

Sae  lovely,  sweet,  and  fair  ; 
I  hear  her  voice  in  ilka  bird, 

Wi'  music  charm  the  air  : 
Tliere's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs, 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
Nor  yet  a  boanie  bird  that  sings. 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jeau. 

Upon  the  banks  o'  flowmg  Clyde 

The  lasses  busk  them  braw  ; 
But  when  their  best  they  hae  put  on, 

My  Jeanie  dings  them  a'  ; 
In  hamely  weeds  she  far  exceeds 

The  fairest  o'  the  to^n  ; 
Baith  sage  and  gay  confeK  it  sae, 

Tho'  drest  in  russet  gown. 

The  gamesome  lamb,  that  sucks  its  dsma, 

Mair  harmless  canna  be  ; 
She  has  nae  faut,  (if  sic  ye  ca't), 

Except  her  love  for  me  : 
The  sparkling  dew,  o'  clearest  hue, 

Is  like  her  shining  een  ; 
In  shape  and  air,  naue  can  compare 

Vi'i'  my  sweet  lovely  Jean. 

O  hlaw,  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Aniang  the  leafy  trees; 
Wi'  gentle  gale,  fiae  niulr  and  dale, 

Bting  hame  the  l.iilen  bees, 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

Tliat's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  ; 
Ae  blink  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  lovely  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vnws  aniang  the  knowcs, 

Hae  past  atween  us  twa  ! 
How  fain  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part 

That  djy  she  gaed  awa  ! 
The  powers  aboon  can  only  ken, 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
Ihat  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  lue 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean. 


O,  AY  MY  WIFU:  SHE  DANG  ME. 

Tune—"  O,  ay  my  Wife  she  dang  me." 

O,  ay  >»y  wife  she  tlanrj  vie. 
And  aft  mi/  u-if-  ahr  l>ii)i(/e<{  me  I 
If  ye  yie  a  icuman  u'  Iter  vill, 
Gude  faith,  ihe'll  soon  oweryang  y     ■ 

Os  peace  and  rest  my  mind  was  bent, 

And,  fool  I  was,  1  marrieil  • 
But  never  honest  man's  intent 

As  curticdly  niiscarriwl  ! 
O,  ay  my  wife,  §'C. 


Some  sair  o'  comfort  still  at  last. 
When  a'  thir  days  are  dune,  man— 

My  pains  o'  hell  on  earth  is  past, 
I'm  sure  o'  heaven  aboon,  man. 
O,  ay  my  wife,  &^c. 


O  BONNIE  WAS  YON  ROSY  BRIER 

O  BONNIE  was  yon  rosy  brier. 

That  blooms  sae  fii  frae  haunt  o'  man  ; 
And  bonnie  she,  and  ah  !   how  dear  1 

It  shaded  frae  the  e'enin'  sun. 

Yon  rosebuds  in  the  morning  dew 

How  pure,  amang  the  leaves  sae  green  ; 

But  purer  was  the  lover's  vow 

They  witness'd  in  their  shade  yestreen. 

All  in  its  rude  and  prickly  bower. 

That  crimson  rose,  how  sweet  and  fair  •. 

But  love  is  fir  a  sweeter  tlower 
Amid  life's  thorny  path  o'  care. 

The  pathless  wild,  and  winipling  burOi 
M'i'  Chloris  in  my  arms,  be  mine ; 

And  I  the  world,  nor  wish,  nor  scorn, 
Its  joys  and  griefs  alike  resign. 


O,  FOR  ANE  AND  TWENTY,  JAM. 

Tune—"  The  Moiidicwort." 

ArC  0,fi>r  ane  and  twenty.   Tarn  I 
An   hey,  sweit  ane  and  tivnity,    Tam  I 

I'll  learn  my  hin  a  rattUny  sany. 
An'  I  saw  ane  and  twenty,   Tain! 

TiiEV  sn'>ol  me  sair,  and  baud  me  down, 
And  gar  me  look  like  Blnntie,  Tam  ! 

But  three  short  years  will  ^oon  wheel  roan  i 
And  then  conies  ane  and  twenty,  Tom  I 
An    O,  for,  Sec. 

A  gleih  o'  Ian',  a  claut  o'  gear, 
Was  left  me  by  my  auntie,  Tam  ; 

At  kith  or  kin  I  need  r.-a'  spier, 
An'  I  saw  ane  and  twenty,  Tam. 
An'  0,for,  i|C 

They'll  hae  me  wed  a  wealthy  coot, 
Tho'  I  mysel  hae  jilenty,  Tam  ; 

Hut  hears't  thou,  laddie,  there's  my  loe^ 

I'm  thine  at  ane  and  twenty,  Tam ! 

An'  0,for,  ^c. 


^ 

^ 

SONGS.                                                  217 

Off,  GIN  MY  LOVF,  WERE  YON  RKD 

They  heat  your  brains,  and  fire  your  veiaa, 

K(  iSR. 

And  then  you're  [)iry  for  Rob  MossgieL 

T>i%e—"  ilughie  Grahsra." 

aini)  tal,  lal,  lay. 

Oh,  gin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose 

Beware  a  tongue  that's  smoothly  hung  ; 

Tliat  grows  upon  tlie  castle  \va*, 

A  heart  that  warmly  seeks  to  fetl  ; 

And  1  niy-.L'll  a  d  aj)  o'  dew, 

That  feeling  heart  but  acts  a  part, 

Into  her  l>onni('  lirea'it  to  fa'  ! 

'Tis  rakish  art  in  Rcib  Mossgiel, 

Oh,  there,  lieyond  expression  blest, 

Siny  tal,  lal,  lay. 

I'd  feast  on  be.nity  a'  the  nieht ; 

Stated  (11)  hiT  silk-saft  faulds  to  rest, 

The  frank  address,  the  soft  caress, 

Till  flcyed  awa  by  Phtebus'  licht. 

Are  worse  than  poison'rl  darts  of  (tee^ 
The  frank  address,  and  politesse. 

ADDITIONAL  STANZA  BY  BURNS. 

Arc  all  finesse  in  Rob  MossgieL 
Siny  tal,  lal,  lay. 

0,  WERE  my  love  yon  lilac  fair. 

Wi'  purple  blDs^oiiis  to  the  spring  ; 
And  I  a  bird  to  shelter  there. 

Wl-.tn  wearied  on  my  little  wing  ; 
How  I  wad  mourn  when  it  was  torn 

0  LET  ME  IN  THIS  AE  NIOHT 

l!y  autumn  wild,  and  winter  rude  ! 

Tune—"  Let  me  in  this  ae  night." 

How  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youthfu'  Jlay  its  bloom  renewed. 

0  LASSIE,  art  thou  sleeping  yet. 
Or  art  thou  wakin,  I  would  wit, 

For  love  has  bound  me  hand  and  foot, 
And  I  would  fain  be  in,  jo. 

0  let  me  in  this  ae  niqht, 

on,  WERT  THOU  IN  THE  CAULD 

This  ae,  ae,  ne  niglit, 

BLAST. 

Fur  pitys  sake  this  ae  night, 
O  rixe  and  let  me  in,  jo. 

Oh,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea  ; 

Thou  hear'st  the  winter  wind  and  west 

My  pi  lidie  to  the  angry  airt. 

Nae  star  blinks  thro'  the  driving  sleet, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee: 

Tak  pity  on  my  weary  feet. 

Or  (lid  misfortune's  bitter  storms 

And  shield  me  frae  the  rain,  jo. 

Aroimd  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 

O  let  me  in,  &-c. 

Thy  bielil  eliould  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a*. 

The  bitter  blast  that  round  me  blawi 
Unheeded  howls,  unheeded  fa's  ; 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste. 

The  cauldness  o'  thy  heart's  the  cauM 

Sae  blaek  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare. 

Of  a'  my  grief  ami  pain,  jo. 

The  desert  were  a  paradise. 

O  let  me  in,  ^x. 

If  thou  wert  there,  it  thou  wert  there. 

Or  were  I  monarch  of  tlie  globe. 

HER  ANSWER. 

With  thee  to  reign,  with  thee  to  reign; 

The  brightest  je>vel  in  my  crown 

0  TELL  nae  me  o'  wind  and  rain, 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 

Ujjljraid  nae  me  wi'  cauld  disdain, 
Gae  back  the  road  ye  cam  again, 
I  wintia  let  you  in,  jo. 

J  till  ijiiu  now  this  ae  night, 

This  ae   ae,  ae  niijht  ; 

0  LKAVE  NOVELLES,  YE  MAUCHLINE 

And  anct   7;r  a',  this  ae  night  { 

15ELLES. 

I  winn.    Itt  you  in,  jo. 

A    FRAGMENT 

The  snellest  blast  at  mirkest  hours. 

Tiiiu—"  Donald  Blue" 

That  round  the  patidess  wand'rer  poun, 
Is  nouj^ht  to  what  poor  she  endures 

0  LEAVE  novelles,  ye  Mauchiine  belles. 

That's  trusted  faithless  man,  jo. 

Ye're  safer  at  your  spinning  wheel  ; 

/  tell  you  now,  ifc. 

Such  witching  books  are  bailed  hooks. 

Fur  rakish  rooks  like  Itoli  Mossgiel. 

The  swef  test  flower  that  deck'd  the  VEat^ 

Sing  tal,  lal,  lay. 

Now  trodden  like  the  vilest  weed  l 

Let  simple  maid  the  lesson  road, 

Your  fine  Tom  Jones  and  Grandlsons, 

The  weird  may  he  her  ain,  jo. 

They  make  your  youthful  fancies  reel, 

J  teU  you  now,  jfr. 

218 


BURNS    WORKS. 


The  biid  that  charm 'd  his  summer-day 
Is  now  the  cruel  fowler's  prey  ; 
Let  witless,  trustinij  woman  .-ay 
How  aft  her  fate's  the  sam  ?,  jo. 
/  ttll  you  now,  !fc. 


O  LUVE  WILL  VENTURE  IN. 

O  LUVE  will  venture  in,  where  it  daur  na  weel 

be  seen, 
O  luve  will  venture  in,  where  wisdom  ance  has 

been, 
But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove,   amang   the 

wood  sae  green, 
And  a*  to  pu'  a  posie  to  my  aia  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu',  the  firstling o'  the  year. 
And  I  will  pu'  the  piok,  the  emblem  o'  my  dear. 
For  she's  the  piuk  o'  womankind,  and  blooms 
without  a  peer; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll   pu'  the  budding  rose,  when  Phoebus  peeps 

in  view, 
For  it's  like  a  baumy  kiss  o'  her  sweet  bonie 

mou  ; 
The  hyacinth's  for  constancy  wi'  its  unchanging 

blue, 
And  a   to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  JIay. 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair. 
And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I'll  place  the  lily  there ; 
The  daisy's  for  simplicity  and  unaffected  air. 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu',  wi'  its  locks  o*  siller 

^i^Tiere,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  o' 

day, 
But  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush  I  winna 

tak  away  ; 
And  a*  to  be  a  posie  to  my  aia  dear  May. 

The  woodbine  I  will  pu*,  when  the  e'ening  star 

is  near. 
And  the  diamond  draps  o'  dew  shall  be  her  een 

sae  clear  ; 
The  violet's  for  modesty  which  weel  she  fa's  to 

wear  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  tie  tike  posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band  o' 

luve, 
A«d  I'll  plao«  it  in  her  breast,  and  I'll  swear  by 

a'  aliove, 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life  the  band  shall 

ne'er  remuvn, 
And  Ois  will  be  %  posie  to  n>'  aia  dear  May. 


O  MAY,  THY  MORR. 

O  May,  thy  morn  %vas  ne'er  sae  sweet, 
As  the  mirk  night  o'  December  ; 

For  sparkling  was  the  rosy  wine, 
And  private  was  the  chamber  : 

And  dear  was  she  I  darna  name. 
But  I  will  aye  remember. 
And  dear,  §-c. 

And  here's  to  them,  that  like  oursel, 
Can  push  about  the  jorum  ; 

And  here's  to  them  that  wish  us  weel, 
May  a'  that's  gude  watch  o'er  theai  j 

And  here's  to  them  we  darna  tell, 
The  dearest  o*  the  quorum, 
And       e'l  to,  S^c, 


ON  CESSNOCK  BANKS  THERE  LIVES 
A  LaSS.» 

Tune—"  If  he  be  a  butcher  neat  and  trim." 

On  Gissnock  banks  there  lives  a  lass. 
Could  I  describe  her  shape  and  mien  ; 

The  graces  of  her  weelfar'd  face, 

And  the  glancin*  of  her  sparklin'  e'en. 

She's  fresher  than  the  morning  dawn 
When  rising  Phoebus  first  is  seen. 

When  dewdrops  twinkle  o'er  the  lawn  j 
An'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  e'en. 

She's  stately  like  yon  youthful  ash. 

That  grows  the  cowslip  braes  between. 

And  shoots  its  head  above  each  bush  ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  e'en. 

She's  spotless  as  the  fiow'ring  thorn 

With  flow'rs  so  white  and  leaves  so  greeK, 

When  purest  in  the  dewy  morn 

An'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  e'e  . 

Her  looks  are  like  the  sportive  lamb, 
When  fluw'ry  May  adorns  the  scene, 

That  wantons  round  its  bleatin?  dam  ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  e'en. 

Her  hair  is  like  the  curling  mist 

That  shadtes  the  mountain  side  at  e'en, 

When  flow'r-reviving  rains  are  past ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin'  spaiklin'  e'en. 

Her  forehead's  like  the  show'ry  bow. 
When  shining  sunbeams  intervene 

And  gild  the  distant  mountain's  brow  ; 
An'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin'  e'en. 


•  1  his  song  was  an  enriy  promiption.  .t  wat  re- 
covercil  from  the  nral  comn'iiiiiicatioii  of  a  '.adv  resid 
inp  at  Glnsfidw  whom  the  Hani  in  early  life  alTcction 
ately  ailtnirsd 


r — 

SONGS.                                                     21S 

1 

Her  voice  s  like  tlie  ev'ning  thrush 

Peace,  thy  olive  wanJ  extend. 

That  sings  in  Ci'ssnock  banks  unseen, 

And  bid  wild  war  his  ravage  end, 

\V]\\\e  his  mate  sits  nestling  in  the  bush  ; 

Man  with  brother  man  to  meet, 

An*  she's  twa  glancin'  sparkha*  e'en. 

And  as  a  brother  kindly  greet. 

Then  may  heaven  with  prosperous  galea 

Her  Ii]w  are  like  the  cherries  ripe, 

Fill  my  wilor's  welcome  sails, 

That  sunny  walls  from  boreas  screen, 

To  my  arms  their  charge  convey. 

Tl'.cy  tempt  the  taste  and  charm  the  sight ; 

My  dear  lad  that's  far  away. 

An'  she's  twa  glanciu'  sparklin'  e'en. 

On  the  seas  and  far  away,  §*c. 

Her  teeth  are  like  a  fluck  of  sheep, 
With  fleeces  newly  washen  clean, 

That  slowly  mount  the  rising  step  ; 
Au'  she's  twa  glancin'  sparklin*  e'en. 

ON  A  BANK  OF  FLOWER& 

Tune—"  On  a  bank  of  flowers." 

Her  breath  is  like  the  fragrant  breeze 

That  gently  stirs  the  lilossom'd  bean, 

On  a  bank  of  flowers,  on  a  summer  day, 

When  Phoebus  sinks  behind  the  seas  ; 

For  summer  lightly  diest, 

Au'  she's  twa  glaucin'  sparklin'  e'en. 

The  youthful,  blooming  Nelly  lay. 

With  love  and  sleep  o|)prest  ; 

But  it's  not  her  air,  her  form,  her  face. 

^^^len  Willle,  wandering  through  the  woodk 

Tho'  matching  beauty's  fabled  queen, 

Who  for  her  favour  oft  had  sued  ; 

But  the  mind  that  shines  in  ev'ry  grace 

He  gazed,  he  wished,  he  feared,  he  blushed, 

An'  chiefly  in  her  sparklin'  e'ea 

And  trembled  where  he  stood. 

Her  closed  eyes,  like  weapons  sheathed, 

Were  sealed  in  soft  repose  ; 
Her  lips,  still  as  she  fragrant  breathed. 

It  richer  dyed  the  rose. 
The  springing  lilie,  sweetly  prest. 

ON  THE  SEAS  AND  FAR  AWAY 

Wild  wanton  kissed  her  rival  breast. 

Tune — "  O'er  the  hills  and  far  awj»y." 

He  gazed,  he  wished,  he  feared,  he  blushedg 

His  bosom  ill  at  rest. 

How  can  my  poor  heart  be  glad, 

When  absent  from  my  sailor  lad  ? 

Her  robes,  light  waving  in  the  breeze, 

How  can  I  the  thought  forego. 

Her  tender  limbs  emiirace  ; 

He's  on  the  seas  to  meet  his  foe ! 

Her  lovely  form,  her  native  ease, 

Let  me  wander,  let  me  rove, 

All  harmony  and  grace  : 

Still  my  heart  is  with  my  love  ; 

Tumultuous  titles  his  pulses  roll. 

Nightly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day 

A  faltering  ardent  kis,  he  stole  ; 

.\re  with  him  that's  far  away. 

He  gazed,  he  wished,  he  feared,  he  blushed^ 

On  the  scQX  anil  far  away, 

And  sighed  his  very  soul. 

On  stormy  seas  and  far  atcay  ; 

Niyhtly  dreams  and  thoughts  by  day. 

As  flics  the  partridge  from  the  brake, 

Are  aye  with  him  that's  far  away. 

On  fear-inspired  wings  ; 

So  Nelly,  St uting.  half  awake. 

When  in  summer's  noon  I  faint. 

Away  affrighted  springs. 

As  weary  flocks  around  me  pant. 

But  Willie  followed — as  he  should  ; 

Haply  in  this  sjorching  sun 

He  overtook  her  in  the  wood  ; 

Wy  sailor's  thund'iing  at  his  gun  : 

He  voweil,  he  prayed,  he  found  the  caaid 

Bullets,  spare  my  only  joy  ! 

Forgiving  all  and  good  ! 

Bullets,  spare  my  darling  boy  ! 

Fate,  do  with  me  what  you  may, 
Spare  \>ct  hiin  that's  far  away  .' 

On  the  seas  and  far  away,  Src 

OPEN  THE  DOOR  TO  ME,  OH. 

At  the  starless  midnight  hour. 

When  winter  rules  with  boundless  power. 

Om,  open  the  door,  some  pity  show. 

As  the  stoims  the  forests  tear. 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh  ! 

And  thunders  rend  the  howling  air. 

Though  thou  hast  beeu   false,  I'll  ever   proTt 

Listening  to  the  doubling  roar. 

true, 

Surging  on  the  rocky  shore, 

Oh,  open  the  door  to  me,  oh  ! 

A..  '  can — I  weep  and  pray 

For  his  weal  that's  lar  away. 

Cauld  is  the  bla~t  upon  my  pal;  choek# 

On  the  seas  and  far  away,  §-c. 

But  cauldcr  thy  love  for  nie,  oh  ' 

220                                          BURNS    WORKS. 

"i"he  frost  tliat  freozcs  the  life  at  my  heart, 

Is  nocht  sae  fragrant  or  sae  sweet 

Is  nought  to  my  pains  froe  thee,  oh  ! 

As  is  a  kiss  o'  Willie. 

The  wan  moon  is  setting  behind  the  white  wave, 

HE. 

And  time  is  sftting  with  me,  oh  ! 

Let  fortune's  wheel  at  random  rin, 

False  friends,  false  love,  farewell !   for  mair 

And  fools  may  tyne,  and  knaves  may  wiav 

I'll  ne'er  trouble  them  nor  thee,  oh ! 

My  thoughts  are  a'  bound  upon  ane, 
And  that's  my  ain  dear  Philly, 

She  has  open'd  the  door,  she  has  opened  it  wide, 

She  sees  his  pale  corse  on  the  plain,  oh  ! 

SHE, 

My  true  love,  she  cried,  and  sunk  down  by  his 

What's  a'  the  joys  that  gowd  can  gie? 

side, 

I  care  nae  wealth  a  single  flie  ; 

Never  to  rise  again,  oh ! 

The  lad  I  love's  the  lad  for  me. 
And  that's  my  ain  dear  Willie. 

0  PHTLLY,  HAPPY  BE  THAT  DAY 

0  STAY,  SWEET  WARBLING  WOO  3 

Tune—"  The  sow's  tail." 

LARK, 

HF. 

Tune — "  Loch.Erroch  side." 

O  Philly,  happy  be  that  day 

When  roving  thn)u;:h  the  gather'd  hay, 

0  STAV,  sweet  warbling  wowl-lark,  stay, 

My  youthfu'  heart  was  stoun  away, 

Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray  I 

And  by  thy  charms,  my  Philly, 

A  hapless  lover  courts  thy  lay, 
Thy  soothing  fond  complaining. 

SHE. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part. 

O  Willie,  aye  I  bless  the  grove 

That  I  may  catch  thy  melting  art ; 

Where  first  i  own'd  my  maiden  love, 

For  surely  that  wad  touch  her  heart, 

Whilst  thou  didst  pled^^e  the  powers  above, 

WTia  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 

To  be  my  aiu  dear  Willie. 

Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind. 

HE. 

And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  wind  ? 

4s  songsters  of  the  eaily  year 

Oh,  nocht  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 

Are  ilka  li.iy  mair  sweet  to  hear. 

Sic  notes  of  woe  could  wauken. 

So  ilka  day  to  me  mair  dear 

Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care. 

And  charming  is  my  Philly. 

O'  speechless  grief  and  dark  despair; 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  mair  ! 

SHE. 

Or  my  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 

As  on  the  brier  the  building  rose 

Still  richer  lireatlies  and  fairer  blows, 

So  in  my  teiider  IxiMiin  throws 

The  love  I  bear  my  Willie. 

0  WAT  YE  WHA'S  IN  YON  TOIIN 

HE. 

The  milder  sun  and  bluer  sky. 

Time—"  I'll  gang  nae  mair  to  yon  toun," 

That  crown  my  harvest  cares  wi'  joji 

0  WAT  ye  wha's  in  yon  tnun 

Were  ne'er  sae  welcome  to  my  eye 

Ye  see  the  e'cning  sun  upon  ? 

As  is  a  sight  of  Plully. 

The  fairest  maid's  in  yon  toun. 
That  e'ening  sun  is  shining  on. 

SHE. 

Now  haply  down  yon  gay  gieen  shaw, 

The  little  swallow's  wanton  wing, 

She  wanders  by  yon  spreading  tree  ; 

TIki'  wafting  o'er  the  flowery  spring, 

How  blest,  ye  fluw'is,  that  round  her  blaW 

Did  ne'er  to  me  sic  tidings  bring. 

Ye  catch  the  glances  o'  her  ce. 

As  meeting  o'  my  Willie, 

How  blest,  ye  birds,  that  round  her  sing, 
And  welcome  in  the  blooming  year! 

HE. 

And  doubly  welcome  be  tlie  spring, 

The  bee,  lliat  thro'  the  t-unny  hour 

The  season  to  my  Jeanie  dear  ! 

Sip«  nectar  in  tlie  opeiii  ig  (lower. 

Com])ar'd  wi'  mv  delig.it  is  jioor, 

The  sun  blinks  lilytho  on  yon  toun, 

Upon  tl.e  lips  o'  Philly. 

Aniang  yon  liroumy  braes  sae  green; 
But  my  delight,  in  you  toun. 

SHE. 

And  dearest  pleasure,  is  my  Jean, 

The  woodbine  in  the  dewy  week 

Without  my  love,  not  a"  tiie  charms 

^'hen  veiling  shades  in  tilencc  meet) 

Of  Paradise  could  yield  nie  joy  j 

Ml 

......                                                                 J 

SONGS. 


«2j 


But  i^ie  me  u?an  e  m  my  arms. 

Am!  welcome  La])l,m(rs  drcarie  sky. 

jMy  cave  wad  be  ii  lover's  bower, 
Tl)(ii!gh  raging  winter  rent  tiie  air; 

And  slie  a  lovely  little  flower, 
That  1  wad  teat  and  shelter  there. 

0  sweet  is  she  in  yon  totin, 

The  sinking  sun's  gane  down  upon  ; 
Ths  dearest  maid's  in  yon  tuun, 

His  setting  beam  e'er  shone  upon. 
!f  angry  fate  be  sworn  my  f'le, 

And  suffering  I  am  doom'd  to  bear, 
I'll  careless  quit  aught  else  below  ; 

But  spare,  oh  !   spare  ni';  Jeanie  dear. 
For,  while  life's  dearest  blood  runs  warm, 

My  thoughts  frae  her  shall  ne'er  depart  i 
For,  as  most  lovely  is  her  form, 

She  has  the  truest,  kindest  heart. 


O  WERE  I  ON  PARNASSUS'  HILL. 

Tins  air  is  Oswald's  :    the  song  I  made  out 
fc/  compliment  to  Mrs.  Burns. 

0  were  I  on  Parnassus'  hill, 
Or  had  o'  Helicon  my  fill  ; 
That  I  might  catch  poetic  skill, 
To  sing  how  deir  I  love  thee. 
But  Nith  maut   '^  my  JMuse's  well, 
My  Muse  maui.  ,.«  thy  bonnie  sell ; 
On  Corsincon  I'll  glow'r  and  spell, 

And  write  how  dear  I  love  thee. 

Then  come,  sweet  Muse,  inspire  my  lay  ! 
For  a'  the  lee-Iang  simmer's  day, 

1  coudna  sing,  I  coudna  say. 
How  much,  how  dear,  I  love  thee. 
I  see  thee  dancing  o'er  the  green, 
Thy  waist  sao  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean, 
Thy  tempting  lijis,  thy  roguish  een— 

By  heaven  and  earth  I  love  thee .' 

By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 
riie  thoughts  o'  thee  my  breast  inflame ; 
And  ay  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name, 
I  only  live  to  love  thee  ! 
The'  I  were  doom'd  to  wander  on, 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 
Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run ; 
'Till  then,  and  theu  I  love  thee ! 


As  dews  o'  simmer  weeping. 
In  tears  the  rnse-lmd  steepmp  : 
O  t/iiit's  tiie  lassie  ii'  mi/  heart, 

Mij  Icssie  ever  dcurer  ; 
O  thut's  tlie  queen  o'  womankni'd 
And  7ic\r  a  ane  to  peer  hey 

If  thou  shall  meet  a  lassie 

In  grace  and  beauty  charming. 

That  e'en  thy  elioseri  lassie, 

Erewhile  thy  breast  sae  warmings 
Had  ne'er  sic  powers  alarming  ; 
O  iliat's,  ^'C. 

If  thou  had>t  heard  her  talking, 
And  thy  attentions  plighted, 

That  ilka  boily  talking. 

But  her  l)y  thee  is  slighted  ; 
And  if  thmi  art  delighted  ; 
O  that's,  4-c. 

If  thou  hast  met  this  fair  one. 
When  frae  her  thou  hast  parted  J 

If  every  other  fair  one 

But  her,  thiru  hast  deserted, 
And  thou  art  broken-hearted; 
O  that's,  ^c. 


OUT  OVER  TIIE  FORTH  I  LOO.. 
THE  NORTH. 


ro 


Out  over  the  Forth  I  look  to  the  north, 

But  what  is  the  north  and  its  Highlanda  f  nei 

The  south  nor  the  east  gie  ease  to  my  breaii';, 
The  fur  foreign  land,  or  the  wild  roUicjj  iea. 

But  I  look  to  the  west,  when  I  gae  to  «tst. 
That  happy  my  dreams  and  my  slu£„!jtre  maj 
be; 

For  far  in  the  west  lives  he  I  lo'e  best, 
The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  babie  and  aie 


O  WUA  IS  SHE  THAT  LOES  ME. 

Tune—"  Morag." 

O  WHA  is  she  that  loes  me. 

And  has  my  heart  a-keeplng  ? 
Q  eweet  is  she  that  lues  ine, 


PEGGY  ALISON. 

Ilk  care  and  fear,  when  thou  art  near, 

I  ever  mair  defy  them  ; 
Young  kings  upo7i  their  hansel  throne 
Are  no  sae  blest  as  I  am ! 
I'll  kiss  time  t/it,  yet. 

An'  I'll  hiris  t/ite  o'er  again. 
An'  I'll  kiss  line  ijet,  yet. 
My  hoiinie  I'tij/jy  Alison. 

When  in  my  arms,  wi'  a'  thy  charm^ 
I  clasp  my  countless  treasure, 

I  seek  nie  mair  o"  Heaven  to  share, 
Than  sic  a  monient'it  pleasure  ] 
///  kiss,  \c. 


And  by  thy  een,  sae  bonnie  blue, 
1  5wear  I'm  thine  for  ever  ; 

And  on  thy  lips  I  seal  my  vow, 

And  break  it  shall  I  never ! 

Til  kiss,  Sj-c. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


POWERS  CELESTIAL. 

Povi'ERS  celestial,  whose  protection 

Ever  guards  the  virtuous  fair, 
While  in  distant  climes  I  wander, 

Let  my  Jlary  be  your  care  : 
Let  her  iorm  sae  fair  and  faultless. 

Fair  and  faultless  cs  your  own  ; 
Let  my  Marty's  kindred  spirit, 

Draw  your  choicest  influence  down. 
Make  the  gales  you  waft  around  her, 

Soft  and  peaceful  as  her  breast ; 
Breathing  in  the  breeze  that  fans  her, 

Sooth  her  bosom  into  rest : 
Guardian  angels,  O  protect  her, 

When  in  distant  lands  I  roam  ; 
To  realms  unkmiwn  while  fate  exiles  me, 

Make  her  bosom  still  my  home.  • 


PIIILLIS  THE  FAIR. 
Tune—"  Robin  Adair." 

While  larks  with  little  wing 

Fanned  the  pure  air, 
Tasting  the  breathing  spring, 

Forth  I  did  fare  ; 
Gay  the  sun's  golden  eye 
Peeped  o'er  the  mountains  high  ; 
Such  thy  morn  !   did  I  cry, 

Phillis  the  fair. 

In  each  bird's  careless  song 

Glad  I  did  share, 
While  yon  wild  flowers  among. 

Chance  led  me  there  : 
Sweet  to  the  opening  day. 
Rosebuds  bent  the  dewy  spray; 
Such  thy  bloom  !   did  1  say, 

Phillis  th  ■  fair. 

Down  in  a  shady  walk, 

Doves  cooing  were  ; 
I  maiked  the  cruel  hawk 

Caught  in  a  snare  ; 
So  kind  may  fortune  be  ! 
Such  make  bis  destinv, 
lie  who  wnuld  injues  thee> 

Phillis  the  fair  ! 


•  Prnbalily  wrucn  on  MiRlilnnd  Mary,  en  the  eve 
9/  the  roctj  departure  for  the  West  Indies. 


PUIRTITII  CAULD. 

Tune—"  I  had  a  horse.** 

O,  PuiRTiTH  cauld,  and  restless  love, 

Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye  ; 
Yet  puirtith  a'  I  could  forgie, 
An  'twere  na  for  my  Jeauie. 

O,  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  havt 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining  f 
Or  wht/  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 
Depend  on  Fortune's  shining  f 

This  world's  wealth  when  I  think  on, 

Its  pride,  and  a'  the  lave  o't ; 
Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man, 

That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't. 

O,  why  should  fate,  Sfc. 

Her  een,  sae  bonnie  blue,  betray 

How  she  repays  my  passion  ; 
But  prudence  is  her  owerword  aye, 

She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 

O,  why  should  fate,  ^c. 

O,  wha  can  prwlence  think  upon 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 
O,  wha  can  prudence  think  upon, 

And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  .' 

O,  why  should  fate,  ^e. 

How  blest  the  humble  cottar's  lot ' 

He  woos  his  simple  dearie  ; 
The  sillie  bogles,  wealth  and  state. 

Can  never  make  them  eerie. 

O,  why  should  fate,  |*c. 


RATTLIN,  ROARIN  WILLIE. 

The  last  stanza  of  this  song  is  mine  ;  it  vrza 
composed  out  of  compliment  to  one  of  the  wor- 
thiest fellows  in  the  world,  William  Dunbar, 
Esq.  Writer  to  the  signet,  Edinburgh,  and  Co- 
lonel of  the  Crochallan  corps,  a  dub  of  wits 
who  took  that  title  at  the  time  of  raising  thtj 
fencible  regiments. 

O  RATTLIN,  roarin  Willie, 

O  he  held  to  the  fair. 
An'  for  to  sell  his  fiddle, 

And  buy  some  ither  ware  ; 
But  parting  wi'  his  fiddle, 

The  saut  tear  blint  his  ee  ; 
And  rattiin  roarin  Willie, 

Ye're  welcome  hanae  to  me. 

O  Willie,  come  sell  your  fiddle, 

O  ^cll  your  fiddle  sae  fine  ; 
O  Willie  come  sell  your  fiddle, 

And  buy  a  pint  o'  wine. 
If  I  should  sell  my  fid  die, 

The  warl'  wou'd  think  I  was  ma4t 
For  many  a  rantin  day 

JJy  fiddle  and  I  hae  liad  ' 


SONGS. 


223 


RAVING  WIXDS  AROUND  HER 
BLOWING. 

I  COMPOSED  these  verses  on  Miss  Isabella 
M'Leoil  of  Raza,  alludins;  to  her  feelings  on  the 
death  of  her  sister,  and  the  still  more  melancholy 
death  of  her  sister's  husband,  the  late  Earl  of 
Loudon. 

TttML— "  M'Grigor  of  Roro's  Lament" 

Raving  winds  around  her  blowing, 
Yellow  leaves  the  woodlands  strewing, 
By  a  river  hoarsely  roaring, 
Isabella  stray'd  deploring. 
Farewell  hours,  that  late  did  measure 
Sunshine  days  of  joy  and  pleasure  ; 
Hail  !   thou  gloomy  night  of  sorrow, 
Cheerless  night  that  knows  no  morrow  ! 

O'er  the  Past  too  fondly  pandering, 
On  (he  hopeless  Future  wandering  ; 
Chilly  grief  my  life-blood  freezes, 
Fell  despair  my  fancy  seizes. 
Life,  thou  soul  of  every  blessing, 
Load  to  misery  most  distressing  ; 
Gladly  how  would  I  resign  t'hee. 
And  to  dark  oblivion  join  thee  ! 


SAW  YE  OUGHT  O'  CAPTAIN  GROSE. 
Tunt—"  Sir  John  Malcolm." 

Ken  ye  ought  o'  Captain  Grose  ? 

Igo  and  ago. 
If  he's  among  his  friends  or  foes  ? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  South,  or  is  he  North  ? 

Igo,  and  ago. 
Or  drowned  in  the  river  Forth  ? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  slain  by  Highland  bodies' 

Igo,  and  ago. 
And  eaten  like  a  wether-haggis  ? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Is  he  to  Abram's  bosom  gane  ? 

Igo,  and  ago, 
0/  hauiiin'  Sarah  by  the  wame  ? 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

Wliere'er  he  be,  the  Lord  be  near  him ; 

Igo,  and  ago, 
As  for  the  deil  he  daur  na  steer  him, 

Irani,  coram,  dago. 

But  please  transmit  th'  inclosed  letter, 

Igo,  and  ago. 
Which  wdl  oblige  your  humble  debtor, 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


So  may  you  have  auld  stanes  in  storo^ 

Igo,  and  ago, 
The  very  stanes  tint  Adam  bore, 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 

So  may  ye  get  in  glad  possession, 

Igo,  and  ago, 
The  coins  o*  Satan's  coronation  ! 

Iram,  coram,  dago. 


SCROGGAM. 

There  was  a  wife  wonned  in  Cockpen, 

Scroggam ; 
She  brewed  gude  ale  for  gentlemen  : 

Sing,  auld  Cowl,  lay  ye  down  by  me ; 

Scroggam,  my  dearie,  llulTum. 

The  gudewife's  dochter  fell  in  a  fever, 

Scroggam  ; 
The  priest  o'  the  parish  fell  in  another : 

Sing,  auld  Cowl,  lay  ye  down  by  me; 

Scroggam,  my  dearie,  Ruffuui, 

They  laid  the  twa  in  the  bed  thegither, 

Scroggam, 
That  the  heat  o'  the  tane  might  cool  the  totber 

Sing,  auld  Cowl,  lay  ye  down  by  me  ; 

Scroggam,  my  dearie,  Ruffum. 


SHE'S  FAIR  AND  FAUSE. 
Tune — "  She's  fair  and  fause." 

She's  fair  and  fause  that  causes  my  smart, 

I  loo'd  her  mickle  and  lang  ; 
She's  broken  her  vow,  she's  broken  my  hear^ 

And  I  may  e'en  gae  hang. 
A  cuif  cam  in  wi'  rowth  o'  gear. 
And  I  hae  tint  my  dearest  dear  ; 
But  woman  is  but  waild's  gear, 

Sae  let  the  bonnie  lass  gang. 

Whae'er  ye  be  that  woman  love, 

To  this  be  never  blind, 
Nae  ferlie  'tis  though  fickle  she  prove  ; 

A  woman  has't  by  kind  : 
O  woman,  lovely  woman  fair  ! 
An  angel's  form's  faun  to  thy  share, 
'Twad  been  ower  mickle  to  hae  gi'en  thee  tnai,' 

I  mean  an  angel  mind. 


SHE  SAYS  SHE  LO'ES  ME  BEST 
OF  A'. 

Tune—"  Onagh's  Water-fall." 

Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets, 
Her  eyebrows  of  a  darker  hue. 


14 


BURNS'  VrORKS. 


Bowitchincfly  o'ei-archinsf 

Twa  !augliiii!j  (.'en  o'  bonnit;  fihie. 
Her  smiliii'^  Sje  wylitilj, 

\Viv\  '.iiake  a  uiotch  turret  liis  woe  ; 
What  i)leasiirc,  wliat  trea<uie, 

Unto  thes^e  ro-iy  lips  to  gtow  ; 
Such  w:is  my  Chlori<'  honnie  f.ice, 

V>'heii  firrt  her  honnie  face  I  s:i\v, 
Ami  aye  my  Chloiis"  dearest  charm, 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 

Like  harmony  her  motion  ; 

Her  pretty  anc'.e  is  a  spy 
Betraying  fair  pr(>[)ortion, 

Wad  make  a  saint  foriret  the  sky. 
Sae  warming,  sae  charming, 

Her  faultless  form  and  graceful  air  ; 
Ilk  feature — auld  Nature 

Declar'd  that  she  could  do  nae  mair  : 
Hers  are  the  willing  chains  o'  love, 

By  conquering  beauty's  sovereign  law  ; 
And  aye  my  Chloris'  nearest  charm. 

She  says  she  lo'es  me  best  of  a'. 

Let  others  love  the  city. 

And  gaudy  show  at  sunny  noon  ; 
Gie  me  the  lonely  valley. 

The  ilewy  eve,  and  rising  moon. 
Fair  beaming  and  streaming, 

Her  silrer  light  the  boughs  amang  ; 
While  falling,  recalling, 

The  amorous  thrush  concludes  his  sang  ; 
Tbeie,  dearest  Chloris,  wilt  thou  rove 

By  wimpling  burn  and  leafy  shaw, 
And  hear  mv  vows  o'  truth  and  love, 

^ud  say  thou  lo'es  me  best  of  a*. 


SIC  A  M^FE  AS  WILLIE  HAD. 
Tune—"  Tibby  Fowler." 

vVir.i.iE  Wasti.e  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

The  1)1  ICC  they  ca'd  it  Linkumdoddie. 
Willie  was  a  wabster  gtide. 

Could  stown  a  clew  wi'  onie  bodie. 
He  had  a  wife  was  dour  and  din, 

O,  Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mother : 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her  i 

She  has  an  ee,  she  has  biit  ane. 

The  cat  has  twa  the  veiy  colour  ; 
Twa  rustle  teeth,  forhye  a  stump, 

A  clapper  tongue  wad  deave  a  miller  ; 
A  whi^kin'  beard  about  her  mou'  ; 

Her  nose  and  thiti  they  threaten  ither: 
Sic  a  wife  as  Wdlie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her  ! 

She's  bow-hough'd,  she's  hein-shinn'd, 
Ae  liuipin'  leg  a  hind  bread  sliorter; 

She'o  twisted  riclit,  she's  twisted  left, 
To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter  ; 


She  lias  a  hump  upon  her  breast. 

The  twin  o'  that  upon  her  shouther  : 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her  ! 

Auld  baiulrons*  by  the  ingle  sits, 

And  wi'  her  loof  he;  face  a-washin'  ; 
But  Willie's  wife  is  nae  sae  trig. 

She  dichts  her  grunyief  wi'  a  hushioa.J 
Her  walie  neeves,y  like  midden  creels  ; 

Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logaii  Water  • 
Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

I  wadna  gie  a  button  for  her  ! 


STEER  HER  UP  AND  HAUD  HER 
GAUN, 

Tune—"  Steer  her  up." 

O  st?:eii  her  up  and  haiiil  her  gaun  ; 

Her  mother's  at  the  mill,  jo  ; 
And  gin  she  winna  tak  a  man, 

E'en  let  her  tak  her  will,  jo. 

First  shore  her  wi'  a  kindly  kiss, 

And  ca'  another  gill,  jo  ; 
And  gin  she  tak  the  thing  amiss, 

E'en  let  her  flyte  her  till,  jo. 

O  steer  her  up,  and  be  na  blate ; 

And  gin  she  tak  it  ill,  jo, 
Then  lea'  the  lassie  to  her  fate. 

And  '.itne  nae  ianger  spili,  jo. 

Ne'er  break  your  heart  for  ae  r<4Gtt 

But  think  apon  it  still,  jo, 
That  gin  the  lassie  winna  do't, 

Ye  II  fipd  another  will,  jo. 


SWEET  FA'S  THE  EVE  ON  CRAIGI& 

BURN. 

Sweet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craigie-burn, 

And  btythe  awakes  the  morrow, 
But  a'  the  pride  o'  spting's  return 

Can  yield  me  nocht  but  sorrow. 

I  see  the  flowers  and  spreading  tr»es, 

I  hear  the  wild  birds  singing  ; 
But  what  a  weary  wigiit  can  pleasR, 

And  care  liis  bosom  wringing  ? 

Fain,  fain  would  I  my  griefs  impar^ 

Yet  dare  na  for  your  anicer  ; 
But  secret  love  will  break  my  he&.t. 

If  I  conceal  it  Ianger. 

If  thou  refuse  to  pity  me. 
It"  thou  shalt  love  anither, 


•  The  cat.        f  Mouth.        t  L'uohico.        [j  Futi. 


SONGS. 


225 


WTirn  yon  cjevii  leaves  fade  fiao  the  tree, 
Around  iny  grave  they'll  wither.  • 


TAM  GLEN. 

My  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  tittie, 
Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len'. 

To  aiii^er  them  a'  is  a  jjity. 

But  what  wi."  I  do  \vi'  Tatn  Glen? 

I'm  thinkin?.  wi'  sic  a  braw  feHow, 
III  jioortith  I  mi'^ht  mak  a  tea  ; 

Wlijt  care  I  in  riches  to  wallovr, 
If  I  iiiaunua  marry  Tam  Glea. 

There's  Lowrie  the  laird  o'  Durneller, 

"  Gude  day  to  you,  brute,"  he  comes  ben 

He  brags  and  he  blaws  o'  his  siller, 

But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tara  Glea  ? 

My  miiinle  does  constantly  deave  me, 
And  iiids  ine  beware  o'  young  men  ; 

They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me, 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tam  Glen  ? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I'll  forsake  him, 
He'll  gie  me  gude  hunder  marks  ten : 

But,  if  it's  ordaia'd  I  maun  tak  biin, 
O  wha  will  I  get  like  Tam  Glen  ? 

Yestreen  at  the  Valentine's  dealingr, 
j\ly  heart  to  my  mou  gied  a  sten  ; 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  thrice  it  was  written  Tam  Glen. 

The  last  Hallowe'en  I  was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken  ; 

HLs  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin. 
And  the  very  grey  breeks  o'  Tara  Glen  ! 

Come  counsel,  dear  tittie,  don't  tarry ; 

I'll  gie  you  my  bontiie  black  hen, 
Gin  ve  v,-dl  advise  mt  to  marry 

The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly,  Tam  Glen. 


THE  AULD  MAN. 

But  lately  seen  in  gladsome  green 

The  woods  rejoiced  the  day, 
Thro'  ge:itle  showers  the  laughing  flowers 

In  double  pride  were  gay  : 
But  aow  our  joys  are  fled, 

On  winter  blasts  awa  ! 
Yet  maiden  May,  in  rich  array. 

Again  shall  bring  them  a'. 


•  Cragie-burn  wood  is  siluatcd  on  the  banks  of  the 
river  Motfat,  and  about  three  miles  distant  from  the 
village  of  that  name,  celebraied  tor  it3  medicinal  wa- 
ters. The  woods  of  Cragie-burii,  and  of  Uumcricf, 
were  at  one  time  favourite  haunts  of  our  poet.  It  was 
there  he  met  the  "  Lassie  wi"  the  lint-while  locks," 
tnd  that  he  conceived  several  of  his  beautiful  lyric*. 


But  my  white  pow,  nae  kindly  thiwv 

Shall  melt  the  snaws  of  age  ; 
My  trunk  of  cild,  but  liuss  or  beild. 

Sinks  in  time's  wintry  rage. 
Oh,  age  has  weary  days, 

And  nights  o'  sleepless  pain  I 
Thou  golden  time  o'  youthfi;'  prime, 

Why  comcBt  thou  nut  again  ! 


THE  BANKS  O'  DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair ; 
How  can  ye  chant  ye  little  birds. 

And  I  sae  weary  fuj  o'  care  ! 
Thou'il  lireak  my  heart  thou  warbling  bird. 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thcrn : 
Thou  minds  me  o'  de])artcd  joys. 

Departed  never  to  return. 

Oft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  iuvc, 

And,  fondly,  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi*  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ; 
And  my  faiise  lover  stole  my  rose. 

But  ah!   he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 


THE  BANKS  BY  CASTLE-GORDOH 

Tune—"  Morag. 

Streams  that  glide  in  orient  plains 
Never  bound  by  winter's  chains  ; 
Glowing  here  on  golden  sands, 
There  commix'd  with  foulest  stains 
From  tyranny's  empurpled  bands  ; 
These,  tlieir  richly  gleaming  waves, 
I  leave  to  tyrants  and  their  slaves  ; 
Give  me  the  stream  that  sweetly  laves 
The  banks  by  Castle- Gordon. 

Spicy  forests  ever  gay. 
Shading  from  the  burning  ray 
Hapless  wretches  sold  to  toil. 
Or  the  ruthless  native's  way. 
I>ent  on  slaughter,  blood,  and  spoil 
Woods  that  ever  verdant  wave, 
I  leave  the  tyrant  and  the  slave. 
Give  me  the  groves  that  lofty  brave 
The  storms,  by  Castle-Gordfc. 


Wildly  here,  without  control. 
Nature  reigns  and  rules  the  whole  ; 
In  that  sober  pensive  mood, 
Dearest  to  the  feeling  soul, 
Slie  plants  the  forest,  pours  tlie  floodi 
Life's  poor  day  I'll  musing  rave, 


226 


BURNS    WORKS. 


A.nd  find  at  ni^ht  a  sheltering  cave, 
Where  waters  flow  and  wllj  woods  wave, 
By  bonnie  Castle- Gordon. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  DEVON, 

Tune — "  Khannerach  dhon  na  chri." 

These  verses  were  composed  on  a  charming 
girl,  a  IMiss  Chailutte  Hamilton,  who  is  now 
married  to  James  INI'Kitrick  Adair,  Esq.  phy- 
sician. She  is  sister  to  my  worthy  friend,  Ga- 
vin Hamilton,  of  Jlauchline ;  and  was  horn  on 
the  banks  of  Ayr,  but  was,  at  the  time  I  v/rote 
these  lines,  residing  at  Herveyston,  in  Clack- 
mannanshire, on  the  romantic  banks  of  the  little 
river  Devon. — I  first  heard  the  air  from  a  lady 
in  Inverness,  and  got  the  notes  taken  down  for 
this  work. 

How  pleasant  the  banks  of  the  clear  winding 
Devon, 
With    green    spreading    bushes    and    flow'rs 
blooming  fair  ! 
But  the  bonniest  flow'r  on  the  banks  of  the  De- 
von, 
Was  once  a  sweet  bud  on  the  braes  of  the 
Ayr  : 
Mild  be  the  sun  on  this  sweet-blushing  flow'r, 

In  the  gay  rosy  miirn  as  it  bathes  in  the  dew  ; 
And  gentle  the  fail  of  the  soft  vernal  show'r, 
That  steals  on  the  evening  each  leaf  to  renew  ! 

O  spare  the  dear  blossom,  ye  orient  breezes, 

M'ith  chill,  ho.iry-wing  as  ye  usher  the  dawn  ! 
Anil  far  be  thou  distant,  thou  reptile  that  seizest, 

The  verdure  and  pride  of  the  garden  or  lawn  ! 
Let  Bouibon  exult  in  his  gay  gilded  lilies, 

And    England  triumphant  display  her  proud 
rose  ; 
A  fairer  than  cither  adorns  tiie  green  vallies. 

Where    Devon,     sweet    Devon,     meandering 
flows. 


THE  BANKS  OF  CREE. 
Tune—"  The  banks  of  Crce." 

Here  is  the  glen,  and  hcie  the  !)ower, 
Al!  tmilerneath   the  l)iiclifM  shiile; 

The  village  hell  has  toM'd  the  Imur, 
O,  what  can  stay  my  lovely  ni  lid  ? 

Tis  not  Maria's  whisjiering  call, 

Tis  but  the  balmy  hreathing  gale, 
M»xt  with  some  warbler's  (lying  fall. 
The  dewy  star  of  eve  to  hail. 

It  is  Maria's  voice  I  bear  ! 

So  calls  the  wooillark  to  the  grove, 
His  little  faithful  mate  to  cheer, 

At  QQiu:  'tis  music — and  'tii  love. 


And  art  ttiou  come,  and  art  thou  trut  ! 

O  welcome  dear  to  love  and  me  ! 
And  let  us  all  our  vows  renew. 

Along  the  flowery  banks  of  Cree. 


THE  BARD'S  SONG. 
TEs  bard's  song  in  "the  jolly  Bsaa4] 

Tune—"  Jolly  mortals,  fill  your  f'.atK^ ' 

See  the  smoking  bowl  before  us, 
IMark  our  jovial  ragged  ring  ! 
Round  and  round  take  up  the  chorus, 
And  in  raptures  let  us  sing — 

A.  fig  for  i/iose  by  law  protected. 

Liberty's  a  glorious  feast  I 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected. 
Churches  built  to  please  the  prieaU 

What  is  title  what  is  treasure, 

What  is  reputation's  care  .' 
If  we  lead  a  life  of  pleasure, 

'Tis  no  matter  how  or  where. 
A  fig  for  those,  §fc. 

Life  is  all  a  variorum. 

We  regard  not  how  it  goes  , 
Let  them  cant  about  decorum, 

Who  hav»  characters  to  lose. 
A  fig  for  those,  §"c. 

Here's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets  ! 

Here's  to  all  our  wandering  train  ! 
Here's  our  ragged  brats  and  callets ! 

One  and  all  cry  out.  Amen  ! 
A  fig  for  those,  Ifc. 


THE  BATTLE  OF  SHERIFF-MUIK, 

BET-WEEN  THE  DUKE  OF  ARGYLE  AND  TH« 
EARL  OF  MAR. 

"  O  CAM  ye  here  the  fight  to  shun, 
Or  I'.erd  the  sheep  wi'  me,  man  ? 
Or  were  ye  at  the  Sherra-muir, 

And  (lid  the  battle  see,  man  ?'* 
I  saw  the  battle  sair  and  teugh, 
.\nd  reekin-red  ran  monie  a  sheugh. 
My  heart  for  fear  gae  sough  fur  sough, 
To  hear  the  thuds,  and  see  the  duds 
O'  clans  frae  woods,  in  tartan  duds, 
Wha  glaum'd  at  kingdoms  three,  man. 

The  red-  coat  lads  wi"  black  cockades, 
To  meet  them  were  na  slaw,  man  ; 

They  rush'd  and  push'd,  and  bluid   outgush'dy 
And  mony  a  bouk  did  fa',  man  • 

The  great  Argyle  led  on  his  files, 

I  wat  they  glanced  twenty  milc»  i 


SONGS. 


22T 


Tliev    hack'd   ana   hash'il,   while  broadswords 

cla'-h'd, 
And  thro'  tlioy  dash'd,  and  hew'd  and  sinash'd, 
Till  fey  men  died  awa,  man. 

But  had  you  seen  the  philibegs, 

And  skyrin  tartan  trows,  man. 
When  in  tlio  teeth  they  dar'd  our  whigs, 

And  covenant  true  blues,  man  ; 
In  lines  extended  lang  and  large, 
When  bayonets  opposed  the  targe, 
And  thousands  hastened  to  the  charge, 
W''  hi;;hland  wrath  they  frae  the  sheath, 
Drew  blades  o'  death,   till  out  o'  breath. 

They  fled  like  frighted  doos,  man. 

"  O  how  deil  Tarn  can  that  be  true  ? 

The  chase  gaed  frae  the  north,  man  ; 
I  saw  myself,  they  did  pursue 

The  horsemen  back  to  Forth,  man  ; 
And  at  Dundjlane,  in  my  ain  sight, 
They  took  the  biig  wi'  a"  their  might, 
And  strausht  to  Stirling  winged  their  flight  ; 
]}ut,  cursed  lot !    the  gates  were  shut; 
And  mony  a  hunted  poor  red-coat 

Fur  fear  amaist  did  swarf,  man." 

My  sister  Kate  came  up  the  gate 

Wi'  crowdie  unto  me,  niau  : 
She  swoor  she  saw  some  rebels  run, 

Frae  Perth  unto  Dundee,  man  ; 
Their  left-hand  general  had  nae  skill. 
The  Angus  lads  had  nae  goad  will 
That  day  their  neeboi's  bluod  to  spill  ; 
For  fear  by  foes,  that  they  should  lose 
Tiieir  cogs  o'  brose  ;   all  crying  woes. 

And  so  it  goes,  you  see,  man. 

They've  lost  some  gallant  gentlemen, 
Aniang  the  Highland  clans,  man  ; 

I  fear  my  Lord  Panmure  is  slain, 
Or  fallen  in  whiggish  hands,  man. 

Now  wad  ve  sing  this  double  fight. 

Some  fell  for  wrang,  and  some  for  right ; 

But  mony  bade  the  world  gude-night  ; 

Then  ye  may  tell,  how  pell  and  uiell. 

By  red  claymores,  and  mu>kets,  knell, 

Wi'  dying  yed,  the  tories  fell. 

And  whigs  to  hell  did  flee,  man.* 


Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes. 
And  o'er  the  crystal  streamlets  plays  ; 
Come,  let  us  spend  the  liehtsome  day» 
la  the  Bilks  of  Aberfeldy. 
Jionnie  tuisie,  §*c. 

While  o'er  their  head  the  hazels  hing. 

The  little  birdies  i)lythely  sing. 

Or  lichtly  flit  on  wanton  wing. 

In  the  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

lionnie  lassie,  Sfc. 

The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa's. 
The  foaiwin'  stream  deep-roiring  fa'a, 
O'erhung  wi'  fragrant  spreadin'  shawa, 
The  Birks  of  Aberfeldy. 
lionnie  lassie,  ^c. 

The  hoary  cliffs  are  crown'd  wi'  flow'rSi 
White  ower  the  lin  the  burnie  pours. 
And,  risin',  weets  wi'  misty  show'r* 
The  Birk>  of  Aberfeldy. 
Jsonnie  lassie,  Sfc, 

Let  fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee, 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me. 
Supremely  bless'd  wi'  love  and  thee. 
In  the  Bilks  of  Aberfeldy.* 
liunnie  lassie,  ^'C. 


THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY. 

I  COMPOSED  these  stanzas  standing  under  the 
Falls  of  Aberfeldy,  at  or  near  Moness. 

Tune—"  The  Birks  of  Abergeldy.' 

lionuie  lassie,  will  ye  rjo,  u-ill  ye  gn,  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go,  to  the  Hiiks  of  Aber- 
fddy  9 


•  This  was  written  about  the  t;mc  our  bard  made 
kii  touj  to  the  Highlands,  llUl. 


THE  BIG-BELLIED  BOTTLE. 

Tutu — "  Prepare,  my  dear  Brethren,  to  the  Tarttr 
let's  fl)." 

No  churchman  am  I,  for  to  rail  and  to  write; 
No  statesman  or  soldier,  to  plot  or  to  fight ; 
No  slv  man  of  business,  contrivmg  a  snare  ; 
For  a  big-bellied  bottle's  the  whole  of  my  care. 

The  peer  I  don't  envy — I  give  him  his  bow  ; 
I  scorn  not  the  [jeasniit,  thouuh  ever  so  low  ; 
But  a  club  of  good  fellows,   like  those  that  are 

here. 
And  a  bottle  like  this,  are  my  glory  and  care. 

Here    passes    the    squire    on    his    brother — his 

horse  ; 
There    centum -per-centum,    the    cit    with    his 

purse  ; 
But  see  you   '  the  Cror.-n,'  how  it  waves  in  the 

air  ! 
i  There  a  big-bellied  bottle  still  eases  my  care. 


•  The  clionis  is  borrowed  from  an  oM  simple  bal- 
lad, called  "   riie  Hirks  of  AoergeUly  j"  of  which  tbt 

f«)llowjiig  is  a  fragment. 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go, 
WMl  yc  go,  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  \c  po 
To  the  bilks  o'  AbcrgrUlie? 
Ye  shall  get  a  gown  o'  si!k, 
A  g<nMi  o'  silk,  a  gdvvn  o'  silk. 
Ye  shall  get  a  gown  <>•  silk. 
And  cuat  uf  calliniankis 


k: 


228 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


The  w  fe  of  my  bosom,  alas  !  8  le  did  die  ; 
For  siret't  consolation  to  church  I  did  fly  ; 
I  found  that  old  Solomon  preved  it  fair, 
That  a  bij^-bidlied  bottle's  a  cure  for  all  care. 

I  once  was  persuaded  a  venture  to  make  ; 
A  letter  infonn'd  me  thit  all  was  to  wreck  ; 
But    the   pursy   old   landlord  just   waddled   up 

stairs, 
With  a  glorious  bottle,  that  ended  my  cares. 

"  Life's  cares  they  are  comforts,"  •   a  maxim 

laid  down 
By  the  bard,  what  d'ye  call  hiai,  that  woie  the 

black  gown  ; 
And  faith  T  atjree  with  th'  old  prig  to  a  hair, 
For  a  big-bt'^'licd  bottle's  a  heaven  of  care. 


STANZA   ADDED  IN  A  MASON  LODGE. 

Then  fill  up  a  bumper,  and  make  it  o'erflow. 
And  honours  masonic  prepare  for  to  throw  ; 
May   every  true  brother  of   the  compass   and 

sijuire 
Have  a  big-bellied  bottle  when  harass'd   with 


THE  BLUE-EYED  LASSIE. 

I  GAED  a  waefu'  gate  yestreen, 

A  gate,  I  fear,  I'll  dearly  rue  ; 
I  g,it  my  death  fiae  twa  sweet  een, 

'Twa  lovely  een  o'  bonnie  hlue. 
'Twas  not  her  golden  ringlets  bi  ight ; 

Her  lips  like  roses,  wat  wi'  dew, 
Her  heaving  bosom,  lily-wliite — 

It  was  her  e'en  sae  bonnie  blue. 

She  talk'd,  she  smiled,  my  heart  she  wyl'd, 

She  charm'd  my  soul  I  wist  na  how  ; 
And  aye  the  stound,  the  deadly  wound, 

Cam  frae  her  een  sae  bonnie  blue. 
But  spare  to  speak,  and  spare  to  speed  ; 

She'll  aiblins  listen  to  my  vow  : 
.Sluniid  she  refuse,  I'll  lay  my  dead 

To  her  twa  eea  sae  bonnie  blue.f 


THE  BONNIE  WEE  THING. 

Composed  on  m)  little  idol,  "  The  charm- 
ng,  lovely  Davies." 

lionti'e  u-ie  tiling,  cannle  wee  thing. 
Lovely  wee  thing  teas  thou  mine  ; 


•  Voiini^B  Night  ThouRlits. 

+  'Pir  heroine  of  tills  sunt,'  was  Miss  ,1.  of  Lnchma. 
hen.  Tins  l.-idv,  nnw  Mrs.  It.  after  ri-siilin(»  some  time 
hi  Livcriiool,  IS  settled  witli  her  liujbojul  in  New  Yorit, 
North  America. 


/  wad  wear  thee  in  my  losom. 
Lest  my  Jewel  I  should  tine. 

Wishfully  I  look  and  languish, 
In  that  bonnie  face  of  thine  , 

And  my  heart  it  stounds  wi'  anguisO, 
Lest  my  wee  thing  be  na  mine. 
Bonnie  wee  thing,  &^c. 

Wit,  and  grace,  and  love,  and  beaut^r, 

In  ae  constellation  shine  ; 
To  adore  thee  is  my  duty. 

Goddess  o'  this  soul  o'  mine  ! 
JBonnie  wee  thing,  §"c. 


THE  BRAES  O'  BALLOCHMYLE. 

The  Catrine  woods  were  yellow  seen, 

The  flowers  decayed  on  Catrine  lee,  • 
Nae  lav'rock  sang  on  hillock  green, 

But  nature  sicken'd  on  the  ee. 
Thro'  faded  groves  Maria  sang, 

Hersel'  in  beauty's  bloom  the  while, 
And  aye  the  wild  wood  echoes  rang, 

Fareweel  the  braes  o'  Ballochmyle. 

Low  in  your  wintry  beds,  ye  flowers. 

Again  ye'll  flourish  fresh  and  fair  ; 
Ye  birdies  dumb,  in  withering  bowers, 

Again  ye'il  charm  the  vocal  air. 
But  here,  alas  !   for  me  nae  mair. 

Shall  liirdie  charm,  or  floweret  smile; 
Fareweel  the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr, 

Fareweel,  fareweel !  sweet  Ballochmyle ! 


THE  CARL  OF  KELLYBURN  BRAES. 

These  words  are  mine  ;  I  composed  thens 
from  the  old  traditionary  verses. 

There  lived  a  carl  on  Kellybnrn  braes, 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 

And  he  had  a  wife  was  the  plague  o'  his  days ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd  and  the  rue  is 
in  prime. 

Ae  day  as  the  carl  gaed  up  >he  lang  glen, 
(  Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 

He  met  wi*  the  devil ;  says,  "  How  do  yow  fen?" 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd  and  the  rue  is 
in  prime. 

"  I've  got  a  bad  wife,  Sir;  that's  a*  my  com 
plaint ; 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi*  thyme) 


•  Catrine,  In  Ayrshire,  the  scat  of  niigald  Stew.nrt 
Esq  Profossor  of  Moral  PhiIosi)|iliv  in  the  Uiiivcrsitj 
of  Kdi'hurKh.  H^illoclimylc,  foniierly  the  scat  (if  Sij 
John  Whitel'oord,  now  of Alexander,  Esq,  clSliO. 


SONGS. 


229 


For,  saving  your  presence,  to  her  ye're  a  saint ; 
Aud  the  thyme  it  is  withcr'J   and  the  rue  is 
in  prime." 

It's  neither  your  stot  nor  your  staig  I  shall 

crave, 
(Hey,  ami  the  rue  grows  honnie  wi'  thyme) 
But  gie  me  vour  wife,  man,  for  her  I  must  have, 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd  and  the  rue  is 

in  prime." 

"  O  welcome,  most  kindly,"  the  blythe  carl  eaid, 
(iley,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 

But  if  ye  can  match  her,  ye're  war  nor  ye're  caM, 
And  tiie  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  tlie  rue  is 
in  prime." 

The  devil  has  got  the  auld  wife  on  his  back  ; 

(Ilcy,  aud  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 
And,  like  a  poor  pedlar,  he's  carried  his  pack  ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  is 
in  prime. 

He's  carried  her  hame  to  his  ain  hallan-door  ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 
Syne  bade  her  gae  in,  for  a  bitch  and  a  whore, 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  is 
in  prime. 

Then  straight  he  makes  fifty,  the  pick  o'  his 
band, 
(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi*  thyme) 
Turn  out  on  her  gaurd  in  the  clap  of  a  hand  ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  is 
prime. 

The  carlin  gaed  thro'  them  like  ony  wude  bear, 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 

Whae'er  she  gat  hands  on  came  near  her  nae 

mair  ; 

And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  is 

in  prime. 

'•  A  reekit  wee  devil  looks  over  the  wa*  ; 

(  Hey   and  the  rue  grows  l)onnie  wi'  thyme) 
0,  help,  Mitster,  help,  or  she'll  ruin  us  a'. 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  is 
in  prime." 

The  devil  he  swoje  by  the  edge  o'  his  knife, 
(Hey,  awl  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 

He  pitred  the  man  that  was  tied  to  a  wife  ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  is 
in  prime. 

The  devil  he  swore  by  the  kirk  and  the  bell, 

(iiey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi'  thyme) 
He  was  ndt  in  wedlock,   thank  heaven,   but  in 
hell  ; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  is 
in  prime. 

Fhen  Satan  has  travelled  again  wi*  his  pack  ; 
Hoy,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi*  thyme) 


And  to  her  auld  husband  he's  earned  her  back; 
And  the  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  tl;e  rue  ia 
in  prime. 

"  I  hae  been  a  devil  the  feck  o'  my  life  ; 

(Hey,  and  the  rue  grows  bonnie  wi*  thyme) 
But  ne'er  was  in  hell,  till  I  met  wi'  a  wife  ; 

And  tiie  thyme  it  is  wither'd,  and  the  rue  i« 
in  prime. 


THE  CHEVALIER'S  LAMENT. 
Tune — "  Captain  O"  Kainc." 

Ths  small  birds  rejoice  in  the  green  leaves  re- 
turning ; 
The  niurnuii  ing  streamlet  runs  clear  through 
the  vale  ; 
The  hawthorn   trees  blow   in  the  dews  of  the 
morning ; 
And  wild  scattered  cowslips  bedeck  the  green 
dale. 
But  what  can  give  pleasure,  or  what  can  seem 

fair. 
When  the  lingerin*  moments  are  numbered  by 
care  ? 
No  flowers  gaily  springing, 
Or  birds  sweetly  singing. 
Can  sooth  the  sad  bosom  of  joyless  despair. 

The  deed  that  I  dared,  could  it  merit  their  ma- 
lice— 
A  king  and  a  father  to  p'lce  on  his  throne  ! 
His  right  are  these  hills,  and  his  right  are  these 
valleys. 
Where  the  wild  beasts  find  shelter,  but  1  can 
find  none. 
But  'tis  not  my  sufferings,  thus  wretched,  for» 

lorn  ; 
.My  brave  gallant  friends,  'tis  your  ruin  I  mouru. 
Your  deeds  proved  so  loyal 
In  hot  bloody  trial  ; 
Alas  !  can  I  make  it  no  better  .eturn ' 


THE  DA\   RETURN''.  MY  BOSOM 
BURNS. 

Tune—"  Seventh  of  Novemlier." 

The  day  returns,  my  bosom  burns, 

The  biissl'ul  day  we  twa  did  meet, 
Tho*  winter  wild  in  tempest  toil'd. 

Ne'er  summer  sun  was  half  sac  sweet; 
Than  a'  the  pride  that  loads  the  tide, 

And  crosses  o'er  the  sultry  line  ; 
Than  kingly  robes,  than  crowns  and  glol)eii. 

Heaven  gave  me  more,  it  made  thee  mioet 

Wliilc  day  and  night  can  bring  delight, 
Or  nature  ought  of  pleasure  give  ! 


230 


BURNS    WORKS. 


WTiUe  joys  above,  my  mind  can  move, 
For  thee,  and  tliee  alone,  I  live  ! 

Whea  that  grim  foe  of  life  below, 
Comes  in  between  to  make  us  part ; 

The  iron  hand  that  breaks  our  band, 
It  breaks  my  bliss — it  breaks  my  heart. 


THE  DEATH  SONG. 

ScFNE— A  Field  of  Battle.— Time  of  the  DAT- 
Evening. — The  Wounded  and  Dying  of  the  Victo. 
rious  Army  are  supposed  to  join  in  the  following 
Song : 

Farewell,  thou  fair  day,  thou  green  earth, 
and  ye  skies, 
Now  gay  with  the  bright  setting  sun  ; 
Farewell,  loves  and  friendships,  ye  dear  tender 
ties. 
Our  race  of  existence  is  run  ! 

Thou  grim  King  cf  Terrors,  th(/a  life's  gloomy 
foe. 
Go,  friyhten  the  coward  and  slive  ; 
Go   teath   theru    to   trenible,    fell    tyrant  !    but 
know. 
No  terrors  hast  thou  to  the  brave. 

rhou  strikest  the  mi  peasant ;  he  sinks  in  the 
dark, 

Nor  saves  even  the  wreck  of  a  name  ; 
Thou  strikest  the  young  hero — a  glorious  mark  ! 

He  falls  in  the  blaze  of  his  fame  ! 

In  the  proud  field  of  honour — our  swords  in  our 
hands, 

Our  king  and  our  country  to  save— 
Wiile  victory  shines  on  life's  last  ebbing  sands, 

O  !   who  would  not  die  with  the  brave  ! 


THE  DEIL'S  A\V\  WI'  THE  EXCISE- 
MAN. 

The  deil  cam  fiddling  tV.ough  the  toun, 

And  danceil  awa  w'    the  exciseman  ; 
And  ilka  auld  wife  cried,  Auld  M.ihoun, 
I  wish  vou  lu.K  o'  the  prize,  man. 
The  deil  s  iiwd,  the  deil's  arm. 

The  (JeU's  (iwa  u'i'  the  exciseman  ; 
He's  ■luticed  awn,  he's  dnnccd  nwa, 
He's  danced  awa  u-i'  the  exciseman  I 

We'll  -nak  our  nuut,  we'll  brew  our  drink, 
We  11  laugh,  slug,  and  rejoice,  man  ; 

And  niony  braw  thanks  to  the  meikle  black  deil, 
rhat  danceil  awa  wi'  the  exciseman  I 
The  deil's  awn,  Ifc. 

There's  threesome  leeis,  there's  foursome  re 'Is, 
Thure't  hornpipes  and  ^trathspeys,  man  ; 


But  the  ae  best  dance  e  sr  cam  to  tne  heela, 
Was,  The  deil's  awa  wi'  the  excsiemaii. 
The  deil's  awa,  §-c. 


THE  ELECTION. 
Tune—"  Fy,  let  us  a'  to  the  bndal." 

Fi/,  let  7IS  a'  to  Kirkcudbright, 
For  there  will  he  bickering  there, 

For  Murray's  light  horse  are  to  musttT ; 
And  oh,  how  the  heroes  will  swear  I 

And  there  will  be  Murray  commander, 
And  Gordon  the  batttle  to  win  : 

Like  brithers  they'll  stand  by  each  othei, 
Sae  knit  in  alliance  and  siu. 
Fy,  let  us  a',  §-c. 

And  there  will  be  black-nebbed  Johnnie 
The  tongue  of  the  trump  to  theai  a* ; 

If  he  get  na  hell  fur  his  haddin*, 
The  deil  gets  nae  justice  ava  ! 
Fy,  let  us  a',  Sfc. 

And  there  will  be  Templeton's  birkie, 
A  boy  no  sae  black  at  the  bane  ;  ' 

But,  as  to  his  fine  Nabob  fortune, 
We'll  e'en  let  the  subject  alane. 
Fy,  let  us  a',  Sfc. 

And  there  will  be  Wigton's  new  sheri£f; 

Dame  Ju^tice  fu'  brawly  has  sped  ; 
She's  gotten  the  heart  of  a  B by. 

But  v.hat  has  become  cf  the  head  ? 
Fy,  let  us  a',  Sfc, 

And  there  will  be  Cardoness*  squire, 

So  mighty  in  Cardoness'  eyes  ; 
A  wight  that  will  weather  damnation. 

For  the  devil  the  prey  will  despise. 
Fy,  let  us  a,',  §*c. 

And  there  will  be  Douglasses  doughty, 
New  christening  towns  far  and  near} 

Abjuring  their  democrat  doings. 
By  kissing  the  doup  of  a  peer 
Fy,  lei  us  a',  &-c. 

And  there  will  be  Kenmure  sae  generous, 
Whose  honour  is  proof  'gaiii-t  the  storni  j 

To  save  them  frae  stark  reprobation, 
He  lent  theni  his  name  to  the  firm. 
J-y,  let  us  a,  §-c. 

But  we  wima  mention  Redcastle  ; 

The  body,  e'en  let  him  escape ; 
He'll  vvnture  the  g.illows  fur  siller, 

An  'twerena  the  cost  o'  the  rape. 
Fy,  let  us  «',  Sfc. 

And  tLere  is  nur  King's  Lord  Lieuteiunlj 
Sae  famed  for  his  grateful  return  i 


SONGS. 


S3i 


Tlie  billie  is  f;ettin!j  his  questions, 
To  say  in  St.  Stephen's  tlie  morn. 
Fy,  let  us  a',  ^c. 

And  there  will  he  lads  of  the  gospel, 
Jluiihead,  uha's  as  c;ui!e  as  he's  true ; 

And  there  \riil  be  Buittle's  apostle, 
Wha's  mair  o*  the  Idack  than  the  blue. 
Fi/,  Itt  us  a,  Sfc. 

And  there  will  he  folk  frae  St.  Mary's,* 
A  house  o'  great  merit  and  note  : 

Tl-.e  deil  ane  but  honours  tliem  highly— 
The  deii  ane  will  gie  them  his  vote. 
Fi/,  let  tts  a',  §-c. 

And  there  will  be  wealthy  youn^  Richard 
D.ime  Fortune  should  iiing  by  the  neck  : 

But  for  prodigal  thriftless  bestowing, 
His  merit  had  won  him  respect. 
Fi/,  let  us  a",  §-c. 

And  there  will  he  rich  brither  Nabobs  ; 

Though  Nabobs,  yet  men  o'  the  first : 
And  there  will  be  Colliston's  whiskers. 

And  Quiutin,  o'  lads  not  the  warst. 
Fy,  let  us  a',  &■€. 

And  there  will  be  Stamp-office  Johnnie 

Tak  tent  how  you  purchase  a  dram  ; 

Ami  there  will  be  gay  Cassencarry ; 
And  there  will  be  gleg  ColouelTam. 
Fi/,  let  us  a',  §-c. 

And  there  will  be  trusty  Kirrochtrie, 

Whase  hcmour  is  ever  h;«  sa' 
If  the  virtues  were  packed  in  a  parcel, 

His  worth  might  be  sample  for  a*. 
Fi/,  let  us  a\  Sfc. 

And  can  we  forget  the  auld  Major, 
Wha'll  ne'er  be  forgot  in  the  Greys? 

Our  flattery  we'll  keep  for  some  other  ; 
Him  only  it's  justice  to  praise. 
Fi/,  let  us  a',  §-c. 

And  there  will  be  maiden  Kilkerran, 
And  also  Harskimming's  gude  wi<»ht  • 

And  there  wHl  be  roaring  Birtwhistle, 
Wha  iiu-kily  roari  in  the  right. 
Fi/,  let  us  u,  ^-c. 

And  there,  frae  tne  Niddisdale  Dorder, 
We'll  mingle  the  .Maxwells  in  droves, 

Teiieh  Jockie,  stanch  Geordie,  and  Willie, 

That  granes  for  tne  fishes  and  loves. 

/V,  lit  us  a",  §-c. 

And  there  will  he  Logan  IM'D 1 ; 

Sculduddery  and  he  will  be  there  ; 


And  also  the  Scott  o'  Galloway, 
Sodgering,  gunpowder  Blair. 
Fy,  let  us  a\  ^c. 

Then  hey  !  the  chaste  interest  o*  Broughtoa, 
And  hey  for  the  blessings  'twill  hrhvj  ! 

It  may  send  Balmai,«iie  to  the  Commons  ; 

In  Sodom  'twould  make  him  a  kinpf. 

Fy,  let  us  a',  §-c. 

And  hey  !   for  the  sanctified  M r y. 

Our  kind  wha  wi*  chapels  has  stored  ; 

lie  foundered  his  horse  among  harlots, 
But  gied  the  mtld  marc  tothe  Lord. 
Fy,  let  vs  a\  Sfc. 


THE  GALLANT  WEAVER. 

Where  Cart  rins  rowin  to  the  sea. 
By  niony  a  flow'r  and  s|)reading  tree, 
There  lives  a  lad,  the  lad  for  mo, 
He  is  a  gallant  weaver. 

Oh  I  had  wooers  aught  or  nine. 
They  gied  me  rings  and  ribbons  fine  ; 
And  I  was  fear'd  my  heart  would  tine. 
And  I  gied  it  to  the  weaver. 

Jly  daddie  sign'd  my  tocher-band 
To  gie  the  lad  that  has  the  lanil, 
But  to  my  heart  I'll  add  my  hanu, 
And  give  it  to  the  weaver. 

Wliile  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowers; 
While  bees  delight  in  opening  flowers; 
WTiile  corn  grows  green  in  simmer  showers, 
I'll  love  my  gallant  weaver.* 


•  Meanin-  the  family  of  the  Earl  of  Selkirk,  resi- 
«<-iU  at  St.  Jlaii's  iilc,  near  KirkcuUbright. 


THE  GARDENER  WT  HIS  PAIDLE. 

This  air  is  the  Gardeners'  March.     The  titU 

of  the  song  only  is  old  ;   the  rest  is  mine. 

WjiEN  rosy  Jlay  comes  in  wT  flowers, 

To  deck  her  gay,  green-spreading  bowers; 

Then  busy,  busy  are  his  hours, 
TUe  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 

The  crystal  waters  gently  f,i' ; 
The  merry  birds  are  lovers  a'  ; 
The  scented  breezes  round  him  blaw. 
The  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 

When  purple  morning  starts  the  hare 
To  steal  upon  her  early  fare  ; 
Then  thro'  the  dews  he  maun  repair. 
Tile  gard'ner  wi'  his  paidle. 


•  In  lome  editions  tailor  is  nuhstitutcit  for  weavtr. 


232 

When  (lay  espir:ng  in  tbe  west, 
The  curuin  draws  of  nature's  rest ; 
He  flies  to  her  arms  he  lo'es  best, 
The  garU'aer  wi*  his  paidle. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


THE  GLOOMY  NIGHT  IS  GATHER- 
ING FAST. 

Tum-"  Banks  of  Ayr." 

The  gloomy  night  is  gath'ring  fast, 
Loiid  roars  the  wild  inconstant  blast, 
Yon  murky  cloud  is  foul  with  rain, 
I  see  it  driving  o'er  the  plain. 
The  hunter  now  has  left  the  moor. 
The  scatter'd  coveys  meet  secure, 
While  here  I  wander,  prest  with  care, 
Along  the  lonely  banks  of  Ayr. 

The  autumn  mourns  her  ripening  com, 
By  early  winter's  ravage  torn  ; 
Across  her  placid  azure  sky 
She  sees  the  scowling  tempest  fly  : 
Chill  runs  my  blood  to  hear  it  rave, 
I  think  u])on  the  stormy  wave, 
Wiere  many  a  danger  1  must  dare. 
Far  from  the  bonuie  banks  of  Ayr. 

'Tis  not  the  surging  billows'  roar, 
*Tis  not  that  fatal,  deadly  shore  ; 
Though  death   in  every  sha])e  appear. 
The  wrelilu'd  have  no  more  to  fear  : 
lint  round  my  heart  the  ties  are  bound. 
That  heart  tiaris|)ierced  with  many  a  wound  ; 
Those  bleed  afresli,  those  ties  I  tear, 
To  leave  the  bcMinie  banks  of  Ayr. 

Farewell  old  Coila's  hills  and  dales, 
Hi^r  heathy  nuiors  and  winding  va'.es  ; 
The  scene  where  wretched  fancy  roves, 
Pursuing  past,  nnli.ip|>y  loves  ! 
Farewell  my  fi  ieniK,  farewell  my  foes, 
Mv  peace  with  these,  mv  love  with  those  ; 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare  ; 
Farewell  the  boniiie  banks  of  Ayr.» 


THE  HEATHER  WAS  IILOOMING. 

7"un«<— "  1  re.1  you  twware  si  llie  hunting." 

The  heather  was  Idooming,   the  meadows  were 

juawii. 
Our  lads  gaed  a  hunting,  ae  d  ly  at  the  dawn. 
O'er  nioius  and  o'er  mosses  an  i  iiioiiy  a  glen, 
At  length  they  discovered  a  boanie  uioor-hen. 


•  Hums  wrote  this  song,  while  rniivoyjnn  his  chest 
lo  f;ir  on  the  ni.Ml  fri)Mi  Ayrshire  ti>  'irieiiriek,  where 
he  inleriiU'il  tii  I'liilnrk  m  a  lew  ilavs  fur  Jainaici  lie 
iloitrnel  il,  he  i^tyi,  m  his  raicwcll  iiir);c  to  hi-,  native 
qoiiniry 


Tred  you  bewar*  at  the  hnntinrf,  young  men  ; 
I  red  you  beware  at  tJie  hunting,  t/ouncf  men; 
Tak  some  on  the  wing,  and  some  as  theg 

spring, 
£ut  cannity  steal  on  a  bonnie  moor-hen. 

Sweet  brushing  the  dew  from  the  brown  heather 

bells. 
Her  colours  betray'd  her  on  yon  mossy  fells  ; 
Her  plumage  outlustred  the  pride  o'  the  spring, 
And  C  '   as  she  wantoned  gay  on  the  wing. 
/  red,  §x. 

Auld  Phofcbus  himsei,  as  he  pcep'd  o  er  the  liill ; 

In  spite  at  her  plumage  he  tryed  his  skill  ; 

He  levell'd  his   rays  where  she  bask'd  on  the 

brae — 
His  rays  were  outshone,  and  but  mark'd  where 

she  lay. 

/  red,  §"c. 

They  hunted  the  valley,  they  hunted  the  hill  ; 
The  best  of  our  lads  wi'  the  best  o'  their  skill ; 
But  still  as  the  fairest  she  sat  in  their  sight. 
Then,  whirr  !  she  was  over,  a  mile  at  a  flight.— 
I  red,  fifc. 


THE  HIGHLAND  LASSIE,  O. 

This  was  a  composition  of  mine  in  very  earlj 
life,  before  I  was  known  at  all  in  the  worll, 

Nae  gentle  dames,  tho'  ne'er  sae  fair. 

Sail  ever  be  my  Muse's  care  ; 

Their  titles  a'  are  eni]ity  shew  ; 

Gie  me  mv  Highland  lassie,  O. 

M'ithin  t/ia  glen  sue  busliy,   O, 
^4boon  the  ]>lain  sue  nis/iy,   (), 
I  cct  me  duwn  wi'  right  gmui  will. 
To  sine;  my  Iligltland  lassie,   0% 

0  were  yon  hills  and  vallies  mine. 
Yon  palace  anil  ynu  garden.s  fi:ie  ! 
Tiie  world  then  the  love  should  know 

1  bear  uiy  Highland  lassie,  O. 

^VUllin  llie  glen,  §C. 

But  fickle  fortune  frowns  on  me. 
And  I  maun  cros.-i  the  raging  sea  ; 
lint  while  my  crimson  currents  dow, 
I'll  lo'e  m;'  "■-'  ^and   lassie,  O. 
M'ithin  Cite  glen,  S^c. 

Altho'  thro'  foreign  dinu's  I  range, 
I  know  her  heart  will  never  change, 
For  her  bosom  burns  with  hunour'u  gl(W 
My  faithful  Highland  lassie,  O. 
Within  the  glen,  {jX. 

For  her  I'll  dare  the  billow's  roar; 
For  her  I'll  trai'c  a  distant  shore  ; 


SONGb 


2S3 


n.at  Inilian  wonhli  mny  lustre  throw 
Ariiutxl  my  Hi^'lilaii'l  lassie,  O. 
}yilhin  the  ylen,  &;c. 

S!ie  lias  my  lu'art,  she  has  iny  hand, 
IJv  secret  truth  and  honoui's  hauii  ! 
'  rill  the  uiort  il  stroke  shall  lay  me  low, 
J'l'j  thine,  mv  Hii^hluid  lassie,  O. 

fill eif ell  t/ie  (//en,  sue  bushy,    O, 
fiireifcU  the  jtlniu,  sae  rashy,   O, 
To  other  luni/s  I  now  must  go, 
To  sini/  mi/  Hiyhltmd  lassie,   O. 


TFIE  LAD  THAT'S  FAR  AWA. 
rniM— ••  O'er  the  hills  and  far  awa." 


O,  now  can  I  he  blithe  anj  glad, 
Or  how  can  I  gan^  brisk  and  braw, 

When  the  huiinie  lad  that  I  lo'e  best 
Is  o'er  the  hills  and  far  awa  ? 

It's  no  the  frosty  winte*  wind, 

It's  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw  ; 

But  aye  the  tear  comes  in  my  ee 
To  think  on  him  that's  far  awa. 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door, 

iMy  friends  they  ii  le  disown'd  me  a'; 

Ijiit  I  hae  ane  will  take  my  part, 
The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

A  pair  o'  gloves  he  gae  to  me, 

And  silken  snoods  he  gae  ine  twa  ; 

And  1  will  weir  theia  for  his  sake, 
Tlie  hounie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

The  weary  winter  soon  will  jiass, 

And  spring  will  deed  the  birkea  shaw; 

rtnd  my  sweet  hahie  will  he  born. 
And  he'll  come  hame  that's  far  awa. 


THE  LASS  OF  BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune—"  The  Lass  of  BaUochmyle." 

TwAs  even,  the  ih'wy  fields  were  green. 

On  ilka  hlaile  the  peirls  hang; 
The  zephvr  waiiton'd  round  the  bean. 

And  bore  its  fiagraiit  sweets  alang  : 
la  ev'ry  glen  the  mavis  sang  ; 

All  nature  list'ning  seeiii'd  the  while, 
Exie|)t  where  £;reenwo(id  echoes  rang, 

Aiuang  the  braes  o'  Balloehmylc. 

With  careless  step  I  onward  stray'd. 
My  heart  iejoice<l  in  Nature's  joy  ; 

When,  musing  in  a  lonely  glade, 
A  maiden  fair  I  chanced  to  spy  : 

Her  look  wa>  like  the  morning'ii  eye, 
Iler  air  like  Nature's  vernal  smile; 


I  The  lily's  r.ue,  and  rose's  dye, 
Bespake  the  lass  o'  BaUochmyle. 

Fair  is  the  morn  in  flowery  May, 

And  sweet  is  night  in  Autumn  mild, 
When  roving  thnuigh  the  garden  gay, 

Or  wand'iing  in  the  lonely  wild  ; 
But  woman,  Nature's  darling  child  ! 

There  all  her  charms  she  does  compilsj 
Even  there  her  other  v>orks  are  foil'd. 

By  the  bonnie  lass  o*  Ballochtnylu. 

Oh,  had  she  been  a  country  maid. 

And  I  the  happy  couiitiy  swain. 
Though  shelter'd  in  the  lowest  shed 

That  ever  ro.ie  on  Scotland's  plain  ! 
Through  weary  winter's  wind  and  rain. 

With  joy,  with  rapture,  I  would  toil ; 
And  nightly  to  my  bos^^n  strain 

The  bonnie  lass  o'  BaUochmyle. 

Then  pride  might  climb  the  slipp'ry  steep« 

Where  fame  and  honours  lofty  shine; 
And  thirst  of  gold  might  tempt  the  deep, 

Or  downward  dig  the  Indian  mine. 
Give  me  the  cot  below  the  pine, 

To  tend  the  flocks,  or  till  the  soil, 
And  ev'ry  day  have  joys  divine, 

Wi'  the  bonnie  lass  o'  Bollochmyle.* 


THE  LASS  THAT  MADE  THE  BED 
TO  ME.f 

When  Januar  winds  were  blawio*  cauldj 

Unto  the  north  I  bent  my  way. 
The  mirksome  nicht  did  nie  eiifauld, 

I  kend  na  where  to  lodge  till  day  ; 
But  by  good  luck  a  lass  I  met, 

Just  in  the  middle  of  my  care. 
And  kindly  she  did  me  invite 

To  walk  into  a  chaiiil»!r  fair. 

I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  this  ma'io. 
And  tlnnk'd  her  for  her  courttsie; 

I  bow'd  fu'  low  unto  'his  maid, 

And  bade  her  make  the  bed  to  me. 


•  This  song  was  wiitteo  in  praise  of  Mi-s  Alexandei 
of  BalltK'hinyle.  Bums  hai)iH"n  d  one  fine  evejiing  to 
meet  this  \'oiii)g  t.dv,  wlun  walkuig  Ihri  ugh  the 
("cautifui  woods  ot  llallmhiinle,  which  lie  at  the  dis- 
tance of  two  miles  from  his  larin  of  Mossgiel.  Struck 
witli  a  sense  of  her  |>a.s>in^  beauty,  he  wrote  this  noble 
lyric:  which  he  soon  after  sent  lo  lier,  eiu!o.-ed  in  a 
letter,  as  full  of  ilclicale  and  romantic  sciiliintnt,  auil 
as  poetical  as  itsi  If.  He  was  soniewhit  niortified  to 
find,  that  either  iiiaiilcnly  modest,  or  iiride  of  s'i|>e- 
rior  station,  prcvemeil  licr  fiomackuowl<d(;ing  the  re- 
ceipt <if  his  coriniiiment :  Indeed  it  is  no  where  record- 
ed that  she,  at  any  stai;e  of  life,  shewed  the  smallest 
sense  ol  it ;  as  to  fi<r  the  pearls  seem  to  liave  been  li- 
terally thrown  away. 

t  There  is  an  older  and  coarser  son?,  eontaii.tng  ttw 
same  incidents,  ai.d  >aid  to  have  licen  oix'asioneil  by  ar 
adventure  of  (  harlex  II.,  when  that  monarch  reside.^ 
in  Scotland  with  the  I'rohyterian  .irmy,  IRVi-51.  fhe 
affair  hapiieiied  at  the  house  of  l^)rt-l.ethem.  in  Aber 
dcenslurc,  and  it  wa»  a  daughter  of  the  lairU  ihAt  mad* 
the  bed  to  the  king. 


234 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


She  marie  the  tJed  baitTi  wide  and  braid, 
Wi'  twa  white  hands  she  spiead  it  doun  ; 

She  put  the  cup  to  her  rosy  lips, 

And  drank.  Young  man,  now  sleep  ye  scan. 

She  snatch'd  the  candle  in  her  hand, 

And  from  the  chamber  went  wi*  speed  : 
But  I  ca'd  her  quickly  hai-k  again. 

To  lay  some  mair  beneath  my  beid. 
A  cod  she  laid  beneath  my  heid, 

And  served  me  with  a  due  respect ; 
And,  to  salute  her  wi'  a  kiss, 

I  put  my  arms  about  her  neck. 

Haud  aff  your  hands,  young  man,  she  says, 

And  dinna  sae  uncivil  be  ; 
It  will  be  time  to  speak  the  morn, 

If  ye  hae  ony  love  for  me. 
Her  hair  was  like  the  links  o'  gowd, 

Her  teeth  were  like  the  ivorie, 
Her  checks  like  lilies  dipt  in  wine. 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  lue. 

Her  bosom  was  the  driven  snaw, 

Twa  dtiftit  heaps  sae  fair  to  see  ; 
Her  limbs  the  polish'd  marble  stane, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me. 
I  kiss  d  her  ower  and  ower  again. 

And  aye  she  wistna  what  to  say; 
I  laid  her  'tween  me  and  the  wa'  ; 

The  lassie  tl.ucni  na  .ang  till  day. 

Uj)on  the  morrow,  whtn  we  rase, 

I  tbank'd  her  fur  her  courtesie  ; 
And  aye  she  blush'd,  and  aye  she  sigh'd, 

And  said,  Alas  !   ye've  ruin'd  me. 
I  clasp'd  her  waist,  and  kissM  her  syne. 

While  the  tear  stood  twinklin'  in  her  ee  ; 
I  said,  My  lassie,  dinna  crv. 

For  ye  aye  shall  mak  the  bed  to  me. 

She  took  her  mother's  Holland  sheets, 

And  made  them  a    in  sarks  to  me  ; 
Blytl.e  and  merry  may  she  be. 

The  lass  tliat  made  the  bed  to  me. 
The  bonnie  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  rae, 

The  braw  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  me ; 
I'll  ne'er  forget,  till  the  day  I  dee, 

The  lass  that  made  the  bed  to  nie. 


THE  LAZY  MIST. 

Tke  lazy  mist  hangs  from  the  brow  of  the  hiii. 
Concealing  the  course  of  the  dark  winding  rill  ; 
How  languid  the  scenes,   lato  so  sprightly,  ap- 
pear, 
As  autumn  to  winter  resigns  the  pale  year. 
The  forests  are  leillessi,  the  nie.jdiiws  are  brown, 
And  all  the  gay  fii|)])iry  of  sumiiier  is  down  : 
Apart  let  me  wander,  apnt  let  me  muse. 
Haw  quick   time  is  flying,   how  keen  fate  pur- 
sues ; 


'  How  long  I   <ive  liv'd — but  how  mucli  liv'd  in 

vain 
How  little  c/  life's  fcanty  span  may  remain  : 
What  aspects  old   Time,   in  his  progress,  ha« 

worn  ; 
What  ties  cruel  Fate  in  my  bosom  has  torn. 
How  foolish,  or  worse,  'till  our  summit  is  gain'd  ! 
And  downward,  how  weaken'd,  Low  darken  d, 

how  pain'd  ! 
This  life's  not  worth  having  with  all  it  can  give, 
For  something  beyond  it  poor  man  sure  must 

live. 


THE  LEA-RIG. 
Tune—"  The  Lea-Rig.** 

When  o'er  the  hills  the  eastern  star 

Tells  buchtin-time  is  near,  my  jo  ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrowed  field 

Return  sae  douff  and  weary,  O  ; 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birl« 

Wi'  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 
I'll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  am  Kmd  dearie,  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnicht  hour, 

I'd  rove  and  ne'er  be  eerie,  O, 
If  through  that  glen  I  gaed  to  thee, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 
Although  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wild. 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  wearie,  O, 
I'd  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 


THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS. 

The  first  half  stanza  of  this  ballad  is  old. 

The  lovely  lass  o*  Inverness, 

Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see  ; 
For  e'en  and  morn,  she  cries,  alas  ! 

And  aye  the  saut  tear  blins  her  ee. 
Drumossie  moor,  Drumossie  day, 

A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me  ; 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 

'My  father  dear  and  brethren  three  ■ 

Their  winding  sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 

Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  gee ; 
Anil  by  them  lies  the  dearest   ad 

That  ever  blest  a  woman  s  ee  ■. 
Now  wae  to  thee  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  ne. 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  Last  made  sivr, 

That  ne'er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee ! 


SONGS. 


235 


THc  i.OVER'S  MORNING  SALUTE 
TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

Tune—"  Deil  tak  the  wars." 

Sleep'st  thou,  or  wak'st  thou,  fairest  creature  ? 

Rosy  morn  now  lilts  his  eye, 
Numherin;j;  ilki  huil  which  nature 

AVateis  wi'  the  tears  o'  joy  : 

Now  through  the  leafy  woods, 

And  by  the  reelving  Soods  ; 
Wild  Nature's  tenants,  freely,  gladly  stray  ; 

The  liatvvhite  in  his  bower 

Chants  o'er  the  breathing  flower  : 

The  lav'rock  to  the  sky 

Ascends  wi'  sangs  o'  joy, 
While  the  sun  anil  thou  arise  to  bless  the  day.* 
Phcehus  gilding  the  brow  o'  morning 

Binislifs  ilka  darksome  shade. 
Nature  gladdening  and  adorning; 

Such  to  ine  my  lovely  maid. 
When  absent  frae  my  fair. 

The  murky  shades  o'  care 
With  starldss  gloom  o'ercost  my  sullen  sky  ; 

But  when  in  beauty's  light. 

She  meets  my  ravi^h'd  sight. 

When  through  my  very  heart 

Her  beaming  glories  dart  ; 
Tis  then  I  wake  to  life,  to  light  and  joy.  f 


THE  RIGS  O'  BARLEY. 
Tune—"  Corn- Rigs  are  bonnie.* 

Ir  was  upon  a  Lammas  night, 

When  corn-rigs  are  bonnie, 
Beneath  the  moon's  unclouded  light, 

I  held  awa  to  Annie. 
The  time  flew  by  wi'  tentless  heed, 

'Till,  'tween  the  late  and  early, 
Wi'  sma'  persuasion  shee  agreed 

To  see  me  through  the  barley. 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  wind  was  still, 

The  moon  was  shining  clearly  ; 
I  set  her  down,  wi'  rij;ht  good-will, 

Amang  the  rigs  o*  barley. 
I  ken't  her  heart  was  a'  rav  ain  ; 

I  loved  her  most  siiicere.y  ; 
I  kiss'd  her  ower  and  ower  again, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 


•  yaHation.    Vow  to  the  streaming  foun  aiu, 

Or  ui>  the  heathy  mountain 
The  hart,  hinil,  and  roe,  freely,  wildly. wanton  stray; 

In  twining  haiel  bowers 

His  lay  the  Uiuiet  pours: 

The  lav'rock,  6:0. 

f  Variation.    When  frae  my  Chloris  parted, 
Sad,  ehecile-s,  brokenhearted. 
Then  night's  gloomy  shades,  cloudy,  dark,  o'ercast 
mv  sky  ; 
But  when  ■•he  charms  my  sight, 
In  pride  of  Ijeauty's  li^ht. 
When  thro'  my  very  heart 
Her  beaming  ptories  dart ; 
Tl*  then,  'tis  ilicn  1  wake  to  life  and  joy. 


I  lock'd  her  in  my  fond  embrace  ! 

Her  heart  was  beating  rarelv— 
My  blessing?  on  that  happy  place, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley  ! 
But  by  the  moon  and  stars  so  bright. 

That  shone  that  hour  sae  clearly  ! 
She  aye  shall  bless  that  happy  night, 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 

I  hie  been  blytho  wi'  comrades  dear  ; 

I  haebeen  merry  drinking  ; 
I  hae  been  joyfu'  gathering  gear  ; 

I  hae  been  happy  thinking  : 
But  a'  the  pleasures  e'er  I  saw, 

Though  they  were  doubled  fairly, 
That  happy  night  was  worth  them  a* 

Amang  the  rigs  o'  barley. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  RETURN. 
Tune—"  The  MUI,  Mill,  O." 

WiiEV  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  ^394, 

And  gentle  peace  rcturnin/. 
And  eyes  again  wi'  pleasure  beam'd. 

That  had  been  blear'd  wi'  mourning  ] 
I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field, 

Where  lang  I'd  been  a  lodger  ; 
lyjy  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth; 

A  poor  but  houest  sodger. 

A  leal  light  heart  beat  in  my  breast, 

My  hands  unstain'd  wi'  plunder  ; 
And  for  fair  Scotia  hame  again, 

I  cheery  on  did  wander. 
I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy; 
I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile. 

That  caught  ray  youthful  fancy. 

At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonnie  glen. 

Where  early  life  I  sported  ; 
I  pass'd  the  mill  and  trysting  thorn. 

Where  Nancy  oft  I  courted. 
Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling  ? 
And  turn'd  me  round  to  hide  the  flooil 

That  ia  my  ec  was  swelling. 

Wi'  alter'd  voice,  quoth  I,  swe^c  lasst. 

Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom, 
O  !   happy,  happy  may  he  be, 

That's  dearest  to  thy  bosom  ! 
Jly  purse  is  light,  I've  far  to  gang. 

And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger  ; 
I've  serv'd  my  king  and  country  laof  ' 

Tak  pity  on  a  sodger. 

Sae  wistfully  ehe  gazed  on  me, 
And  lovelier  grew  than  ever  ; 

Quoth  she,  A  sodgci  ance  I  loved, 
Forget  him  will  I  never. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Our  humble  cot  and  hamely  fare. 

Ye  freely  >liill  p.irtake  n't  ; 
That  gallant  bjil-^e,  the  dear  cockade, 

Ye'ie  welcome  for  the  sake  o't. 

She  gazed — she  redden'd  hke  a  rose- 
Syne  p  lie  as  ony  lily  ; 

She  sank  within  n)y  arms  and  cried, 
Alt  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie? 

By  Him,  who  made  yon  sun  and  sky, 
By  whom  true  love's  regarded  ; 

I  am  the  man  !   and  thus  may  still 
True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

The  wars  are  o'er,  and  I'm  come  hame, 

And  find  thee  still  true-hearted  ; 
Though  poor  in  gear,  we're  rich  in  love, 

And  mair  we'se  ne'er  be  parted. 
Quoth  she,  My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  niailin  |)ienish'd  fairly  ; 
Then  come,  my  faithlu'  sodgcr  lad, 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly. 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  main, 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor ; 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize. 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honour. 
The  \)rave  poor  sndger  ne'er  despise, 

Nor  tount  him  as  a  stranger  : 
Remember  he's  hs  country's  stay, 

In  day  and  hour  o'  danger.  • 


TIIK  BANKS  OF  NITH. 
Tune — "  Robie  Donna  Gorach." 

Thk  Thajnes  Hows  proudly  to  the  sea, 

Where  royal  cities  ^tand  ; 
But  sweeter  fluws  the  Nith  to  me, 

Where  Cummins  ance  had  high  command  ; 
When  shall  I  see  that  honoured  lan<l, 

That  winding  strean\  I  love  so  dear  ! 
Mu-t  wayward  fortune's  ailverse  hand 

For  e\'er.  ever  keep  nie  here. 

riow  lovely,  Nith,  thy  fruitful  vales. 

Where  spieading  hawthorns  gaily  bloom  ; 
[low  sweetly  wind  tliy  glo|)ing  dales 

^\'here  laudikins  wanton  thro'  the  broom  ! 
Tho    wanileiing,  now,  must  be  my  iloum. 

Far  from  thv  bonnie  banks  and  braes. 
May  there  my  latest  hours  consume, 

Amang  the  friends  of  early  days  ! 


THE  TOAST. 

At  a  meeting  of  the  Dumprirssiiiru  Volunteees 
held  to  commemorate  the  anniversary  of  RonMi!  y'8 
victory,  April  12th,  17S2,  BuiiNs  was  called  upon  fol 
a  Song,  instead  of  which  he  delivered  llie  following 
Lines  •.— 

Instead  of  a  song,  boys,  I'll  give  you  a  toast. 
Here's  the  memory  of  those  cu  the  twelfth  that 

we  lost  ; — 
That  we  lost,  did  I  say,  nay,  by  heav'n  !   that 

we  found. 
For  their  fame  it  shall  last  while  the  world  goes 

round. 
Tlie  next  in  succession,  I'll  give  you  the  King, 
Whoe'er  would   betray  him  on  high    may  ht 

swing  ; 
And  here's  the  grand  fabric,   our  free  Consti- 
tution, 
As  built  on  the  base  of  the  great  Revolution  ; 
And  longer  with  Politics  not  to  be  cramm'd. 
Be  Anarchy  curs'd,  and  be  Tyranny  damn'd  ; 
And  who  would  to  Liberty  e'er  prove  disloyal, 
May  his  son  be  a  hangman,  and  he  his  first  triaL 


•  "  Burns,  I  have  been  informed,"  says  a  clergyman 
of  n:iiiifrie.<thire,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Georne  Thomson, 
editor  of  Select  M(  lodiis  of  SeotlaiKl,  "  was  one  sum- 
mer evening  in  the  inn  at  l!ri)wnliill,  with  a  couple  of 
j"riendfi,  when  a  poor  way-worn  soldier  |i.isscd  the  win- 
dow. Of  a  siidilcn  it -iriuk  the  poet  tocallliim  in, 
»!id  Ret  the  recital  of  hi:;  adventures;  after  hearing 
which,  lie  all  at  o  ce  fil!  into  one  of  tiiuse  fit«  of  ah. 
jtraction,  not  niiiisii;d  lo  him.  lie  was  lilted  to  the 
;egion  where  he  hat  liiii  gavl^ind  and  Ms  sin(»ii'Rrobe8 
»l)out  him,  ami  the  r<  siili  w:u.  iliix  adinirabic  song  he 
U.ai  you  lor  '   I'he  Mill,  Mill,  O.'" 


THERE'LL  NEVER  BE  PEACE  TILL 
JAMIE  COMES  HAME. 

This  tune  is  sometimes  called,  There s  few 
QuJe  FtUows  when  Willie  s  awa. — But  I  never 
have  been  able  to  meet  with  any  thing  else  of 
the  sons  than  the  title. 


Xune — "  There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  come* 
hame." 


By  yon  castle-wa',  at  the  close  o*  the  day, 

I  heard  a   man  sing,    though  his  head   it  was 

grey  ; 
And,  as  he  was  singing,  the  tears  down  came— 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

The  church  is  in  ruins,  tho  state  is  in  jars, 
Delusions,  opjiressions,  and  murderous  wars  : 
We  daurna  weel  say't,   but  we  ken  wha's  to 

blame, — 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

Mv  seven  braw  sons  for  Jamie  drew  sword. 
And  now  I  greet  round  their  green  beils  in  the 

yird  : 
It  brak   the   sweet   heart   o'    my   faithfu'   auld 

dame — 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame. 

Now  life  is  a  burden  that  bows  me  down. 
Since  I  ti.it  my  bairns,  and  he  tint  liis  crown  ; 
But   till   my  last  moments   my  w^ords  are  tl'.a 

same, — 
There'll  never  be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  namo 


SONGS. 
THE  STOWN  GLAN'CE  O'  KINDNESS 

Laddie,  lie  near  me." 


237 


Time 

'TwAs  na  her  bonnie  Mue  ee  was  mv  ruin  ; 
Fair  thoiigli  slie  be,  tliat  was  ne'er  my  undoia'  : 
'Twas  the  dear  smile  when  naebody  did  mind  us, 
*Twas  the  l)ewitching,   sweet,    stown  glance  o' 
kindness, 

Sair  do  I  fear  that  to  hope  is  denied  me, 
Sair  <]()  I  fear  tint  des])air  maun  abide  me  ; 
Kilt  though  fell  fortune  should  fate  us  to  sever, 
Queen  shall  she  be  in  my  bosom  for  ever. 

Jlary,  I'm  thine  wi'  a  passion  sincerest, 
And  thou  hast  ])lii>hteil  ine  love  o'  the  dearest ! 
Aon  tiiou'rt  the  ansjel  that  never  can  alter  ; 
Soocer  the  sun  in  his  motion  shall  falter. 


THERE'S  NEWS,  LASSES. 

There's  news,  lasses,  news, 
Gude  news  hae  I  to  tell  ; 

There's  a  bout  fu"  o'  lads 
Come  to  oar  toun  to  sell. 

The  wean  wants  a  cradle, 
Anil  the  cradle  tvants  a  cod; 

A.nd  ril  no  gang  to  my  bed, 
Until  I  get  a  nod. 

Faflier,  quo'  she.  Mother,  quo'  she, 

Do  ye  what  ye  can, 
I'll  no  gang  to  my  bed 

Till  I  get  a  mau. 

The  wean,  §-c. 

I  hae  as  gude  a  craft-rig 
As  made  o'  yird  and  stane  ; 

And  waly  fa'  the  ley  crap, 
For  I  maun  till't  again. 
2'he  wean,  Sj'c. 


THE  YOUNG  HIGHLAND  RO'V'ER. 
Tune—"  Morag." 

Loud  blaw  the  frosty  breezes. 

The  snaws  the  mountains  cover  ; 
Like  winter  on  me  seizes. 

Since  my  young  highland  rover 

Far  v.'anders  nations  over. 
Where'er  he  go,  where'er  he  stray, 

May  heaven  be  his  warden  : 
Return  him  safe  to  fair  Strathspey, 

And  bonnie  Castle- Gordon! 

rhe  trees  now  naked  groaning, 
Shall  soon  wi*  leaves  be  L-rglng, 


Tlie  birdies  dowic  moaning. 
Shall  a'  be  blythely  singing, 
And  every  flower  be  springing. 

Sae  I'll  rejoice  the  lee-Ian;;  dav, 
When  liy  liis  mighty  warden 

My  youth's  returned  to  fair  Strathspey, 
And  bonnie  Castle-Gordon.* 


THE  WOODLARK. 

rune—"  Wherc'U  Iwnnie  Annie  lie." 

Or,  "  LoLh.Erroch  Side." 

O  STAY,  sweet  warbling  wood-lark,  stay, 
Nor  quit  for  me  the  trembling  spray, 
A  helpless  lover  courts  thy  lay. 
Thy  soothing  foud  complaining. 

Again,  again  that  tender  part. 
That  I  H'ay  catch  thy  melting  art  j 
For  surely  that  war!  touch  her  heart, 
Wha  kills  me  wi'  disdaining. 

Say,  was  thy  little  mate  unkind. 
And  heard  thee  as  the  careless  '.vind  ? 
Oh,  nocl'.t  but  love  and  sorrow  join'd, 
Sic  notes  o'  woe  could  wauken. 

Thou  tells  o'  never-ending  care  ; 
O   sptecidess  grief,  and  dark  despair  ^ 
For  pity's  sake,  sweet  bird,  nae  niair? 
Or  01/  poor  heart  is  broken  ! 


THERE'S  A  YOUTH  IN  THIS  Cn\ 

There's  a  youth  in   this  city,  it  were  a  grea' 
pity 
That  he  from  our  lasses  shorM  wander  awa  ; 
For  he's  bonnie  and  braw,  weel-favour'd  with  a' 

And  his  hair  has  a  natural  buckle  and  a'. 
His  coat  is  the  hue  of  his  bonnet  sae  blue  ; 

His  fecket  j-  is  white  as  the  new-driven  snaw  : 
His  hose  they  are  blae,  and  his  shoon   like  tht 
slae. 
And  his  clear  siller  buckles  they  dazzle  us  a.' 
His  coat  is  the  hue,  §'c. 

For  beauty  and  fortune  the  laddie's  been  courtin  ; 
Weel-featur'd,   weel-tocher'd,   weel    mounted 
and  braw  ; 
But  chiefly  the  siller,  that  gars  liim  gang  till  hef 

The  pennie's  the  jewel  that  beautifies  a' 

There's   Meg  wi'   the   mailin,    that   fain  wad  a 
haen  him, 
And  Susy  whase  daddy  was  Laird  o*  the  ha  ; 


■  The  young  Hipliland  rover  is  supposed  to  be  th 
young  Chevalier,  Prince  Charles  Edward. 
t  An  under-waistcoat  with  sleeves. 


] 

238                                        BURNS' 

WORKS. 

There's  lang-tocber'd  Nancy  maist  fetters   his 

But  weel  the  watching  lover  marks 

fancy, 

The  kind  love  that's  in  her  ee. 

—But  the  laddie's  dear  sel  he  lo'es  dearest  of  a*. 

0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie,  §c. 

His  coat  is  the  hue,  Sfc. 

THE  TOCHER  FOR  ME. 

THERE  WAS  ONCE  A  DAY 

Tunt—"  Balinamona  Ora." 

Tune—"  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

AwA  wi'  your  witchcraft  o'  beauty's  alarms, 

There  was  once  a  day,  but  old  Time  then  wai 

The  slender  bit  beauty  you  grasp  in  your  arras ; 

young. 

0,  gie  me  the  lass  that  has  acres  o'  charms, 

That  brave  Caledonia,  the  chief  of  her  line, 

0,  gie  me  the  lass  wi'  the  weel-stockit  farms. 

From  some  of  your  northern  deities  sprung. 

Then  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher,  then  hey  for 

(Who  knows  not  that  brave  Caledonia's  di- 

a  lass  wi'  a  tocher, 

vine  ?) 

T/uH  hey  for  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher  j  the  nice 

From  Tweed  to  the  Orcades  was  her  domain, 

yellow  guineas  for  me. 

To  hunt,   or  to  pasture,  or  to  do  what  she 

would  : 

Your  beauty's  a  flower,   in  the  morning  that 

Her  heavenly  relations  there  fixed  her  reign. 

blows, 

And  pledg'd  her  their  godheads  to  warrant 

And  withers  the  faster,  the  faster  it  grows  ; 

it  good. 

But  the  rapturous  charm  o'  the  bonnie  green 

knowes, 

A  lambkin  in  peace,  but  a  lion  in  war. 

Ilk  spring  they're  new  deckit  wi'  bonnie  wliite 

The  pride  of  her  kindred  the  heroine  grew  : 

yowes. 

Her  grandsire,  old  Odin,  triumphantly  swore, — 

ThcH  hey,  Sfc, 

"  Whoe'er  shall  provoke  thee  th'  encounter 

shall  rue!" 

And  e'en  when  this  beauty  your  bosom  has  blest, 

With  tiJlaije  or  pasture  at  times  she  would  sport. 

The  brightest  o'  beauty  may  cloy,  when  possest ; 

To  feed  her  fair   flocks  by  her  green  rustling 

But  the  sweet  yellow  darlings  wi'  Geordic  im- 

corn ; 

prest. 

But  chiefly  the  woods  were  here  fav'rite  resort, 

The  langer  ye  hae  them — the  mair  tbey'r;  ca- 

Her  darling  amusement,   the  hounds  and  the 

rest. ' 

horn. 

Then  hey,  SfC. 

Long  quiet  she  reigned  ;  'till  thitherward  steers 

A  flight  of  bold  eagles  from  Adria's  strand  ;  • 
Repeated,  successive,  for  many  long  years, 

They  darken'd  the  air,  and   they  plundered 

THIS  IS  NO  MY  AIN  LASSIE. 

the  land  : 

Their  pounces  were  murder,  and  terror  their  cry, 

I  SEE  a  form,  I  see  a  face. 

They'd  conquer'd  and  ruin'd  a  world  beside  : 

Ye  weel  may  wi'  the  fairest  place : 

She  took  to  her  hills  and  her  arrows  let  fly, 

It  wants,  to  me,  the  witching  grace,, 

The  daring  invaders  they  fled  or  they  died. 

The  kind  love  that's  in  her  ee. 

0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie, 

The  fell  Harpy-raven  took  wing  from  the  north. 

Fair  th(,ur/h  the  lassie  be  ; 

The   scourge  of  the  seas,   and   the   dread  of 

O  wed  hen  I  my  ain  lassie, 

the  shore  ;f 

Kind  love  is  in  her  ee. 

The  wild  Scanrlinavian  boar  issued  forth 

To  wanton  in  carnage,  and  wallow  in  gore:^ 

She's  bonnie,  blooming,  straight,  and  tall, 

O'er   countries  and   kingdoms    their  fury  pre- 

And  lang  has  had  my  heart  in  thrall  j 

vail'd. 

And  aye  it  charms  :ny  very  saul, 

No  arts  could  ippease  them,  nor  arms  could 

The  kind  love  that's  in  her  ee.                            1 

repel; 

0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie,  ^c. 

But  brave  Caledonia  in  vain  they  assail'd. 

As   Largs  well  can  witness,    and   Loncartic 

A  thief  sae  pawkie  is  my  Jean, 

te!i.§ 

To  steal  a  blink,  by  a'  unseen  ; 

But  gifg  as  light  are  lover's  ecn, 

The  Cameleon-savage  disturb'd  her  rejwse. 

When  kind  love  is  in  the  ee. 

With  tumult,  disquiet,  rebellion  and  strife ; 

0  this  is  no  my  ain  lassie,  §*c. 
*t  may  escape  the  courtly  sparks^ 

•  The  niim.ins.     t  The  Saxons,    t  The  Daiic^ 
{  Two  famous  battles,  in  wliidi  the  Danes  or  Nof 

>t  may  et>cape  the  learned  clerks ; 

wegians  were  dcicat^l. 

■                                                                                                                                          J 

,■ — 

SONGS.                                                 23S 

Piovolvcil  beyond  bearing,  at  .ast  she  arose, 

Yestreen  I  met  you  on  the  moor, 

And  roljUM  him  at  om-i  of  his  hopes  and  his 

Ye  spak  na,  but  gaed  by  like  stouro  ; 

life:* 

Ye  geek  at  me  because  I'm  poor, 

ITie  Anglian  lion,  the  terror  of  France, 

But  feint  a  hair  care  I. 

Oft  prowling,   ensanguiu'd   the  Tweed's  sil- 

Tibbie, I  hue,  ^c. 

ver  flood  ; 

But  taught  by  the  bright  Caledonian  lance, 

T  doubt  na,  lass,  but  ye  may  think. 

He  learned  to  fear  in  his  own  native  wood. 

Because  ye  hae  the  name  o'  clink. 

That  ye  can  please  me  at  a  wink, 

Thus  bold,  independent,  unconquer'd  and  free, 

Whene'er  ye  like  to  try. 

Her  bright  course  of  glory  for  ever  shall  run  : 

Tibbie,  I  hae,  §-c. 

For  brave  Caledonia  immortal  must  be ; 

I'll  piove  it  from  Euclid  as  clear  as  the  sun: 

But  sorrow  tak  him  that's  sae  mean. 

Rectangle  triangle,  the  figure  we'll  choose. 

Altho'  his  pouch  o'  coin  were  clean, 

The  upright  is  Chance,   and  old  Time  is  the 

Wha  follows  ony  saucy  quean 

base ; 

That  looks  sae  proud  and  high. 

But  brave  Caledonia's  the  hypothenuse  ; 

Tibbie,  I  hae,  lJ-c. 

Then   ergo    she'll   match   them,    and  match 

them  always,  f 

Altho'  a  lad  were  e'er  sae  smart, 

If  that  he  want  the  yellow  dirt. 

Ye'll  cast  your  head  anither  airt. 
An'  answer  hiin  fu'  dry. 

Tibbie,  I  hae,  §"c. 

THOU  HAST  LEFT  ME  EVER,  JAMIE. 

Tune—"  Fee  him.  Father." 

But  if  he  hae  the  name  o'  gear, 

Ye'll  fasten  to  him  like  a  brier. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie, 

Tho'  hardly  he  for  sense  or  lear 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever  ; 

Be  better  than  the  kye. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever,  Jamie, 

Tibbie,  I  hae,  &-c. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ever. 

Aften  hast  thou  vow'd  that  death 

But,  Tibbie,  lass,  tak  my  advice. 

Only  should  us  sever  ; 

Your  daddie's  gear  maks  you  sae  nvXt 

Now  thou'st  left  thy  lass  for  aye — 

The  deil  a  ane  wad  speir  your  price, 

I  maun  see  thee  never,  Jamie, 

Were  ve  as  poor  as  I. 

I'll  see  thee  never. 

Tibbie,  I  hae,  |-c. 

Thou  hast  ine  forsaken,  Jamie, 

There  lives  a  lass  in  yonder  park. 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken  ; 

I  wouldna  gie  her  in  her  sark 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken,  Jamie, 

For  thee  wi'  a'  thy  thousand  mark  ; 

Thou  hast  me  forsaken. 

Ye  need  na  look  sae  high. 

Thou  canst  love  another  jo. 

Tibbie,  I  hae,  ^'c. 

While  my  heart  is  breaking : 

Sjon  my  weary  een  I'll  close. 

Never  more  to  waken,  Jamie, 

■ 

Never  more  to  waken. 

TO  MARY  IN  HEA\T.N. 

Tirou  ling'ring  star,  with  less'ning  ray 
That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn  ! 

TIBBIE,  I  HAE  SEEN  THE  DAY. 

Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day. 

lUIS  SONG   I  COMPOSED  ABOUT  THE  AGE   OF 

]My  JMary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
Oh,  JNIary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

SEVENTEEN. 

Tunt—"  Invercald's  reeL 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 

Sec'st  thoa  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

O  Tibbie,  I  hat  seen  the  day 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  f 

Ye  wwlna  been  sae  shy  ; 

For  hiih  o'  gear  ye  lirjhtly  me. 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget  ? — 

But  trowth,  1  care  na  by. 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow'd  grove. 

Wheie,  by  the  windiiig  Ayr,  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ? 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

•  Tlie  Highlanders  of  the  Isles. 

t  This  singular  figure  of  poetry,  taken  from  the 

mathematics,  refers  to  the  famous  proposition  of  Py- 

Those records  dear  of  transports  past ; 

thagoras,  tlie  47th  of  Euclid.     In  a  nsht-anjled  tri- 

Thy  image  at  our  last  emlirace ; — 

Ah  !   little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

anple,  the  square  of  the  hypothenuse  is  always  equal 
to  the  sQu.ires  of  the  two  other  sides. 

1 

2-tO 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


A;t,  {^iirc;lin;j,  kiss'ij  his  peW)!eiI  shore, 

O'riliiin^  with  wild  wo. kI^  thickening  green  ; 
Thv  rr:ig;r.vnt  hirch,  t'.ie  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twinid  amorous  roiitul  the  raptured  scene. 
The  ftoMers  sprung  wanton  to  he  prest, 

Tlie  birds  sung  love  on  every  spray  ; 
Till  ton,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

StiM  o'er  these  sf-enes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ; 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear 
My  I\Iar;,-,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ?• 


TRUE  HEARTED  WAS  HE. 

Tune—"  Bonnie  Dundee." 

FsuE  hearted   was   he,   the  sad  swala  o'  the 
Yarrow, 
And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o'  the 
Ayr, 
But  by  the  sweet  side  o'  the  Nitli's  winding 
river, 
Are  lovers  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair  ; 
To  tqual  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland  all  over  : 

To  eiiual  young  Jessie  you  seek  it  in  vain, 
Grace,  beauty  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 
'And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain. 

0  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morning, 

And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  clo-e  ; 
But  iu  the  fair  presence  o'  lovely  young  Jessie, 

Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 
Love  fits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  ensnaring  ; 

Enthron'd  in  her  een  he  delivers  his  law  : 
And  .still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a  stranger. 

Her  modest  demeanour's  the  jewel  of  a'. 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 
Tune — "  Here  awa,  there  awa." 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  WiUk  ! 

litre  awa,  there  awa,  hand  awa  hame  ! 
Come  to  iiitf  btisom,  my  aiii  onbj  dearie  ; 

Tcii  me  thou  briny  st  vie  niy  Willie  again. 

Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  part- 
ing ; 
Feari  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  ee  : 
P/elcotne  now,  s.pimer,  and  welcome,  my  Willie  ; 
The  summer  to  nature,  and  Willie  to  me. 
Jlerr.  awa,  ix. 


Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  caves  of  your  •lam 
hers  ! 
How  your  dread  howling  a  lover  alarms! 
Wauken,  ye  breezes  !    row  gently,  ye  billows  ! 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms 
Here  awa,  §t. 

But,  oh,  if  he's  faithless,  and  minds  ni  his  Nanniei 
Flow  still  between  us,  thou  dark  Iteaving  main ! 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 

13ut,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain ! 
Here  awa,  Sfc. 


WAE  IS  MY  HEART. 

Wae  is  my  heart,  and  the  tear's  in  my  ee  ; 
Lang,  lang  joy's  been  a  stranger  to  me : 
Forsaiien  and  friendless  my  burden  1  bear, 
And  the  sweet  voice  o'  pity  ne'er  sounds  in  my  ear 

Love  thou  hast  pleasures  ;  and  deep  hae  I  loved  ; 
Love  thou  hast  sorrows  ;  and  sair  hue  I  proved  ; 
But  this  bruised  heart  that  now  bleeds  in  my 

breast, 
I  can  feel  by  its  throbbings  will  soon  be  at  rest. 

O  if  I  were,  where  happy  I  hae  been  ; 
Down  by  yon  stream  anrl  you  bonnie  castle  green : 
For  there  he  is  wand'iing  and  musing  nn  me, 
Wha  wad  soon  dry  thi  te.ir  frae  his  Phillis's  e» 


•  To  Mnrv  Campbell,  one  of  lliirni;'s  earliest  and 
"Tfxt   bi'Ioveil   nitstres-ic'S,  a  ilairy-in  lid   in  llie  nogli 


b''Mrli<)<>.l  if  Mossjjiel. 
l-ifi- 


■  hee  farllicr  luriieulars  in  tiic 


WHAT  CAN  A  YOUNG  LASSIE  DO 
Wr  AN  AULD  MAN. 

What  can  a  young  lassie,  what  shall  a  ycr.iig 
lassie, 
Wliat  can  a  young  lassie  do  wi'  an  auld  man  ? 
Bad  luck  on  the  jiennie  tliat  teni|'teii  n;y  minnie 
To  sell  her  poor  Jenny  tor  siller  an'  lau'  ! 
Had  luck  on  the  pe7inie,  §'c. 

He's  always  compleenin  frae  mornin  to  e'enin. 
He  hosts  and  he  hiiples  the  weary  day  l.ing. 

He's  doy'lt  and  he's  dozin,  his  lihiul  it  is  frozen, 
O'  dreary's  the  night  wi'  a  crazy  auld  man  ! 
Had  luck  on  the  jiennie,  §"C. 

He  hums  and  he  hankers,  he  frets  and  he  canker* ; 

I  never  can  please  hini,  do  a'  that  I  can  ; 
He's  peevish,  and  jealous  of  a'  the  young  fellows, 

O,  dool  on  the  day,  I  met  wi'  an  aulJ  man  ! 
Had  luck  on  the  jtcnnie,  i^c. 

My  auld  aui»tie  Katie  i;pi>n  me  takes  pity, 

I'll  do  my  endeavour  to  lolUiw  her  plan  ; 
I'll  cross  him,   and   wrack   him,   until   1    heart- 
break him, 
AnA  then  his  auld  brass  will  buy  me  a  new  pun 
Had  luck  un  the  jiennie,  fjC, 


SONGS. 


241 


VrilX  IS  THAT  AT  MY  ROWER  D0O«. 

Tins  tune  is  nl-o)  kncwn  by  tlie  name  of  Lass 
til  I  come  mar  t/iee.     The  words  lire  mine. 

Wha  is  tliat  nt  my  bcnvor  Joor  ? 

O  whii  is  it  but  Finillay  ; — 
Tlioii  gao  your  gate  ye'si-  nae  be  here  ! 

luileed  maun  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
What  mak  ye  sae  like  a  tliief  ? 

O  come  and  see,  quo'  Findlay  ;  — 
Before  the  morn  ye'll  work  mischief; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

Gif  I  rise  and  let  you  in  ? 

Let  me  in,  quo'  F"indlay  ;^ 
Ye'll  keep  me  waukin  wi'  your  din  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 
In  my  bower  if  ye  should  stay? 

Let  me  stay,  quo'  P'indlay  ;— 
I  fear  ye'll  bide  till  l)reak  o'  day ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay. 

Here  this  night  if  ye  remain  ? 

I'll  remain,  quo'  Fiadlay  ; — 
I  dread  ye'll  learn  the  gate  again  ; 

Indeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay  ; 
What  may  pass  within  this  bower; 

Let  it  pass,  quo'  Findlay ; — 
Ve  maun  conceal  'till  your  last  hour  ; 

ludeed  will  I,  quo'  Findlay  ! 


WHEN  GUILDFORD  GOOD  i 


A   FRACJIENT, 


T^nt—"  KillicrankJe. 


When  Guildford  good  our  pilot  stood, 

And  did  our  helm  thraw,  man, 
Ae  iiifiht,  at  tea,  began  a  plea, 

Within  America,  man  : 
Then  up  they  gat  the  raaskin-pat. 

And  in  the  sea  did  jaw,  man  ; 
An'  did  nae  less,  in  full  Congress, 

Than  quite  refuse  our  law,  man. 

Then  thro'  the  lakes  Montgomery  takes, 

I  wat  he  was  na  slaw,  man  : 
Down  L,i>writs  burn  he  took  a  turn, 

Add  C'ur/eton  did  ca',  man  : 
But  yet,  wlut-reck,  he,  at  Quebec, 

]\lontgiiiiiery-like  did  fa',  man  ; 
Wi'  sword  m  hand,  before  hii  band, 

Amang  his  enemies  a',  man. 

Poor  Tammy  Garje,  within  a  cage. 
Was  kept  at  liostim  lia\  man  ; 

Till    Willie  Howe  took  o'er  the  knowe 
For  I'hilndeljihia,  man  : 

Wi   sw(jrd  an'  gun  he  thought  a  sia 
Gitd  CSristiau  blood  to  draw,  moo; 


Hut  at  A'ie*.  York,  wi'  knife  and  fork. 
Sir-loin  he  hacked  sma*,  man. 

Dnrcinyne  gaed  jp,  like  spur  an'  whip. 

Till  Fraser  l)rave  did  fa'  man  ; 
Then  lost  his  way,  ae  misty  day. 

In  Saraioyii  shaw,  man. 
C'irmvaUis  fought  as  lan;;'s  he  dought, 

An'  (lid  the  buckskins  claw,  man  ; 
But  Clinton's  glaive  frae  rust  to  save. 

He  hung  it  to  the  wa',  man. 

Then  Montague,  an'  Guildford  too. 

Began  to  fear  a  fa',  man  ; 
And  Sackville  doure,  wha  stood  the  8toure> 

The  German  chief  to  thraw,  man  ; 
For  Faddy  Burke,  like  onie  Turk, 

Is'ae  mercy  had  at  a',  man  ; 
An'   Charlie  Fox  threw  by  tlie  box. 

An'  lows'd  his  tinkler  jaw,  man. 

Then  Rockingham  took  up  the  game ; 

Till  death  did  on  him  ca',  man  ; 
When  Shtlburne  meek  held  up  his  cheek, 

Conform  to  gospel  law,  man. 
Saint  Stephen's  boys,  wi'  jarring  noise. 

They  did  his  measures  thraw,  man, 
For  North  and  Fox  united  stocks. 

And  bof.-,  2iim  to  the  wa*,  man. 

Then  clubs  an'  hearts  were  Charlie's  carter 

He  swept  the  stakes  awa',  man. 
Till  the  diamoiid's  ace  of  Indian  race, 

Led  him  a  iair  faux  pas,  man  : 
Tlie  Saxon  lads,  wi'  loud  pljcads. 

On  Chatham's  boy  did  ca',  man  ; 
And  Scotland  drew  her  pipe,  an'  blew, 

"  Up,  Willie,  waur  them  a',  man  1" 

Behind  the  throne  then  Grenrilk's  gone, 

A  secret  word  or  twa,  man  ; 
While  slee  Dundas  arous'd  the  class 

Be-north  the  Roman  wa',  man  : 
An*  Chatham's  wraith,  in  heavenly  graitb, 

(Inspired  bardies  saw,  man) 
Wi'  kindling  eyes,  cry'd,   "   Willie,  rise ! 

Would  I  ha'e  fear'J  them  a',  man  ?" 

But  word  an'  blow,  North,  For,  and  Ci». 

GowT'd   Willie  like  a  ba',  man, 
Till  Suthrons  raise,  and  coost  their  chise 

Behind  him  in  a  raw,  man  ; 
Au'  Caledon  threw  by  the  drune. 

An*  did  her  whittle  draw,  man  ; 
An*  t.woor  fu'  rude,  thro'  dirt  and  blood 

To  make  it  guid  in  law,  m&o. 


n 


242 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


WHERE  ARE  THE  JOYS  I  HAE  MET 
IN  THE  MORNLNG. 

Tune — "  Saw  ye  my  father." 

Where  are  the  joys  I  hae  met  in  the  morning, 
That  daiice-l  to  the  lark's  early  song  ? 

Where  is  the  |)eace  that  awaited  my  wandering. 
At  evening  the  wild  woods  among  ? 

No  more  a-windinjr  the  course  of  yon  river, 
And  marking  sweet  flow'rets  so  fair  ; 

No  more  I  trace  the  light  footsteps  of  pleasure, 
But  sorrow  and  sad-sighing  care. 

Is  it  that  summer's  forsaken  our  valleys, 

And  glim  surly  winter  is  near? 
No,  no,  the  bees  humming  round  the  gay  roses, 

Proclaim  it  the  pride  of  the  year. 

Fain  would  I  hide  what  I  fear  to  discorer. 
Yet  long,  long  too  well  have  I  known  : 

All  that  has  caused  this  wreck  in  my  bosom. 
Is  Jenny,  fair  Jenny  alone. 

Time  cannot  aid  me,  my  griefs  are  immortal. 
Nor  Iliipe  dare  a  comfoit  bestow  : 

Come  then,  euainour'd  and  fond  of  my  anguish, 
Enjoy raeut  I'll  seek  in  niy  woe. 


WHISTLE  AND  I'LL  COME  TO  YOU, 
MY  LAD. 

O  u-hhile  and  I'll  come  to  ymi,  my  lad' , 
O  wliisth  and  I'll  came  to  i/iu,  my  lad ; 
Tito''  father  and  mitlicr  and  a  should  qae  mad, 
O  whistle  and  Fll  come  to  you,  my  lad. 

13l't  warily  tent  when  ye  come  to  court  me, 
And  come  nae  unless  the  back-yett  be  ajee  ; 
Syne  up  the  back  style,  and  let  nae  body  see, 
And  come  as  ye  were  nae  comin'  to  me. 
Anti  come  as  ye  were  nae  couiin'  to  me. 
O  whistle,  §c. 

At  kirk,  or  at  market,  whene'er  ye  meet  me, 
Ging  by  me  as  tho'  that  ye  cared  nae  a  flie  ; 
Rut  steal  me  a  blink  o'  your  buuiiie  black  e'ec, 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  nae  lookin'  at  me. 
Yet  look  as  ye  were  nae  loukin'  at  me. 
O  whistle,  §'C. 

Aye  vow  and  protest  that  ye  care  na  for  mp. 
And  whiles  ye  may  lightly  my  beauty  a  wee  ; 
Rut  court  nae  anither,  tho*  jokin  ye  be. 
For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  me. 
For  fear  that  she  wyle  your  fancy  frae  inc. 
O  whistle,  l^'C. 


•  In  some  of  the  MSS.  the  first  four  lines  run  tlius  ; 
O  whisdc  and  I'll  come  to  thee,  my  jo, 
<)  whistle  iiiiil  I'll  cimic  to  tliec,  my  jo; 
'I  liii'  f.ither  anil  mother  ami  a'  shoiilil  say  no, 
O  Ahitlle  and  I'll  come  to  Ihec,  my  Jo. 


WILLIE  BREWD  A  PECK  O'  MAUT 

This  air  is  Masterton's  ;  the  song  mine.— > 
The  occasion  of  it  was  this  :  —  iMr.  Wm.  Nicol, 
of  the  High  School,  Edinburgh,  during  the  au- 
tumn vacation,  being  at  Motfat,  honest  Allan, 
who  was  at  that  time  on  a  visit  to  Dalswinton, 
and  I  went  to  pay  Nicol  a  visit. — We  had  such 
a  joyous  meeting,  that  Mr.  Masterton  and  I 
agreed,  each  in  our  own  way,  that  we  shouli 
celebrate  the  business. 

O  Willie  brew'd  peck  o'  mant. 

And  Rob  and  Allan  cam  to  see  ; 
Three  blyther  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night, 
Ye  wad  na  find  in  Christcndie. 

We  are  na  J'oii,  we^re  na  that  fort, 

Ihtt  just  a  drappie  in  nur  ee ; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  dav 
And  ay  we'll  ta-'fe  the  barley  bree. 

Here  are  we  met,  t'uree  merry  boys, 
Thiee  merry  boys  I  trou  are  we  ; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been. 

And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be  ! 

We  are  na  fou,  §'c. 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn, 
That's  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie. 

She  shines  sae  blight  to  wyle  us  hams, 
But  by  my  sooth  she'll  wait  a  we  ! 
We  are  iia  fou,  §-c. 

\Mia  first  shall  ri>e  to  gang  awa', 

A  cuckold,  coward  louii  is  he  ! 
Wha  last  beside  his  chair  shall  fa*, 

JJe  is  the  king  amang  us  three  ! 
We  are  na  fou,  §-c. 


WILT  TIIOU  BE  MY  DEARIE. 

Tune—"  The  Sutor's  Dochter." 

Wilt  thou  be  iiiv  dearie  : 

M'hen  sorrow  wrings  tiiy  gedtle  heirtt 

Wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  : 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul, 

That's  the  love  I  bear  thee  ! 

I  swear  and  vow  that  only  thou 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Only  thou,  I  swear  and  vow. 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Lassie,  8ay  thou  lo'es  me  ; 
Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain. 
Say  na  thou'lt  refuse  me  ) 
If  it  winna,  canna  be, 
Thou  for  thine  may  choose  me, 
Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me ; 
Lassie  let  me  quickly  ilie, 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 


SONGS. 


243 


WILL  YE  GO  TO  THE  INDIES,  MY 
MARY? 

Tune—"  The  Vowc-buchts." 

VFiLL  re  go  to  tlio  Indies,  my  Mary, 

Anil  leave  auM  Scotia's  sliore  ? 
Will  ye  go  the  Indies,  my  ]\Iary, 

Across  the  Atlantic's  roar  ? 

Oh,  su'cct  grow  the  lime  and  the  orange, 

And  the  apple  on  the  pine  ; 
But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  Indies 

Can  never  equal  thine. 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  heavens,  my  Mary, 
I  hae  sworn  by  the  heavens  to  be  true  ; 

And  sae  may  the  heavens  forget  me. 
When  I  forget  my  vow  ! 

O,  plight  me  yonr  faith,  my  l\Iary, 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  Iiaad  ; 

O,  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary, 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  strand. 

We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  jnin  ; 
And  curst  be  the  cause  that  shall  part  us  ! 

The  hour  and  the  moment  o'  time  !• 


YON  WILD  MOSSY  MOUNTAINS, 

Yon  wild  mossy  mountains  sae  lofty  and  wide. 
That  nurse   in   their  bosom   the   youth  o'  the 

Clyde, 
Where  the  grouse  lead  their  coveys  thro'  the 

heather  to  feed, 
And  the  shepherd  tents  his  flock  as  he  pipes  on 

his  reed  : 

Where  the  grouse,  Sfc. 

Not  Cowrie's  rich  valley,  nor  Forth's   sunny 

shores. 
To  me  hae  the  charms  o'  yon  wild,  mossy  moors  ; 
For  there,   by  a  lanely,  and  sequester'd  stream, 
Resides    a   sweet    lassie,   my  thought    and   my 

dream. 

For  there,  §-c. 

Amang  thae  wild  mountains  shall  still  be  my 

path, 
Ilk  stream  foaming  down  its  ain  green,  narrow 

strath  ; 
For  there,  wi'  my  lassie,  the  day  lang  I  rove, 
W  hile  o'er  us  unheeded,  flie  the  swift  hours  o' 

love. 

For  there,  §*c. 


*  ^Vhcn  Bums  was  designing  his  voyace  to  the 
West  Imlics,  ho  wrote  this  sung  as  a  farewell  to  a  girl 
whom  he  happened  to  regard,  at  the  time,  with  con- 
siderable admjration.  He  aJtcrwanls  sent  it  to  Mr. 
Thomson  for  publication  in  liis  splendid  collection  of 
the  Datiunzl  music  and  musical  poetry  of  iicotland. 


She  is  not  the  fairest,  altho'  she  is  fair  ; 
O*  nice  education  but  sina'  is  her  share  ; 
Her  parentage  humble  as  humble  can  be; 
But  I  lo'e  the  dear  lassie  because  she  lo'es  ma 
Her  parentage,  tec. 

To  beauty   what  man  but   maun  yield  him  a 

prize, 
In   her  armour  of  glances,    and   blushes,   and 

sighs  ; 
And  when  wit  and  refinement  hae  polished  her 

darts. 
They  dazzle  our  een,  as  they  file  to  our  hearts. 
And  when  zvit,  §-c. 

But  kindness,  sweet  kindness,  in  the  fond  spark- 
ling e'e, 

Has  lustre  outshining  the  diamond  to  me  ; 

And  the  heart-beating  love,  as  I'm  clasp'd  it 
her  arms, 

O,  tJiese  are  my  lassie's  all-conquering  charms  ' 
And  the  heart-beating,  ifc. 


YOUNG  JOCKEY. 
Tunt—"  Jockie  was  the  biythcat  Uak*^ 

Young  Jockey  was  the  blithest  lad 

I.T  B*  o'lr  town  or  here  awa  ; 
Fu'  blithe  he  whistled  at  the  gaud, 

Fu'  lii;htly  danc'd  he  in  the  ha'  J 
He  roos'd  my  e'en  sae  bonnie  blue, 

He  roos'd  my  waist  sae  genty  srns  ; 
An*  ay  my  heart  came  to  my  mou. 

When  ne'er  a  body  heard  or  saw. 

My  Jockey  toils  upon  the  plain. 

Thro'  wind  and  weet,  thro'  frost  Bad  snaw 
And  o'er  the  lee  I  leuk  fu'  fain 

When  Jockey's  owsen  hameward  ca'. 
An'  ay  the  nijjht  comes  round  again, 

When  in  his  arms  he  taks  me  a'  ; 
An'  ay  he  vows  he'll  be  my  ain 

As  .'ang's  he  has  a  breath  to  draw. 


YOUNG  PEGGY 

Young  Pegjy  blooms  our  bonniest  lam. 

Her  blush  is  like  the  morning, 
The  rosy  dawn,  the  springing  grass, 

With  eaiiy  gems  adorning  : 
Her  eyes  outshine  the  radiant  beams 

That  gild  the  passing  shower, 
And  glitter  o'er  the  crystal  streams. 

And  cheer  each  fresh'ning  flower. 

Her  li])s  more  than  the  cherries  bright, 
A  richer  die  has  grac'd  them, 

They  charm  th'  admiring  gazer's  s)"hx 
And  sweetly  tempt  to  taste  them; 


£A 


bVUMi'  \\  ORKS. 


Her  smile  is  as  the  ev'ning  mild,  ^ 
When  feather'd  pairs  are  courting, 

And  little  lambkins  wanton  wild, 
In  playful  bands  disporting. 

Were  Fortune  lovely  Peggy's  foe, 

Such  sweetness  would  relent  her. 
As  blooming  spring  unbends  the  brow 

Of  surly,  savage  winter. 
Detraction's  eye  no  aim  can  gain 

Her  wiiming  pow'rs  to  lessen  : 
>jld  fretful  envy  grins  in  vain, 

Ths  poison'd  tuol  h  to  fasten. 


Ye  pow'rs  of  Honour,  Love,  snd  TiTra^ 

From  ev'ry  ill  defend  her  ; 
Inspire  the  highly  favour'd  youlii 

The  destinies  intend  her  ; 
St'Jl  fan  the  sweet  connubial  flame 

Responsive  in  each  bosom  ; 
And  bless  the  dear  parental  name 

With  many  a  filial  blossom.* 


•  This  wat  one  of  the  poefs  earliest  compositions 
It  is  coDied  from  a  MS.  book,  which  he  had  before  hif 
fiift  puuicatiuo. 


TIIE  CORRESPONDENCE. 


' 


NOTICE. 


Or  the  following  letters  of  Burns,  a  consid- 
erable number  were  transmitted  for  publication, 
ky  the  individuals  to  whom  they  were  addressed  ; 
out  very  few  have  been  printed  entire.  It  will 
•asily  be  believed,  that  in  a  series  of  letters  writ- 
ten without  the  least  view  to  publication,  va- 
rious passages  were  found  unfit  for  the  press, 
from  different  considerations.  It  will  also  be 
readily  supposed,  that  our  Poet,  writing  nearly 
at  the  same  time,  and  under  the  same  feelings 
to  different  individuals,  would  sometimes  fall 
into  the  same  train  of  sentiment  and  forms  of 
expression.  To  avoid,  therefore,  the  tedious- 
oess  of  such  repetitions,  it  has  been  found  ne- 
cessary to  mutilate  many  of  the  individual  let- 
ters, and  sometimes  tj  exscind  parts  of  great 
delicacy — the  unbridled  eflFusionsi  of  panegjTic 
and  regard.  But  though  many  of  the  letters 
are  printed  from  originals  furnished  by  the  per- 
•ons  to  whom  they  were  addressed,  others  are 
printed  from  first  draught-s,  or  sketches,  found 
among  the  papers  of  our  Bard.  Though  in  ge- 
neral no  man  committed  his  thoughts  to  iiis 
correspondent?  with  less  consideration  or  effort 
than  Burns,  yet  it  appears  that  in  some  instances 
he  was  dissatisfied  with  his  first  essiys,  and 
wrote  out  his  communications  in  a  fairer  cha- 
racter, or  perhaps  in  more  studied  language,  ! 
In  the  chaos  of  his  manuscripts,  some  of  the 
original  sketches  were  found  ;  and  as  these 
sketches,  though  less  perfect,  are  fairly  to  be 
considered  as  the  oflfspriug  of  his  mind,  where 
they  have  seemed  in  themselves  worthy  of  a 
place  in  this  volume,  and  they  have  been  in- 
serted, though  they  may  not  always  correspond 
exactly  with  the  letters  transmitted,  which  have 
been  lost  or  withheld. 

Our  author  appears  at  one  time  to  have  form- 
ed an  intention  of  making  a  collection  of  his 
letters  for  the  amusement  of  a  friend.  Accord- 
ingly he  copied  an  inconsiderable  number  of 
them  into  a  book,  which  he  presented  to  Ro- 
Dert  Riddel,  of  Glenriddel,  Esq.  Among  these 
Was  the  account  of  his  life,  addressed  to  Dr. 
Mi'ore,  and  printed  in  the  Life.  In  copying 
from  his  imperfect  sketches  (it  does  not  apj)ear 
that  he  had  the  letters  actually  scut  to  Lis  cor- 
"«*iXJudents  before  him)  he  st-ems  to  have  occa- 


sionally enlarged  his  observations,  and  altered 
his  expressions.  In  such  instances  his  emenila.. 
tions  have  been  adopted  j  but  in  truth  there  are 
but  five  of  the  letters  thus  selected  by  the  poet, 
to  be  found  in  the  present  volume,  the  rest  be- 
ing thought  of  inferior  merit,  or  otherwise  unfit 
for  the  public  eye. 

lu  printing  this  volume,  the  Editor  has  found 
some  corrections  of  grammar  necessary  ;    but 
these  have  been  very  few,  and  such  as  may  be 
supposed  to  occur  in  the  careless  effusions,  even 
of  literary  characters,  who  have  not  been  in  the 
habit  of  carrying  their  compositions  to  the  press. 
These  corrections  have  never  been  extended   to 
any  habitual  modes  of  expression  of  the  Poet, 
even  where  his  phraseology  may  seem  to  violate 
the  delicacies  of  taste  ;  or  the  idiom  of  our  lan- 
guage, which  he  wrote  in  general  with  great 
accuracy.     Some  difference  will  indeed  be  found 
in  this  respect  in   his  earlier  and  in  his  later 
compositions  ;   and  this  volume  will  exhibit  the 
progress  of  his  style,   as  well  as  the  history  of 
his  mind.      In  this  Edition,   several  new   letters 
were   introduced   not   in  Dr.  Currie's  Edition, 
and  which  have  been  taken   from  the  works  of 
Cromek  and  the  more  recent  publishers.      The 
series  commences  with  the  Bard's  Lnve  Lcttcn 
— the  first  four  being  of  that  description.    They 
were  omitted  from  Dr.  Currie's  Edition  :  wliy, 
has  not  been  explained.      They  have  been  held 
to  be  sufficiently  interesting  to  be  here  inserted. 
He  states  the  issue  of  the  courtship  in  these  terms: 
— "  To  crown  my  distresses,  a  bdlejilk  whom  I 
adored,  and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet  me 
in  the  field  of  matrimony,  jilted  me  with  pecu- 
liar circumstances  of  mortification."    Mr.  Lock- 
hart  remarks  of  the  letters: — "  They  are  surely 
as  well  worth  preserving,   as  many  in  the  Col- 
lection ;    particularly   when   their  eaily   date   is 
con>iclered." — He  then  quotes  from  them  large- 
ly, and  adds, — "  In  such  excellent  English  did 
Burns  woo  his  country  maidens,   in  at  most  his 
20th  year."     But  we  suspect  the  fiult  of  the 
English  was,  that  it  was  too  good       It  was  too 
coldly  correct  to  suit  the  taste  ot  tlie  f  lir  maiden  ; 
had   the  wooer  u^ed  a  sprinkling  of  his  iiativ* 
tongue,  with  a  deeper  infusion  of  hiscoustitutiou. 
al  enthusiasm,  he  might  have  had  more  success 


LETTERS,  8cc, 


10 VE  LETTERS. 

No.  I. 

(WRITTE>f  ABOUT  THE  YEAR    17S0.) 

1  rEaiLY  believe,  my  deiir  Eliza,  th:it  the  pure 
U'luiiie  foelings  of  love,  are  as  rare  in  the 
Rorhi  as  the  pure  genuine  |)rinciples  of  virtue 
lii'J  |)iety.  This,  1  hope,  will  account  for  the 
incommon  style  of  all  my  letters  to  you.  Bv 
incoininon,  I  mean,  their  being  written  in  such 
I  serioui  manner,  which,  to  tell  you  the  trutli, 
las  nia'le  me  often  afraid  lest  you  should  take 
ne  for  a  leilous  bi'j;i)t,  who  conversed  with  his 
Distress  as  he  would  converse  with  his  minis- 
er.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  my  dear  ;  for 
hough,  except  your  company,  there  is  nothing 
)n  earth  that  gives  me  so  much  pleasure  a.s 
rriting  to  you,  yet  it  never  gives  me  those 
ciddy  raptures  so  much  talked  of  among  lovers. 
1  have  often  thoiitfht,  that  if  a  well-grounded  af- 
fection be  not  really  a  pait  of  virtue,  'tis  some- 
thing extremely  a-kin  to  it.  Whenever  the 
tl'jught  of  my  I'^li/a  warms  my  heart,  every 
fi*fling  of  liumanity,  every  principle  of  genero- 
«i.:y,  kindles  in  my  brnast.  It  extinguishes  every 
illty  spark  of  malice  and  envy,  which  are  but 
too  apt  to  infest  me.  1  grasp  every  creature 
in  the  arms  of  universal  benevolence,  Hn<l  equal- 
ly participate  in  t!ie  pleasures  of  the  happv,  and 
•ympathise  with  the  miseiies  of  the  unfortunate 
I  assure  you,  my  dear,  I  often  look  up  to  tlie 
divine  Disposer  of  events,  with  an  eye  of  gra- 
titude fur  the  blessln'4  which  I  hope  he  intends 
U.  bestow  on  me,  m  bestowing  you.  I  sincere- 
ly wish  that  he  may  ble^s  my  endeavours  to 
maks  your  life  as  comfortable  and  happy  as 
possible,  Ijoth  in  sweetening  the  rouglier  ]iart» 
of  my  natural  temper,  and  bettering  the  un- 
kindly en  cuinstaTices  of  my  fortune.  This,  my 
dear,  is  a  pas-ion,  at  least  in  r  /  view,  worthy 
of  a  man,  and  I  will  add,  worthy  of  a  Chris- 
tian. The  sordid  earth-woim  may  profess  love 
to  a  woman's  person,  whilst,  in  reality,  his  af- 
fection is  centered  in  her  pocket  ;  and  the  sla- 
vish (budge  may  go  a-Wijomg  as  he  goes  to  the 
Dorse- market,  to  choose  one  who  is  stout  and 
firm,  and,  as  we  may  saj  of  an  old  horse,  one 
*ho  will  be  a  good  drudge  and  draw  kindly. 
distlain  their  liity,   pvy   ideas.     I  would  be 


heartily  out  of  humour  with  myself,  if  (  tnoug* 
I  Were  capable  of  h.iv.ng  s.i  poor  a  notion  o- 
the  sex,  which  were  designed  to  crown  the 
plea.'iures  of  society.  Poor  dev''«  !  I  don't  envy 
them  tlieir  happiness  who  have  such  notions 
For  my  part,  I  propose  quite  other  pleasuii* 
with  my  dear  partner 


No.  II. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

MV   HEAR   ELIZA, 

I  DO  not  remember  in  the  course  of  your  ge- 
quaintance  and  mine,  ever  to  have  heard  youi 
opinion  on  the  ordinary  way  of  filling  in  love, 
amongst  people  of  our  st3ti(m  of  life  :  .  do  not 
inciin  the  persons  who  proceed  in  the  way  of 
b.irgain,  but  those  whose  afTectiun  is  rea  ly  pla- 
ced on  the  |)erson. 

Though  I  be,  as  you  know  very  well,  but  a 
very  awkward  lover  myself,  yet  as  I  hav;  some 
oj)purtunities  of  observing  the  conduct  of  others 
who  are  muth  better  skilled  in  the  ;ilfair  of 
courtship  than  I  am,  I  often  flunk  it  is  owmg 
to  lucky  diance  more  than  to  good  manage- 
ment, that  theie  are  not  mure  unhappy  mar- 
riages than  usually  are. 

It  is  natural  for  a  young  fellow  to  like  the 
acquaintance  of  -.he  female-,  and  custoniai'v  for 
him  to  keep  tliem  company  when  occasion  servev  ; 
some  one  of  them  is  more  agreeable  to  hnii  tlian 
the  I  est  ;  there  is  something,  he  kiuiws  not 
what,  pleases  him,  h  kfiows  net  how,  in  her 
comuany.  This  1  take  to  be  what  is  called  love 
u  ith  the  grsatest  part  of  us,  arid  I  must  own, 
my  dear  Eliza,  it  is  a  hard  game  such  a  one  aj 
you  have  to  play  when  you  meet  with  sudi  a 
lover.  You  cannot  refu.se  but  be  is  sincere,  aiid 
yet  though  you  use  iiim  ever  so  favourably,  per- 
haj)s  in  a  lew  months,  or  at  farthest  in  a  \i-;u 
or  two,  the  same  unaccountable  fincy  mav  m.ike 
him  as  (listracteiily  fond  of  another,  whilst  you 
are  quite  fcrgof.  I  am  aware,  that  pei  hap-  the 
next  time  1  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  you 
may  bid  me  take  my  own  )e>soii  h(ime,  and  te!! 
me  tha^  the  jiassion  I  have  piofesscd  for  vou  is 
perhaps   one   uf  tho^H    transient   ilashtk   ]  havf 


248 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


l)ecn  (Ic'iTihinp^  ;  hut  T  hope,  niy  dear  Eliza, 
you  will  do  me  the  jii->tice  to  believe  me,  when 
I  assure  you,  that  the  love  I  have  for  you  is 
Touiified  on  the  sacred  principles  of  virtue  and 
nonour,  and  hy  coi.sequence,  so  long  as  you  con- 
tir-j-  possessed  of  those  amiable  qualities  which 
first  inspired  my  p.ission  for  you,  so  long  must  I 
continue  to  love  you.  Believe  me,  my  dear,  it 
is  love  like  this  alone  which  can  render  the  mar- 
ri«'d  state  hapiy.  People  may  talk  of  fliuies  and 
raptures  as  long  as  they  please  ;  and  a  warm 
fancy  with  a  fli^w  of  youthful  spirits,  may  make 
them  feel  sometLing  like  whai  '"^"v  describe  ; 
but  sure  I  am,  the  nobler  faculties  of  the  mind, 
with  kindred  feelings  of  the  heart,  can  only  be 
the  foundation  of  friendship,  and  it  has  always 
been  my  opinion,  that  the  married  life  was  only 
friendship  in  a  more  exalted  degree. 

If  you  will  be  so  good  as  to  grant  my  wishes, 
and  it  should  please  providence  to  s|)are  us  to 
the  latest  periods  of  life,  I  can  look  forward 
and  see,  that  even  then,  though  bent  down 
with  wrinkled  age  ;  even  then,  when  all  other 
worldly  circumstances  will  be  indifferent  to  nie, 
I  will  regard  my  Eliza  with  the  tenderest  af- 
fection, and  for  this  plain  reason,  because  she 
is  still  possessed  of  those  noble  qualities,  im- 
proved to  a  much  higher  degree,  which  first 
inspired  my  affection  fur  her. 

"  O  :  .^^'■"v  itat",  when  souls  each  other  draw, 
"  When  love  is  liberty,  and  nature  law." 

I  knr-w,  were  I  to  speak  in  such  a  style  to 
many  a  girl  who  thinks  herself  posse**sed  of  no 
small  share  of  sense,  she  would  think  it  ridi- 
culous— but  the  language  of  the  heart  is,  my 
dear  Eliza,  the  only  courtship  I  Hhall  ever  use 
to  jrou. 

When  I  look  over  what  I  have  written,  I  am 
sensible  it  i^  vastly  dllFerent  from  the  ordinary 
style  of  ciiurtship — but  I  shall  make  no  apulo- 
gy^I  know  y<iur  good  nature  will  excuse  wLttt 
voui  guud  sense  may  see  atuiss. 


No.  III. 
TO  THE  S.-VME. 

Mr  PEAR   EIlfA, 

I  llA%K  often  thought  it  a  peculiarly  un- 
lucky circumstance  in  love,  that  though,  in 
every  other  situation  in  lite,  telling  the  truth  is 
not  only  the  safest,  but  actually  liy  far  the  easi- 
est way  of  proceeding,  a  lover  is  never  umler 
greater  diffuulty  in  acting,  or  more  puzzled  for 
expression,  than  when  his*  passion  is  sincere, 
and  his  intentions  are  honourable.  I  do  n<it 
think  that  it  is  very  difficult  for  a  person  of  or- 
dinary capacity  t<i  talk  of  love  and  fondiu's*, 
which  are  imt  frit,  ami  tu  make  vowm  of  roii- 
■tancy  and  fidelity,    which  are  never  intended  to 


be  performed,  if  he  In!  villain  enout^fi  to  orac. 
tise  such  detestable  conduct  :  but  to  a  rna^ 
whose  heart  glows  with  t!ie  principhs  of  in> 
tegrity  and  truth  ;  and  who  siuceiely  loves  a 
woman  of  amiable  person,  uncommon  refinement 
of  sentiment,  and  purity  of  manners — to  such  a 
one,  in  such  circumstances,  I  can  assure  you, 
my  dear,  from  my  own  feelings  at  this  present 
moment,  courtship  is  a  task  indeed.  There  is 
such  a  number  of  forebod.ng  feais,  and  distrust- 
ful anxieties  crowd  into  my  mind  when  I  am  in 
your  company,  or  when  I  sit  down  to  wiite  to 
you,  that  what  to  speak  or  what  to  write  I  am 
iltogether  at  a  loss. 

There  is  one  rule  which  f  have  hitherto  prac- 
tised, and  which  I  shall  invariably  keep  with 
you,  and  that  is,  honestly  to  tell  you  the  plain 
truth.  There  is  something  so  mean  and  nn- 
manly  in  the  arts  of  dis-;iiiiiilation  and  falsehood, 
that  I  am  surprised  they  can  be  used  by  any  one 
in  so  noble,  so  generous  a  passion  as  virtuous 
love.  No,  my  dear  Eliza,  I  shall  never  endea- 
vour to  gain  your  favour  by  such  detestable 
practices.  If  you  will  be  so  good  and  so  gener- 
ous as  to  admit  me  for  ymir  partner,  your  com- 
panion, your  bosom  friend  through  life  ;  there 
is  nothing  on  this  side  of  eternity  shall  give  ma 
greater  transport  ;  but  I  shall  never  think  of 
purchasing  your  hand  by  any  arts  unworthy  of 
a  man,  and  I  will  add  of  a  Christian.  There  is 
one  thing,  my  dear,  which  I  earnestly  request  of 
you,  and  it  is  this  ;  that  you  would  soon  either 
put  an  end  to  my  hopes  by  a  i)ereiii|)tary  refusal, 
or  cure  me  of  my  fears  by  a  geneioiis  consent. 

It  would  oblige  nie  much  if  you  would  send 
me  a  line  or  two  when  convenient.  I  shall  on- 
ly add  further,  that  if  a  behaviour  regulated 
(though  perhaps  but  very  imiierfectly)  by  the 
rules  of  honour  and  virtue,  if  a  heart  devoted  to 
love  and  esteem  you,  and  an  earnest  endeavour 
to  promote  your  happiness ;  and  if  these  are 
qualities  you  would  wish  in  a  friend,  in  a  hus- 
band ;  I  hope  you  shall  ever  find  them  in  \cnit 
real  friend  and  sincere  luvcr. 


No.  IV. 


TO  THE  SAME. 

1  OUGHT  in  gooil  manners  to  have  acknoyr- 
leilged  the  receipt  of  your  letter  before  this  time, 
but  my  heart  was  so  shocked  with  the  contents 
of  it,  that  I  can  scarcely  yet  collect  my  tlumghtj 
so  as  to  write  to  you  en  the  subject.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  describe  what  1  felt  on  receiving  you/ 
letter.  I  read  it  over  and  over,  a','ain  and  again 
and  though  it  was  in  the  politest  language  of  re- 
fusal, still  it  was  peremptory  ;  "  you  were  sorry 
you  could  nut  make  me  a  return,  but  yuu  wish 
mc"  wha-,  witlumt  you,  I  never  can  obtain, 
"  you  wish  me  all  kind  of  happiness.  "  It  wonld 
lie  weak  and  uiiiii.iiily  to  sav,  iliit  without  wu  1 
never  ciu  be  happy  ;   but  sine  I  am     that  Jkmr 


.> 


CORRESPOXDENCE. 


ing  lifo  with  yon,  woulil  luivo  givi.'ii   it  a  relish, 
tli.it,  vvan'iii^  yoii,  I  novor  cm  ta>tc. 

Yciiir  iiuciiiiinuin  personal  advantages,  and 
your  superior  good  sense,  do  not  so  niuih  strike 
nie ;  these,  possiljly  in  a  few  instances,  may  he 
met  with  in  others  ;  hut  that  amiahle  goodness, 
that  tinder  feminine  softness,  that  endearing 
fwuctness  of  disjjosition,  with  all  the  charming 
ofhiuring  of  a  warm  feeling  heart — these  I  never 
again  expect  to  meet  with  in  such  a  degree  in 
this  world.  AH  these  charming  qualities,  heigh- 
tened hy  an  education  much  beyond  any  thing 
I  have  ever  met  with  in  any  woman  I  ever  dar- 
ed to  approach,  have  made  an  imjiression  on  my 
heart  that  I  do  not  think  the  world  can  ever  ef- 
face. IMy  imagination  has  fondly  flattered  itself 
with  a  wish,  I  dare  not  say  it  ever  reached  a 
hope,  that  possihly  I  might  one  day  call  vou 
mine.  I  had  fovme<l  the  most  delightful  images, 
and  my  fancy  fondly  brooded  over  them  ;  but 
now  I  am  wretched  for  the  loss  of  what  I  really 
had  no  right  expect.  I  must  now  think  uo 
more  of  you  as  a  mistress,  still  I  presume  to  ask 
to  be  admitted  as  a  fiiend.  As  such  I  wish  to 
be  allowed  to  wait  on  you,  and  as  I  expect  to 
remove  in  a  few  days  a  little  farther  off,  and  you, 
I  suppose,  will  perhaps  soon  leave  this  place,  I 
wish  to  see  you  or  hear  from  you  soon  ;  and  if 
an  expression  should  perhaps  escape  me  r^ither 
to(i  warm  for  friendship,  I  hope  you  will  pardon 

it  in,   my  dear  Miss ,  (pardon  me  the  dear 

espresbion  for  once.) 


LETTERS,  1783,  1784. 

No.   V. 
TO  JIR.  JOHN  MURDOCH, 

SCHOOLMASTER, 
STAPLES  INN   BUILDINGS,   LONDON. 

DFAR  SIR,  Lnchhe,  \5t/i  January,  1793. 

As  I  have  an  opportunity  of  sending  you  a 
letter,  without  putting  you  to  that  expense 
which  any  production  of  mine  wimld  but  ill  re- 
pay, I  embrace  it  with  pleasure,  to  tell  you  that 
'  have  not  forgotten,  nor  ever  will  forget,  the 
many  ohiications  I  lie  under  to  your  kindness 
atid  friendship. 

I  do  not  doubt.  Sir,  but  you  will  wish  to 
know  what  ha^  been  the  result  of  all  the  pains 
of  an  indulgent  father,  and  a  masterly  teacher  ; 
and  I  wish  I  could  gratify  your  curiosity  with 
such  a  recital  as  you  wiiuld  be  pleased  with  ; 
but  that  is  what  I  am  iifraid  will  not  be  the  case. 
I  have,  indeeii,  kept  pretty  clear  of  vicious  ha- 
bits ;  and  in  this  respect,  I  hope,  my  comluct 
will  not  disgrace  the  eilucation  I  have  gotten  ; 
but  as  a  man  of  the  world,  I  am  most  miserably 
deficient. — One  wouM  have  thought,  that  bred 
M  i  have  been,  under  a  father  who   has  figured 


[iretty  well  as  tin  homme.  ilcs  nJTaires,  1  mighl 
have  been  what  the  world  cads  a  pushing,  ac- 
tive fellow  ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth.  Sir, 
there  is  hanHy  any  thing  more  my  reverse.  I 
seem  to  bt  one  sent  into  the  world  to  see,  and 
observe;  and  I  very  easily  compound  wiih  the 
knave  who  tricks  me  of  my  money,  if  tl'.eie  be 
my  thing  original  about  him  which  shows  me 
human  nature  in  a  diircrent  light  fr.un  any  thing 
I  have  seen  before.  In  short,  the  joy  of  my 
heart  is  to  "  study  men,  their  manners,  and  theit 
ways ;"  and  for  this  darling  subject,  I  cheer- 
fully sacrifice  every  other  consideration.  I  am 
quite  indolent  about  those  great  concerns  that 
set  the  bustling  busy  sons  of  care  agog  ;  and  ii 
I  have  to  answer  for  the  |)iesrnt  liour,  1  am  very 
easy  with  regard  to  aiiy  thing  further.  Evi  n 
the  last,  worst  shift  '  of  the  unfortunate  and 
the  wretched,  diies  not  mu(di  terrify  me  :  I  know 
that  even  then  my  talent  for  what  country  folks 
call  "  a  sensible  crack,"  when  once  it  is  sancti- 
fied hy  a  hoary  head,  would  procuie  trie  so  much 
esteem,  that  even  then — I  would  learn  to  he 
happy.  However,  I  am  under  no  apiirchensions 
about  that ;  for,  though  inilolent,  yet,  so  far  as 
an  extremely  delicate  constitution  permit-,  I  am 
not  lazy  ;  and  in  many  things,  especially  in  ta- 
vern matters,  I  am  a  strict  economist ;  not  in- 
deed for  the  sake  of  the  money,  hut  one  if  the 
princi|ial  parts  in  niv  com|)osit"ion  is  a  kind  (jf 
pi  ide  of  stomach,  and  I  scorn  to  fear  the  f.icf  of 
any  man  living  :  above  every  thing,  I  abhor  as 
hell,  the  idea  of  sneaking  in  a  corner  to  avoid  a 
dun — possibly  some  pitiful,  sordid  wretch,  whc 
in  my  heart  I  despise  and  detest.  'Tis  this,  and 
this  alone,  that  endears  economy  to  me.  In  the 
matter  of  books,  indeed,  I  am  very  profuse.  ^)y 
favourite  authors  are  of  the  sentiinent.il  kind, 
such  as  S/icTistnne,  particularly  his  £/ci;ics  ,- 
Thomson  ;  Man  nf  Fieliiitf,  a  book  I  ])rize  next 
to  the  Bible;  Man  of  the  Worltl ;  Sterne, 
especially  hs  Seutimcntat  Jonritvij ;  Miicjihtr- 
siins  Ossian,  §-c.  These  are  the  glorious  mo- 
dels aftt  'vhich  I  endeavour  to  form  mv  con- 
duct ;  and  'tis  mcogruous,  'tis  absurd,  to  sup- 
pose that  the  man  whose  mind  glows  with  sen- 
timents lightened  up  at  the  r  sacred  flame — the 
man  whose  heart  distends  with  ber.evolence  to 
all  the  human  race — he  "  who  can  soar  above 
this  little  scene  of  things,"  cm  he  descend  to 
mind  the  paltry  concerns  abcv»  which  the  »err«- 
tilial  race  fret,   and   fume,   and  vex  themselves? 

0  how  the  glorious  triumph   swells  my  hiart  ! 

1  forget  that  I  am  a  poor  in-igu'ficant  devil,  un- 
noticed and  unknown,  stalking  up  and  down 
fairs  and  maikits,  when  I  h.ippen  to  he  in  them, 
reading  a  page  or  two  of  mankind,  and  "  catcl;- 
ing  the  manneis  living  as  they  rise,"  whilst  the 
men  of  business  jostle  me  on  every  side  as  an 
idle  cncunibranc  in  their  way.  —  Hut  I  dare  say 
I  have  by  this  time  tired  your  |)atience  ;  so 
shall    conclude  with   Degging  you    to  give  Mrs, 


•  The  last  shift  alliideil  to  here,  must  lie  the  condi 
ion  of  <ui  itinerant  begpar 

K  2 


250 


BURNS'   WORKS. 


Murdoch — not  niy  compliments,  for  that  is  a 
mure  coinnuin-])Iac,';  story,  but — my  warmest, 
kindest  \v•i^!,es  for  Iivr  welfare;  aud  accept  of 
the  same  fur  yourself,  from, 

Dear  Sir, 

Youi-s,  &c. 


No  VI. 


[the  rOLLOWIVG  IS  TAKEN  FROM  THE  MS. 
PROSE  niESENTED  BV  OUR  BARD  TO  SIR. 
RIDDEL.] 

On  rummajjing  over  some  old  papers,  I  ligjlit- 
ed  on  a  MS.  of  my  early  years,  in  which  I  had 
determined  to  write  myself  out,  as  I  was  ))laeed 
by  fortune  among;  a  class  of  men  to  whom  my 
ideas  would  have  been  nonsense.  I  had  meant 
that  the  book  should  have  Iain  by  me,  in  the 
liSitid  hope  that,  some  time  or  other,  even  after  I 
WAS  no  more,  my  thoughts  would  fall  into  the 
hi  n'is  of  somebody  capable  of  appreciating  their 
val.ie.     It  sets  off  thus  : 

Obi'ervdtions,  Hints,  Sonrjs,  Scraps  of  Poe- 
try, ^c.  b>j  II.  B. — a  man  who  had  little  art  in 
making  n.oney,  and  still  less  in  keeping  it  ;  but 
was,  howevtr,  a  man  of  some  sense,  and  a  great 
deal  of  honesty,  and  unbounded  good-will  to 
every  creature,  rational  and  irrational.  As  he 
was  but  little  indebted  to  scholastic  eilucation, 
qnd  breil  at  a  |)lough-taJl,  liis  performances  must 
be  strongly  tinctured  with  bis  unpolished  rustic 
way  of  li'e  ;  but  as  I  believe  they  are  really  his 
owiiy  it  may  be  some  entertainment  to  a  curious 
observer  of  human  nature,  to  see  how  a  plough- 
man thinks  ar.il  feeN,  nndcr  the  ])rcssure  of  love, 
ambition,  un;;iety.  gi  ief,  with  the  like  caies  and 
j)assi'./ns  which,  however  diversified  by  the 
"rtri'Js  and  mininers  <jf  life,  operate  pretty  mudi 
;t;.ke,  I  believe,  on  all  tbe  species. 

"  There  are  numbers  in  the  world  who  do 
not  want  sense  to  make  a  figure,  so  much  as  an 
opinion  of  their  own  abilities,  to  put  them  U|)on 
recording  their  observations,  and  allowing  them 
the  s.-.ii'.e  importance  ^i  hich  they  do  to  tliose 
which  ajjpear  in  lirint." — Siienstone. 

"  Pleasing,  when  yotith  is  lor/g  expired,  to  trace 
The  forms  our  pencil,  or  our  pen  designed  ! 

Such  was  our  youthful  air,  and  shape,  and  face, 
Such  the  soft  image  of  our  youthful  mind." 

Ibid. 

April,  I78r?. 

Notwitli*t.inding  ail  that  has  been  said  agiiu'^t 
love,  respecting  the  folly  and  weakness  it  leads 
tt  young  inexperienced  mind  into;  still  I  think  it 
in  a  great  measure  deserves  the  highest  enco- 
miums t-hat  have  been  paH>ed  on  it.  If  any 
thing  on  earth  deserves  the  name  of  ia()tiire  or 
trai;>po;t,  it  is  the  fe<'!in<,'s  ot  green  eighteen,  in 
khe  cuinpa  \y  of  the  iiii.-tresi,  o!    hi>  he.nt,  u  !>••. 


she  repays   him  with  asa  equal  return  of  *Ei;e. 
tion. 


.  iiipi/st. 
There  is  certainly  som.e  connection  between 
love,  and   music,   and   poetry  ;   and,  therefore,  1 
have  always  thought  a  fine  toucl   of  nature,  tliat 
passage  in  a  modern  love  composition : 

"  As  tow'rd  her  cot,  he  jogg'd  along, 
Her  name  was  frequent  in  his  song." 

For  my  own  part,  I  never  had  the  least 
thought  or  inclination  of  turning  poet,  till  I  got 
once  heartily  in  love  ;  and  then  rhyme  and  song 
were,  in  a  manner,  the  spontaneous  language  of 
my  heart. 

Septernber. 
I  entirely  agree  with  that  judicious  philosn- 
|)her,  Mr.  Smith,  in  his  excellent  Theory  nj 
Moral  Sentiments,  that  remorse  is  the  most 
painful  sentimetit  that  can  embitter  the  human 
bosom.  Any  ordinary  pitch  of  fortitmle  may 
bear  up  tolerably  well,  under  those  calamities, 
in  the  procurement  of  which  we  ourselves  have 
had  no  hand  ;  but  when  our  follies  or  crimes 
have  made  us  miserable  and  wretched,  to  bear 
up  with  manly  firmness,  and  at  tbe  same  time 
have  a  proper  penitential  sense  of  our  miscon- 
duct, is  a  glorious  effort  of  self-corn mand. 

Of  all  the  numerous  ills  that  hurt  our  peace, 
That  press  the  soul,  or  wring  the  mind  with  an- 
guish, 
Bevond  comparison  the  worst  are  those 
That  to  our  folly  or  our  guilt  we  owe. 
In  every  other  circumstance,  the  mind 
Has  this  to  say — ''  It  was  no  deed  of  mine  ;" 
But  when  to  all  the  evil  of  misfortune 
This  sting  is  added — ''  Blame  thy  foolish  self!  ' 
Or  worser  far,  the  pangs  of  keen  remorse  ; 
The  torturing,  gnawing  ccmsciousness  of  guilt— 
Of  guilt,  perhaps,  where  we've  involved  others 
The  young,  the  innocent,  who  finiilly  Itived  us. 
Nay,  more,  that  very  love  their  cause  of  luin  ! 

0  burning  hell  !    in  all  thy  store  of  tornients, 

1  here's  not  a  keener  lash  ! 

Lives  there  a  man  so  firm,  who,  while  his  heart 
Feels  all  the  bitter  horrors  of  his  crime, 
Can  reason  down  its  agonizing  throbs ; 
And,  after  proper  purpose  of  amendment, 
Can  fit  inly  force  bis  jarring  thoughts  to  ]^eac*  ' 
O,  happy  !    happy  !   envi.ible  man  ! 
O  glorious  nuignaiiiniity  of  soul. 


Mu,   h,  1784. 

I  have  often  ob'icrved,  in   the  course  of  my 

Lxperience  of  human  life,  that  every  man,  even 

the    wors*,     has  sdiiirthiiiL;    good     about    him  ; 

tiKUii.'-h  v  >-y   o!ten    nothing    el>e  than   a    ha|  ]i) 


J 


CORR£?.PONDENCE. 


251 


temperaiMcnt  cf  constitution  inclining  liim  to 
tills  or  that  virtue.  For  this  reason,  no  man 
tan  say  in  what  degree  any  other  pei'son,  be- 
niiies  himself,  can  be,  with  strict  justice,  calleil 
wicked.  Let  any  of  the  strictest  character  for 
regularity  of  conduct  among  us,  examine  im- 
paitially  how  many  vices  he  has  never  been 
guilty  of,  not  from  any  care  or  vigilance,  but 
for  want  of  opportunity,  or  some  accidental  cir- 
cumstance intervening;  how  many  of  the  weak- 
nesses of  mankind  he  has  escaped,  because  he 
was  out  of  the  line  of  such  temptation  ;  and, 
what  often,  if  not  always  weighs  more  than  all 
the  rest,  how  much  he  is  indebteil  to  the  world's 
good  opinion,  because  the  world  d.ics  not  know 
all  :  I  say,  any  man  who  can  thus  think,  will 
scan  the  failings,  nay,  the  faults  and  crimes,  of 
mankind  around  Viim,  with  a  brother's  eye. 

I  have  often  courted  the  acquaintance  of 
that  part  of  mankind  commonly  known  by  the 
i/dinary  phrase  of  blackguards,  sometimes  far- 
ther than  was  consistent  with  the  safety  of  my 
character  ;  those  who,  by  thoughtless  prodiga- 
lity or  headstrong  passions,  ha^e  beej  driven 
to  ruin.  Though  disgraced  by  follies,  nay, 
sometimes  "  stained  with  guilt,     .... 

.  .  .  ,"  I  have  yet  found  among  thein, 
in  not  a  tew  instances,  some  of  the  noblest  vir- 
tues, magnanimity,  generosity,  disinterested 
friendship,  and  even  modesty. 


April. 
As  I  am  whit  the  men  of  the  world,  if  they 
knew  such  a  man,  would  call  a  whimsical  mor- 
tal, I  have  various  sources  of  pleasure  and  en- 
joyment, which  are,  in  a  manner,  jicculiar  to 
myself,  or  some  here  and  there  such  other  out- 
of-the-way  peison.  Such  is  the  peculiar  plea- 
sure I  take  in  the  season  of  winter,  more  than 
the  rest  of  the  year.  This,  I  l)elieve,  may  be 
partly  owing  to  my  misfortunes  giving  iny 
mind  a  melancholy  cast ;  but  there  is  some- 
thing even  in  the 

"  .Mighty  tempest,  and  the  hoary  waste 
Abrupt    and    deep,    stretch'd    o'er  the    buried 
eaith," — 

whrch  raises  the  mind  to  a  serious  sublimity, 
fivdurable  to  every  thing  great  and  noble. 
There  is  scarcely  any  earthly  object  gives  me 
more — I  do  not  know  if  I  should  call  it  plea- 
sure—  but  something  which  exilts  me,  some- 
thing which  enrap'.ures  me — than  to  walk  in 
the  sheltered  side  of  the  wood,  or  high  planta- 
tion, in  a  cloudy  winter-day,  and  hear  the 
Bti.rmy  wind  howling  among  the  trees,  and 
raving  over  the  plain.  It  is  my  best  season 
for  devotion  :  my  mind  is  wrapt  up  in  a  kind 
of  entluisia»ni  to  /Jim,  who,  in  the  poiniirus 
language  of  the  Ilehivw  bard,  "walks  on  the 
wings  ol   the  wind.'       In  on.'  of  these  seastM-s  i 


just  after  a   train   of  riisfortuneSj    I  composed 
the  following  : 

Tiie  wintry  west  extends  his  blast,  &c. 

See  Songs. 

Shenstone  finely  observes,  that  love-verses, 
writ  without  any  real  passion,  are  the  most 
nauseous  of  all  conceits  ;  and  I  have  often 
thought  that  no  man  can  be  a  proper  critic  of 
love-composition,  except  he  himself,  in  one  or 
more  instances,  hive  been  a  warm  votary  -jf 
this  passion.  As  I  have  been  all  along  a 
miserable  dupe  to  love,  and  have  been  led  into 
a  thousand  weaknesses  and  follies  by  it,  for 
that  reason  I  put  the  more  confidence  in  my 
critical  skill,  in  distinguishing  foppery,  and  con- 
ceit, from  real  passion  and  nati  re.  Whether 
the  following  song  will  stand  the  test,  I  will 
not  pretend  to  say,  because  it  is  my  own  ;  only 
I  can  say  it  was  at  the  time,  genuine  from  the 
heart. 


Behind  yon  hills,  &c. 


See  Songs. 


I  think  the  whole  species  of  young  men  may 
be  naturally  enough  divided  into  two  grand 
classes,  which  I  shall  call  the  grave  and  the 
merry  ;  though,  by  the  bye,  these  terras  do  not 
with  ])ropriety  enough  express  my  ideas.  The 
grave  I  shall  cast  Into  the  usual  division  of 
those  who  are  goaded  on  by  the  love  of  money, 
and  those  whose  darling  wish  is  to  make  a 
figure  in  the  world.  The  merry  are,  the  men 
of  pleasure  of  all  denominations  ;  the  jovial 
lads,  who  have  too  much  fire  and  spirit  to  have 
any  settled  rule  of  action  ;  but  without  much 
deliberation,  follow  the  strong  impulses  of  na- 
ture ;  the  thoughtless,  the  careless,  the  indo- 
lent— in  particular  he,  who,  with  a  happy 
siveetness  of  natural  temper,  and  a  cheerful  va- 
cancy of  thought,  steals  through  life — generally, 
indeed,  in  poverty  and  obscurity;  but  poverty 
and  olKcurity  are  only  evils  to  him  who  can 
sit  gravely  down  and  make  a  repining  compa- 
rison between  his  own  situation  and  that  of 
others  ;  and  lastly  to  grace  the  quorum,  such 
are,  generally,  those  heads  are  capable  of  all 
the  towerings  of  genius,  and  whose  heart*  are 
warmed  with  all  the  delicacy  of  feeling. 


As  the  grand  end  of  human  life  is  to  cultivate 
an  intercourse  with  that  Being  to  whom  we 
ewe  life,  with  -very  enjoymeiit  that  can  render 
life  delightful  ;  and  to  maintain  an  iute:,'ritive 
conduct  towards  our  fel  ow-crcatuies  ;  that  so, 
by  forming  piety  and  virtue  into  habit,  we  may 
be  fit  members  for  that  society  of  the  pious  and 
the  good,  which  nason  and  revelation  teach  us 
to  expect  bcviihd  the  grave  :  I  do  not  see  tha: 
the  turn  of  mind,  and  puisults  of  any  son  of  [lo. 
verty  and  obscurity,  are  in  the  least  nio'e  iiilm' 


232 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


eal  to  the  sacred  interests  of  piety  and  virtue, 
than  the,  even  lawful,  bustling  and  straining 
after  the  world's  riches  and  honours  ;  and  I  do 
not  see  but  that  he  nay  gain  Heaven  as  well 
(which,  by  the  bye,  is  no  mean  consideration), 
who  steals  through  the  vale  of  life,  amusing 
himself  with  every  little  flower  that  fortune 
throws  in  his  way  ;  as  he  who,  straining  straight 
forward,  and  perhaps  bespattering  all  about  him, 
gains  some  of  life's  little  eminences  ;  where,  af- 
tet  all,  he  can  only  see,  and  be  seen,  a  little  more 
conspicuously,  than  what,  in  the  pride  of  his 
heart,  he  is  apt  to  term  the  poor,  indolent  devil 
he  has  left  behind  him. 


There  is  a  noble  sublimity,  a  heart-melting 
tenderness,  in  some  of  our  ancient  ballads,  which 
shows  them  to  be  the  work  of  a  masterly  hand  : 
and  it  has  often  given  me  many  a  heart-ache  to 
refieet,  that  such  glorious  old  bards — bards  who 
very  probably  owed  all  their  talents  to  native 
genius,  yet  have  described  the  exploits  of  he- 
roes, the  pangs  of  disappointment,  and  the  melt- 
ings of  love,  with  such  fine  strokes  of  nature — 
that  their  very  names  (O  how  mortifying  to  a 
bard's  vanity!)  are  now  "buried  among  the 
wreck  of  things  which  were." 

O  ye  illustrious  names  unknown  !  who  could 
feel  so  stiongly  and  describe  so  well ;  the  last, 
the  meanest  of  the  muses'  train — one  who, 
Kiougn  tar  inferior  to  your  flights,  yet  eyes  your 
path,  and  with  trembling  wing  would  sometimes 
loar  after  y<iu — a  poor  rustic  bard  unknown, 
pays  this  sympathetic  pang  to  your  memory  ! 
Some  of  you  tell  us,  wit'a  all  the  charms  of 
ver.<e,  that  you  have  been  unfortunate  in  the 
world — unfortunate  in  love  :  he  too  has  felt  the 
loss  of  his  Il::!e  fortune,  the  loss  of  friends,  and, 
worse  than  all,  the  loss  of  the  woman  he  adored. 
Like  you,  all  his  consolation  was  his  muse;  she 
taught  him  in  rustic  measures  to  complain. 
Happy  couM  lie  have  done  it  with  your  strength 
of  imagination  and  flow  of  verse  !  Alay  the  turf 
lie  lightly  on  your  bones  !  and  may  you  now 
enjoy  that  solace  and  rest  which  this  world  sel- 
dom gives  to  the  heart,  tuned  to  all  the  feelings 
of  poesy  and  love  I 


This  is  all  worth  quoting  in  my  MSS.,  and 
moie  than  all. 

R.  B. 


LETTERS,  1786. 

No.  VII. 
TO  MR.  JCHN  RICHMOND,  EniNnniu 

MY   I<KAIl  SIR,  MosS//!cl,    Fill.    !T,    I7S(i 

I    HAVE   not   time  at   pic-ent  to  ojihiiil 


for  your  silence  and  neglect ;  I  shall  only  «£.jr  I 
received  yours  with  great  pleasure.  I  have  en 
closed  you  a  piece  of  rhyming  ware  for  your 
perusal.  I  have  been  very  busy  with  the  nmse* 
since  I  saw  you,  and  have  composed,  among  se- 
veral others.  The  Orilinniinn,  a  poem  on  Jlr. 
M'Kinlay's  being  called  to  Kilmarnock  ;  Scotch 
Drink,  a  poem  ;  T/ie  Cotter's  Saturday  Nirjlit; 
An  Address  to  the  Devil,  &c.  I  have  likewise 
completed  my  poem  on  the  Dogs,  but  have  not 
shewn  it  to  the  world.  My  chief  patron  now 
is  Mr.  Aiken  in  Ayr,  who  is  pleased  to  express 
great  approbation  of  my  works.  Be  so  good  as 
send  me  Fergusson,  by  Connel,*  and  I  -.V'll  re- 
mit you  the  mviney.  I  have  no  news  to  ac- 
quaint yo'j  with  about  Mauchline,  they  are  just 
going  on  in  the  old  way.  I  have  some  very  im- 
portant news  with  respect  to  myself,  not  the 
most  agreeable,  news  that  I  am  sure  you  cannot 
guess,  but  I  shall  give  you  the  particulars  an- 
other time.  I  am  extremely  happy  with  Smith  ;!• 
he  is  the  only  friend  I  have  now  in  Mauchline. 
I  can  scarcely  forgive  your  long  neglect  of  me, 
ziA  I  beg  you  will  let  me  hear  from  you  regu- 
larly by  Connel.  If  you  would  act  your  part  as 
a  FRIEND,  I  am  sure  neither  gond  nor  bad  for 
tune  should  strange  or  alter  ine.  Excuse  haste, 
as  I  got  yours  but  yesterday. — I  am. 
My  dear  Sir, 
Yours, 
ROBt,  BURNESS-t 


No.  VIIL 
TO  MR,  M'WHINNIE,  Writer,  Atb. 

Mossgiel,  17 'h  April.  1786. 

It  is  injuring  some  hearts,  those  hearts  that 
elegantly  bear  the  impression  of  the  good  Crea- 
tor, to  suy  to  them  you  give  them  the  trouble 
of  obliging  a  friend  ;  for  this  reason,  I  only  tell 
you  that  I  gratify  my  oicn  feelings  in  requesting 
your  friendly  oflices  with  respect  to  the  enclosed, 
because  I  know  it  will  gratify  yours  to  assist 
me  in  it  to  the  utmost  of  your  power. 

I  have  sent  you  fi>ur  copies,  as  I  have  no  les» 
than  eight  dozen,  which  is  a  great  deal  more 
than  I  shall  ever  need. 

Be  sure  to  remember  a  poor  poet  militant  in 
your  prayers.  He  looks  foiward  with  fear  and 
trembling  to  that,    to  him,    important  moment 


•  Connel— the  Mauclilinecarrier, 

t  Mr.  .fiimrs  Smith,  then  a  sli(>|i-krei>pr  in  Mauch- 
line. It  was  to  this  yoniiH  man  111  it  Hur;  i  aililresied 
.Aii:  of  his  finest  jierformances— "  To  J.  ti  "  b& 

ginning 

"  Dear  S ,  the  slcest,  paukie  thief." 

Me  (liec  Jii  Oie  U'l'st-Inilics. 

t  This  It  the  only  letter  the  Kditnr  ha«  met  with  i" 
whii  h  the  l>()it  .ulilii  ihe  tenni'ia'iiin  en  to  hi»  name 
you    as  his  tillier  and  family  liad  spelled  iU 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


253 


whicL  stamps  the  die  with — with — with,   per. 
haps  the  eternal  disgrace  of, 
Wy  dear  Sir, 
You  hiinililed, 
afflicted, 
tonuented 

robt.  burns. 


No.  IX. 


TO  MONS.  JAMES  SMITH,  Mauchline. 
Monday  Morning,  Mossgid,  17S6. 

MT  l)EAR   SIR, 

1  WENT  to  Dr.  Douglas  yesterday  fully  re- 
solved to  take  the  opportunity  of  C.ipt.  Smith  ; 
but  .  'ound  the  Doctor  with  a  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
White,  both  Jamaicans,  and  they  have  deranged 
my  plans  altogether.  They  assure  him  that  to 
send  me  from  Savannah  la  Mar  to  Port  Antonio 
will  cost  my  master,  Charles  Douglas,  upwards 
of  fifty  pounds  ;  besides  running  the  risk  of 
throwing  myself  into  a  pleuritic  fever  iu  conse- 
quence of  hard  travelling  in  the  sun.  On  these 
accounts,  he  refuses  sending  me  with  Smith,  hut 
a  vessel  sails  from  Greenock  the  first  of  Sept. 
right  for  the  place  of  my  destination.  The  Cap- 
tain of  her  is  an  intimate  of  Mr.  Gavin  Hamil- 
ton's, and  as  good  a  fellow  as  heart  cnuld  wish  : 
with  him  I  am  destined  to  go.  Where  I  shall 
Bhelter,  I  know  not,  but  I  hope  to  weather  the 
Btorm.  Perish  the  drop  of  blood  of  mine  that 
fears  them  !  I  know  their  worst,  aud  am  pre- 
pared to  meet  it. — 

I'll  laugh,  an'  sing,  an'  shake  my  leg, 
As  lang's  I  dow. 

On  Thursday  morning,  if  you  can  muster  as 
nuch  self-denial  as  to  be  out  of  bed  about  seven 
o'clock,  I  shall  see  you  as  I  ride  through  to 
Cumnock.  After  all.  Heaven  bless  the  sex  ! 
I  feel  there  is  still  happiness  for  me  among 
them. — 

O  woman,  lovely  woman  !   Heaven  designed  you 
To  temper  man  !   we  had  been  brutes  without 
you ! 


news  to  tell  you  that  will  give  me  any  pleasure 
to  mention  or  you  to  hear. 


And  now  for  a  grand  cure ;  the  ship  is  on  hei 
way  home  that  is  to  take  me  out  to  Jamaica 
ami  then,   farewell  dear  old  Scotland,   and   fare- 
well dear  ungrateful  Jean,  for  never,  never  will 
I  see  you  more. 

You  will  have  heard  that  I  am  going  to  com- 
mence Pott  ia  print  ;  and  to-morrow  my  works 
go  to  the  i)ress.  I  expect  it  will  bo  a  volume  oi 
about  two  hundred  pages — it  is  just  the  last  foo  - 
ish  action  I  intend  to  do ;  and  then  turn  a  wise 
man  asfatt  as  possible. 

Believe  me  to  be. 

Dear  Brice, 
Your  friend  and  well-wiBher. 


No.    XI. 


No.  X. 

TO  MR.  DAVID  BRICE. 

tKAR  BRICE,  Mosxgid,  June  12,  178G. 

I  RECEIVED  your  message  by  G.  Paterson, 
knd  as  I  am  not  very  throng  at  present,  I  just 
Write  to  let  you  know  that  there  is  such  a  worth- 
less, rhyming  reprobate,  as  your  humble  servant, 
still  in  the  land  of  the  living,  though  1  can 
scarcely  say,  in  the  place  of  hope.     I  have  no 


TO  JIR.   AIKEN 

(the   gentleman   to    whom  the   cotter's 
saturday  night  is  addressed.) 

SIR,  Ayrshire,  1786. 

I  WAS  with  Wilson,  my  printer,  t'other  day, 
and  settled  all  our  by -gone  matters  between  us. 
After  I  had  paid  him  all  demands,  I  made  him 
the  offer  of  the  second  edition,  on  the  hazard  o{ 
being  paid  out  of  thu  first  and  readiest,  which 
he  declines.  By  his  account,  the  paper  of  a 
thousand  copies  would  cost  about  twenty-seven 
pounds,  and  the  printing  about  fifteen  or  six- 
teen :  he  offers  to  agree  to  this  for  the  prmting, 
if  I  will  advance  for  the  paper  ;  but  this  you 
know,  is  out  of  my  power  ;  so  farewell  hopes 
of  a  second  edition  till  I  grow  richer  ! — an 
epotha  which,  I  think,  will  arrive  at  the  pay- 
ment of  the  British  national  debt. 

There  is  scarcely  any  thing  hurts  me  so  much 
in  being  disappointed  of  my  second  edition,  as 
not  hav  ng  it  in  my  power  to  show  my  grati- 
tude to  Mr.  Ballantyne,  by  publishing  my  poen 
of  Tlte  lirigs  «f  Ayr.  I  would  detest  mysel 
as  a  wretch,  if  I  thought  I  were  canable,  in  a 
very  long  life,  of  forgetting  the  honest,  warm, 
and  tender  delicacy  with  which  he  enters  into 
my  interests.  1  am  sometimes  ])leased  with  my- 
self in  my  giatelul  sensations  ;  but  I  buileve,  on 
the  whole,  I  have  very  little  merit  in  it,  as  my 
gratitude  is  not  a  vii  tue,  the  consequence  of  re- 
tlectiim,  but  sheerly  the  instinctive  emotion  of  a 
heart  too  inattentive  to  allow  worldly  maxima 
and  views  to  settle  into  selfish  habits. 

I  have  been  feeling  all  the  various  rotationj 
and  movements  within,  rc-pecting  the  excise. 
There  are  many  things  |)lead  stron^'Iy  against  it ; 
the  uncertainty  of  getting  soon  into  business,  thi 
consequences  of  my  follies,  whi.h  may  perhapl 
make  it  impracticable  for  me  to  stay  at  home  . 


254 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


snH  besides  1  have  for  some  time  Dcen  pininir 
under  secret  wretchedness,  from  causes  which 
you  pretty  well  know—the  pang  of  disappoint- 
ment, the  sting  of  piide,  with  some  wandering 
stdbs  of  remorse,  which  never  fail  to  settle  on 
my  vitals  like  vultures,  when  attention  is  not 
called  away  by  the  calls  of  society  or  the  vaga- 
ries of  the  muse.  Even  in  the  hour  of  social 
mirth,  iny  gaiety  is  the  madness  of  an  intoxica- 
ted criminal  und'jr  the  hands  of  the  executioner. 
All  these  reasons  urge  me  to  go  abroad  ;   and  to 

all   these  reasons  I  have  only  one  answer the 

feelings  of  a  father.  This,  in  the  present  nmod 
I  am  in,  overbalances  every  thing  that  can  be 
laid  iu  the  scale  against  it. 


Y(r;  miy  perhaps  think  it  an  extravagant 
fancy,  but  it  is  a  sentiment  which  strikes  home 
to  niy  very  soul:  though  sceptical,  ia  some 
points,  of  our  current  belief,  yet,  1  think,  1  have 
every  evidence  for  the  reality  of  a  life  beyond 
the  stinted  bourne  of  our  present  existence  ;  if 
so,  then  how  should  I,  in  the  presence  of  that 
tremendous  Heing,  the  Author  of  existence,  how 
should  I  meet  the  reproaches  of  those  who  stanil 
to  me  in  the  dear  relition  of  children,  whom  I 
deserted  in  the  smiling  innocency  of  helpless  in- 
fancy ?  O,  thou  gieat  unknown  Power  !  thou 
Abinghty  God  !  who  hast  lighted  up  reason  in 
my  breast,  and  blessed  me  with  immortality  !  I 
Lave  Jrequently  wandered  from  that  order  and 
regularity  necessary  for  the  peifection  of  thy 
works,  yet  thou  hast  never  left  me  nor  forsaken 
uie ! 


gressive  struggle  ;  and  tliat,  however  I  aight 
possess  a  warm  heart  and  inoffensive  manner* 
(which  last,  by  the  bye,  was  rather  moi-e  than 
I  could  well  bo;ist),  still,  more  than  these  pas- 
sive qualities,  there  was  something  to  be  cfone. 
When  all  my  school-fellows  and  youthful  com- 
peers Cthose  misguided  few  excepted,  who  join- 
ed, to  use  a  Gentoo  phrase,  the  hallachorex  of 
the  human  r-ace),  were  striking  off  with  eager 
hope  and  earnest  intent  on  some  one  or  other 
of  the  many  paths  of  busy  life,  I  was  «'  stand- 
ing idle  in  the  market  place,"  or  oidy  left  the 
chase  of  the  butterfly  from  flower  to  flower,  to 
hunt  fancy  from  whim  to  whim. 


You  see.  Sir,  that  if  to  know  one's  errors 
weie  a  probability  of  mending  them  I  stand  a 
lair  chance ;  but,  according  to  the  reverend 
Westminster  divines,  though  conviction  must 
precede  conversion,  it  is  very  far  from  alwayi 
imjjlying  it.  • 


No.  XII. 


Since  I  wrote  the  for-egoing  sheet,  I  liave 
seen  something  of  the  storm  of  mischief  thick- 
ening over  my  folly-devoted  head.  Should  you, 
my  friends,  my  feeuefactors,  be  successfrr'l  in 
your  ajjplications  for  me,  perhaps  it  may  not  be 
in  my  power  in  that  way  to  reap  the  fnrit  of 
your  friendly  eff.irts.  What  I  have  written  in 
the  preceding  pages  is  the  settled  tenor  of  my 
present  resolution ,  but  should  inimical  cir-- 
cum^tances  forbid  me  closing  with  your  kind 
ofier,  or-,  enjoying  it,  only  threaten  to  ;nitail 
farther  misery-^ 


To  tell  the  truth,  I  have  little  reason  for 
this  last  complaint,  as  the  world,  in  general, 
has  been  kind  to  me,  fully  up  to  my  deserts. 
I  was,  fur  some  time  past,  fjist  getting  into  the 
pining  distrustful  snarl  of  the  misanthrope.  I 
saw  myself  alone,  unfit  for  the  struggle  of  life, 
ihr inking  ot  every  rising  cloud  in  the  chance- 
directed  attrrosphere  of  forturre,  while,  all  de- 
fenceless, I  looked  about  in  vairr  for  a  caver. 
It  never  occurred  to  me,  at  least  never  with  the 
force  it  deserved,  that  this  world  is  a  busy 
icene.    uml  man  a  creature  destiried  for  a  pi  o'- 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,   OF  DUNLOP, 

MADAM,  Ayrshire,  17S6 

I  AM  truly  sorry  I  was  not  at  home  yesterday, 
when  I  was  so  much  honoured  with  your  order 
for  my  copies,  and  incomparably  more  by  the 
handsome  complimeuts  you  ar-e  pleased  to  pay 
my  poetic  abilities.  I  am  fully  persuaded  tliat 
there  is  not  any  class  of  mankind  so  feelingly 
alive  to  the  titillations  of  a))plause  as  the  sons 
of  Parnassus ;  nor  is  it  easy  to  conceive  how 
the  heart  of  the  poor  bard  dances  with  rapture, 
when  those  whose  character  in  life  gives  them 
a  right  to  be  polite  judges,  honour  him  with 
their  approbation.  Had  you  been  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  me,  Madain,  you  could  not 
have  touched  my  darling  heart-chord  more 
sweetly  than  by  noticing  my  attempts  to  cele- 
brate yorrr  illustrious  ancestor-,  the  Saviour  oj 
his  Country. 

"  Great,  patriot  hero  !  ill-requited  chief." 

The  first  book  I  met  with  in  my  ear-ly  years, 
whr(-h  I  perused  with  pleasure,  was  The  Life 
of  ILtnnilml :  the  next  was  The  History  nj 
Sir  WilUiim  Wallace  :  fir  several  of  my  ear- 
lier yeais  I  bad  kw  other  airthors  ;  atrd  many  a 
solitary  hour  have  I  sto'e  out,  after  the  labori- 
ous vocatiims  of  the  day,  to  shed  a  tear  over 
their  gloiious  but  unfortunate  stories.  In  those 
boyisir    days    I   renrcmber    in    particular    beirrg 


•  'i"!iis  bttcr  was  evidently  written  anocrthciU* 
tress  ot"  niiiul  ocwisioiieil  by  our  Poet's sciiaratrorr  froiB 
Mrs.  Uiiniii. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


253 


itrurk  with  that  part   of  Wallace's  story  where 
these  linss  occur — 

"  Syne  to  the  Leglen  wood,  when  it  was  late, 
To  make  a  silent  and  a  safe  retreat." 

I  cho-ie  a  fine  suminer  Sunday,  the  only  day 
my  line  of  life  allowed,  and  walked  half  a  dozen 
of  niile-i  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Leglen  wood, 
with  as  much  devout  enthusiasm  as  ever  pil- 
piim  (lid  to  Liiretto  :  and,  as  I  explored  every 
lien  anil  dell  where  I  could  su]ipn>j  my  heitiic 
countrvniau  to  have  lodged,  1  recollect  (for 
even  thou  I  was  a  rhymer),  that  my  heart  glow- 
ed with  a  wi>h  to  he  ahle  to  make  a  song  ou 
him  in  some  measure  equal  to  his  merits. 


No.  xiir. 

TO  MRS.  STEWART,  OF  STAIR. 

MAD\M,  17S6. 

The  hurry  of  my  preparations  for  going  a- 
broad  has  hindered  me  from  performing  mv  pio- 
niise  so  soon  as  I  intended.  I  have  here  sent  vou 
a  i)arcel  of  songs,  kc.  which  never  made  their 
appearance,  except  to  a  friend  or  two  at  most. 
Perhaps  some  of  them  niiiy  be  no  great  enter- 
tainment to  you  :  but  of  that  I  ara  far  from  be- 
ing ;m  adequate  judge.  The  song  to  the  tune 
ot  Ettrivk  Banks,  you  will  easily  see  the  impro- 
priety of  esposimr  much  even  in  manuscript. 
I  think,  mysell,  .t  lias  some  merit,  both  as  a  to- 
lerable description  of  one  of  Nature's  sweetest 
scenes,  a  July  evening,  and  one  of  the  finest 
pieces  of  Nature's  workmanship,  the  finest  in- 
deed we  know  any  thing  of,  an  amiable,  beauti- 
ful young  woman  ;•  but  I  have  no  common 
friend  to  procuie  me  that  permission,  without 
which  I  would  not  dare  to  spread  the  copy. 

I  am  quite  aware,  Madam,  what  task  the 
world  would  assign  me  m  chis  .etter.  The  ob- 
scure bard,  when  any  of  the  great  condescend 
to  take  notice  of  him,  should  heap  the  alcar  with 
ihe  incense  of  flattery.  Their  high  ancestry, 
their  own  great  ami  godlike  qualities  and  actions, 
should  be  recounted  with  the  most  exaggerated 
description.  This,  Madam,  is  a  task  for  which 
1  ant  altogether  unfit.  Besides  a  certain  dis- 
qualifying pride  tif  heart,  I  know  nothing  of 
your  connections  in  life,  and  have  no  access  to 
where  your  real  character  is  to  be  found — the 
company  of  your  compeers  :  and  more,  I  am  a- 
fraid  tliat  even  the  most  refined  adulation  is  by 
no  means  the  roail  to  your  good  opinion. 

One  feature  of  your  chaiacter  I  shall  ever 
with  grateful  pleasure  remember- — the  reeeption 
1  got,  when  I  had  the  honour  of  waiting  on  yoj 
It  Stall.  I  ara  little  acquainted  with  politeness  ; 
but  I  know  a  go»d  deal  ot  be:  evuli^nce  of  tem- 
per and  goodness  of  heart.  Surely,  did  those  in 
exalted  stations  know  how  happy  they  could 
make  some   classes   of  their  inferiors  by  conde- 


scension and  affability,  they  vould  never  stand 
so  high,  measuring  out  w  h  every  looK  the 
height  of  their  elevation,  t)ut  condescend  ita 
sweetly  as  did  Mrs.  Stewait  of  Stair.* 


No.  XIV. 


DR.  BLACKLOCK 


THE  REVEREND  JIR.  G.  LOWRIE. 

REVFKF.Nn   AND  DISAK   Sill, 

I  OLciiT  to  have  tcknowledged  your  favout 
long  ago,  not  only  as  a  testimony  of  your  kind 
leiiuMiibraiice,  but  as  it  gave  me  an  op[)ortunity  ot 
sharing  one  of  the  finest,  and,  peih  ips,  one  of  the 
most  genuine  entertainments,  of  which  the  human 
mind  is  susceptible.  A  number  of  avocations  re- 
tarded my  progress  in  reading  the  poems  ;  at  last, 
h'lwever,  I  have  finished  that  pleas'ng  perusal 
Many  instances  have  I  seen  of  Nature's  force  and 
beneficence  exerted  under  numerous  and  foriniil- 
ahle  disadvantages  ;  but  none  equal  to  that  with 
wliich  you  have  been  kind  enough  to  present  me. 
There  is  a  pathos  and  delicacy  in  his  serious 
poems,  a  vein  of  wit  and  humour  in  those  of  a 
more  festive  turn,  which  cannot  be  too  much 
ailmired,  nor  too  warmly  approved  ;  and  I  tliiidi 
I  shall  never  open  the  book  without  feeling  my 
astonishment  renewed  and  increased.  It  was  my 
wish  to  havecxi)ressed  my  approbalion  in  veise; 
but  whether  from  declining  life,  or  a  temporary 
depression  of  spirits,  it  is  at  present  (iut  of  my 
power  to  accomplish  that  agreeable  intention. 

IMr.  Stewart,  Professor  (d' Morals  in  this  Uni 
versify,  had  formerly  read  me  three  of  the  poems, 
and  I  had  desired  him  to  get  my  natiie  inserted 
among  the  subscribers ;  but  whether  this  was 
done,  or  not,  I  never  could  learn.  I  have  little 
intercourse  with  Dr.  Blair,  but  will  take  care 
to  have  the  poems  communicated  to  liim  bv  the 
intervention  of  sonae  mutual  friend.  It  has  been 
told  me  by  a  gentleman,  to  whom  I  showed  the 
performancL's,  and  who  sought  a  coj)y  with  dili- 
gence and  ardour,  that  the  whole  impression  is 
aheadv  exhausted.  It  were,  therefore,  much  to 
be  wished,  for  the  sake  of  the  young  man,  that 
a  se<;ond  edition,  more  numerous  than  the  former, 
could  immediately  be  printed  j  as  it  appears  cer- 
tain that  its  intrinsic  merit,  and  the  exertion  of 
the  author's  friends,  might  give  it  a  more  uni- 
versal circulat'.>n  than  any  thing  of  the  kind 
which  has  been  published  within  my  memor\.-(' 


Miss  A- 


•  The  song  eneloseJ  is  tliat  given  ia  tlie  Life  of  out 
Poet;  br.'ginuing, 

'Tw.is  e'en — the  (fewy  fields  were  (rreon,  ic. 

t  T,\c  render  will  perceive  that  this  is  the  leltoj 
whicli  i)ioduced  ilie  delerniiDaliou  of  our  Bard  to  ^wt 
up  his  sclu'ine  of  i;oiiig  to  the  West  Indies,  and  to  try 
the  fate  of  a  new  edition  of  his  r.iiems  in  Ednihurgli. 
A  "Ojiy  of  tills  letter  was  seni  Ijy  Mr.  Lowrie  to  Mr."^G 
Ila. Hilton,  and  by  him  eoramunieated  to  liurns,  unioiii 
whose  papers  it  was  found. 


256 


^*»*\<^ 


No.  XV. 

FROM  SIR  JOHN  WHITEFORD, 

S".R,  Edinburgh,  ilh  December,  1786. 

I  RECEivEii  your  letter  a  few  days  ago.  I  do 
not  pretend  to  much  interest,  but  what  I  have 
I  shall  be  ready  to  exert  in  procuring  the  attain- 
ment of  any  object  you  have  in  view.  Your 
chiiracter  as  a  man  (forgive  my  reversing  your 
order),  as  well  as  a  poet,  entitle  you,  I  think,  to 
the  assistance  of  every  inhabitant  of  Ayrshire. 
I  have  been  told  you  wished  to  be  made  a  gau- 
ger  ;  I  submit  it  to  your  consideration,  whether 
it  would  not  be  more  desirable,  if  a  sum  could 
be  raised  by  subscription,  for  a  second  edition  of 
your  poems,  to  lav  it  out  in  the  stocking  of  a 
small  farm.  1  am  persuaded  it  would  be  a  line 
of  life,  much  more  agreeable  to  your  feelings,  and 
ju  the  end  more  satisfactory.  When  you  have 
considered  this,  let  me  know,  and  whatever  you 
determine  upon,  I  will  endeavour  to  promote  as 
far  as  my  abilities  will  permit.  With  compli 
meuts  to  my  friend  the  doctor,  I  am. 

Your  friend  and  well-wisher, 
JOHN  WHITEFORD. 

P.  S. — I  shall  take  it  as  a  favour  when  you 
bX  any  time  send  me  a  new  production. 


No.  XVI. 


FROM  THE  REV.   MR.   G.  LOWRIE. 

BEAR  SIR,  22d  December,  1786. 

/  LAST  week  received  a  letter  from  Dr.  Black- 
..ock,  in  which  he  expresses  a  desire  of  seeing 
you.  I  write  this  to  you,  that  you  may  lose  no 
time  in  availing  upon  him,  should  you  not  yet 
have  Been  him. 


I  rejoice  to  bear,  from  all  corners,  of  your 
rising  fame,  and  I  wish  and  expect  it  may  tower 
gtiil  higher  by  the  uew  publication  But,  as  a 
friend,  I  warn  you  to  prepare  to  meet  with  your 
ihare  of  detraction  and  envy — a  troin  that  al- 
ways accompany  j^reat  men.  For  your  comfort, 
I  am  in  great  hopes  that  the  number  of  your 
friends  and  admirers  will  incjease,  and  that  you 
have  some  chance  of  ministerial,  or  even  •  •  •  • 
patronage.  Now,  my  friend,  suidi  ra|)ld  success 
is  very  uncommon  ;  and  do  you  think  yourself 
)c  uo  danger  of  suffering  by  appliuse  and  a  full 
pur'«  ?  Remember  Solomon's  advice,  which  he 
spoke  from  experience,  "  stronger  is  be  thit  con- 
querti,"  &c.  Keep  fast  hold  of  your  rural  sim- 
plicity and  purity,  like  Telemachus  by  Mentor's 
aid,  m  Calypso's  isle,  or  even  in  that  of  t'y|)rui». 
T  hope  i/au  havt,  ''>">  Minerva  with  you.  I 
neeil  not  U-\\  you  how  much  a  nioiK'st  d  iff  deuce 
imd  in«  iceible  tcBperance  adorn  the  must  sbiu- 


in»  talents,  and  elevate  the  mind,  a  i  exalt  and 
refine  the  imagination  even  of  a  poet. 

I  hope  you  will  not  imagine  I  speak  froa 
suspicion  or  evil  report.  I  assure  you  I  speak 
from  love  and  good  report,  and  good  opinion, 
and  a  strong  desire  to  see  you  shine  as  much  in 
the  sunshine  as  you  have  done  in  the  shade,  and 
in  the  practice  as  you  do  in  the  theory  of  virtue. 
This  is  my  prayer,  in  return  for  your  elegant 
composition  in  verse.  All  here  join  in  compli 
ments,  and  good  wishes  for  your  further  pros- 
perity. 


No.  XVII. 
TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esq. 

MAUCHLINE. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  7,  1786. 

HONOURED  SIR, 

I  HAVE  paid  every  attention  to  your  com 
mands,  but  can  only  say  what  perha|)s  you  will 
have  heard  before  this  rea"h  you,  that  Mui'- 
kirklands  were  bought  by  a  John  Gorilon,  W.  S. 
but  for  whom  I  know  not  ;  Mauchlands,  Hau^^l 
Mila,  &c.  by  a  Frederick  Fotheringham,  sup- 
posed to  be  for  Ballochrayle  Laird,  and  Adam- 
hill  and  Shawood  were  bought  for  Oswald'* 
fjiks. — This  is  so  imperfect  an  account,  and  will 
be  so  late  ere  it  reach  you,  that  were  it  not  to 
discharge  my  conscience  I  would  not  tiouble 
you  with  it ;  but  after  all  my  diligence  1  cou]d 
make  it  no  sooner  nor  better. 

For  my  own  affairs,  I  am  in  a  fair  way  of  be- 
coming as  eminent  as  Thomas  a  Keni.is  or  John 
Biinyan  ;  and  you  may  expect  henceforth  to  see 
my  birth-day  inserted  among  the  wonderful 
events,  in  the  poor  Robin's  and  Aberdeen  Al- 
manacks, along  with  the  Black  Monday,  and  the 

battle  of  Bothwell  Bridge ]\Iy  lord  Glencairn 

and  the  Dean  of  Faculty,  Mr.  H.  Erskine,  have 
taken  me  under  their  wing  ;  and  by  all  proba- 
bility I  shall  soon  be  the  tenth  worthy,  and  the 
eighth  wise  man  of  the  world.  Through  my 
lord's  influence  it  is  inserted  in  the  records  ot 
the  Caledonian  hunt,  that  they  universally,  one 
and  all,  subscribe  for  the  second  edition. — My 
sul>scri|)tion  bills  come  out  to-morrow,  and  vou 
shall  have  some  of  them  next  post. — I  have  lue' 
in  Mr.  Dalrymple,  of  Orangefield,  what  SoNpinon 
emphatically  calls,  "  A  friend  that  sticketh 
closer  than  a  brother." — The  warmth  with 
which  he  interests  himself  in  my  affairs  is  of  the 
same  enthusiastic  kind  which  you,  Mr.  Aikin, 
and  the  few  patrons  that  took  notice  of  my  ear- 
lier poetic  days,  shewed  for  the  poor  unlucky 
devil  of  a  poet. 

I  always  remember  Mi-s.  Hamilton  anil  Miss 
Kenneily  in  my  poetic  prayersi  but  you  both  in 
prose  and  verse. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


257 


I 


JT.iy  c.nilil  ne'er  cttch  you  Imt  •  a  Lap, 
Nor  Longer  Imt  in  plcuty"i»  lap  ! 
Aiucc  ' 


No.  xviir. 

TO  DR.  M'KEXZIE,  I\Iauciiline. 

(enclosing  him  the  extempore  verses  on 
dining  with  loud  daer.) 

DEAR  SIR,  Wednesday  Morning. 

I  NEVER  speiit  an  afternoon  among  great 
(oiks  with  lialt'  that  pleasure  as  when,  in  com- 
pany with  yon,  I  had  the  h.onour  of  paying  my 
devoirs  to  that  plain,  honest,  worthy  man,  the 
professor. j-  I  would  be  delighteil  to  see  him 
perform  acts  of  kiiuiness  and  friendship,  though 
I  were  not  the  object  ;  he  does  it  with  such  a 
grace.  I  think  his  character,  divided  into  ten 
parts,  stands  thus — four  parts  Socrates — four 
parts  Nathaniel — and  two  parts  Shakespeare's 
Brutus. 

The  foregoing  verses  were  reallv  extempore, 
but  a  little  corrected  since.  They  may  enter- 
tain you  a  little  with  the  help  of  that  partiality 
with  which  you  arc  so  good  as  favour  the  per- 
foriuauces  of 

Dear  Sir, 

Your  very  humble  Servant. 


No.  XIX. 


TO  JOHN  BALL.\NTINE,  Esq.  Canker, 

AVR. 

Edinlmrgh,  ]3th  Dec.  I78G. 

MY  HOVCtTRED   FRIEND, 

I  WOULD  not  write  you  till  I  could  have  it 
in  my  i)Ower  to  give  you  some  account  of  my- 
self and  my  matters,  which   by  the  bye  is  often 

no  easy  task 1   an  ived   here  on  Tuesday  was 

se'niiight,  and  have  sutfered  ever  siru;e  I  came 
to  town  with  a  miserable  liead-ache  and 
etomuch  complaint,  but  am  now  a  good  deal 
better. — 1  have  foimd  a  worthy  warm  friend  in 
Mr.  D ihymijle,  of  Orangeiield,  who  intrcjduced 
me  to  Lord  Glencairn,  a  man  whose  worth  and 
biochetly  kindness  to  me,  I  shall  remember 
wli>*n  time  shall  be  no  more. — I?y  his  interest  it 
isp»»,-d  in  the  Caledonian  hunt,  and  entered 
in  their  books,  that  they  are  to  take  each  a 
copy  of  the  second  eilition,   for  which   thev  are 

to  pay  one  guinea 1  have  been   introduced   to 

a  good  many  of  the  Aoblesse,  but  my  avowed 
patrons   and  patronesses   are,    the    Duchess  of 


Gordon — The  CouTitevs  nf  ('Ilenr-nim,  with  my 
Lord,  and  L  idy  Hetty* — Tlie    Dimii  of  I'.Huity 

—  Sir  John  U'lntefoonl. — I  hive  likewise  wnia 
frieiiils  among  the  literati;  Professors  Stewart, 
lilair,  and  Mr.  MKenr.ie — the  Man  of  Feeling. 

—  An  unknown  hind  left  ten  guineas  for  th« 
Ayrshire  bird  with   Mr.  Silibald,   which  I   got. 

—  I  since  have  discovered  my  geiiei  oils  unknown 
fiieiid  to  be  P.itrick  Miller,  l',si|.  Imitlier  to  tiie 
Justice  Clerk;  and  drank  a  glass  of  claret  with 
him  by  iiivit  ition  at  his  own  house  yesternight. 
I  am  n-early  agreed  with  Creech  to  jjiint  my 
book,  and  I  suppose  I  will  begin  on  .Monday.  I 
will  send  a  subscri|)tioii  bill  or  two,  next  post  ; 
when  I  intend  writing  my  fir^t  kind  pation, 
.Mr.  Aiken.  I  saw  his  sim  to-d  ly  ancl  he  is 
very  well. 

Diigald  Stewart,  and  some  of  my  learned 
friends,  put  me  in  tlie  periodical  paper  called 
the  Loimger.f  a  copy  of  which  I  here  enclose 
you — I  was,  Sir,  when  I  was  first  honoured  with 
your  notice,  too  obscure  ;  now  I  tremble  lest  I 
should  be  ruined  by  being  draggeil  too  suddenly 
into  the  glare  of  polite  and  leirned  obsei  vation. 

I  shall  certainly,  my  ever  honoured  ])ation, 
write  you  an  account  of  my  every  step ;  and 
better  health  and  more  s[)irits  may  enable  me  tc 
make  it  something  better  thau  this  stu[iid  mat- 
ter of  fact  epistle. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be, 
G'ooil  Sir, 
Your  ever  grateful  humble  Servaai 

If  any  of  my  friends  write  me,  mv  diiecti&O 
;8,  care  of  .Mr.  Creech,  bookseiier. 


•  "  Diit"  is  frequently  Ufcd  for  "  witliout ;" 
wit/lout  ciithvig. 
t  Professuf  Uugald  Stewart- 


1  e. 


No.  XX.  t 

TO  MR.  AVILLIA.M  CIIAL:MERS» 

Writer,  Arn. 

Edinburgh,  Dec.  27,  17S6. 

Mr  PEAR  friend, 

I  CONFESS  I  have  sinned  the  sin  for  whiih 
there  is  hardly  any  forgiveness — ingratitude  to 
friendship — in  not  writing  you  sooner  ;  but  of 
all  men  living,  I  had  intended  to  send  you  an 
entertaining  letter;  and  by  all  the  plodding, 
stupid  powers,  that  in  nodding,  con ■eitud  ma- 
jesty, preside  over  the  dull  routine  of  Imsiness — 
A  heavily-solemn  oath  this  ! — I  am,  and  have 
been,  ever  since  I  came  to  Eiliiiburgh,  as  untit 
to  write  a  letter  of  humour,  as  to  write  a  com- 
mentary on  the  Revelation  of  St.  John  the  Di- 
vine, who  was  banished  to  the  Isle  of  I'atmos, 
by  the  cruel  and  bloody  Domitian,  siui  to  Ve»- 
pasian  and  brother  to  Titus,  both  emperors  of 
Rome,   and  who  was  Limsclf  an  cmpiMor,  ami 


•  LaiJy  Betty  Cunningham. 

1    ITie  paper  here  alhuled  to,   wrwi  written  b'  Mr. 
M'Keiuie,  Iho  celebrated  auUior  of  the  Man  of  iwU 

%  Thti  letter  is  now  prcscntixl  ontiie. 


258 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


raised  the  second  or  third  persecution,  I  forget 
which,  against  the  Christians  and  after  throw- 
ing the  said  Apostle  John,  brother  to  the  Apostle 
James,  commonly  called  James  the  greater,  to 
distinguish  him  from  another  James,  who  was, 
on  some  atcoi-.nt  or  other,  known  by  the  name 
of  James  the  less,  after  throwing  him  into  a 
raldron  of  boiling  oil,  from  which  he  was  mi- 
raculously preserved,  he  bar.ished  the  poor  son 
of  Zehedee,  to  a  desert  island  in  the  Archipe- 
lago, where  he  was  gifted  with  the  second  sight, 
aud  saw  as  many  wild  beasts  as  I  have  seen 
since  I  came  to  Edinburgh  ;  which,  a  circum- 
stance not  very  uncommon  in  story-telling, 
brings  me  back  to  where  I  set  out. 

To  make  you  some  amends  for  what,  before 
you  reach  this  paragraph,  you  will  have  suffer- 
ed ;  I  enclose  you  two  pnems  1  have  carded  and 
spun  since  I  past  Glenbuck. 

One  blank  in  the  address  to  Edinburgh — 
•'  Fair  B ,"  is  heavenly  Miss  Burnet,  daugh- 
ter to  Lord  Monboddo,  at  whose  house  I  have 
had  the  honour  to  be  more  than  once. 

There  has  not  been  any  thing  nearly  like  her, 
in  all  the  combinations  of  beauty,  grace,  and 
goodness,  the  Great  Creator  has  formed,  since 
Blilton's  Eve  on  the  fust  driy  of  her  existence. 

My  direction  is — care  of  Andrew  Bruce,  mer- 
chant, Bridge- Street. 


LETTERS,  1T87. 

No.  XXI. 
TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  Esq. 

Edinhirgh,  Jan.  14,  17S7. 

1A\     HONOURED   FRIEND, 

It  gives  me  a  secret  comfort  to  observe  in 
mv^elf  that  1  am  not  yet  so  far  gcme  as  Willie 
G.iw's  skate,  "  past  redemption  ;"*  for  I  have 
still  lK\%  favourable  symptom  of  grace,  that  when 
my  conscience,  as  in  the  case  of  this  letter,  tells 
me  I  am  leaving  eomething  undone  that  I  ought 
to  do,  it  teazes  me  eternally  till  I  do  it. 

I  air.  still  "  dark  as  was  chaos"  in  respect  to 
futurity.  ]\Iy  generous  friend,  Mj.  Patrick  Mil- 
ler, has  been  talking  with  n;e  about  a  lease  of 
some  fiim  or  other  in  an  estate  called  Dal>win- 
tnn,  which  he  has  lately  bought  near  Dumfries. 
Some  life-rented  cmbitteiing  recollections  whls- 
pet  nie  thit  I  will  be  hap|iier  any  where  than 
in  my  old  neighbonrhuod,  but  Mr.  Miller  is  no 
judge  of  land  ;  and  though  I  dare  say  he  iiu'aiis 
to  favour  me,  yet  he  may  give  me,  in  his  opi- 
nion, an  advantageous  bargain,  that  may  luiii 
nie.  I  am  to  take  a  tour  by  Diiinfiics  as  I  re- 
turn, and  have  ])''oinisecl  to  meet  Mr.  Miller  or. 
his  Ian-is  some  time  in  .May. 


•  This  is  one  of  a  Rrcat  noinber  of  old  sntrs  tlint 
liioiis,  wlier.  a  lad,  nad  pii'lu'ii  up  fKini  liis  ii;iii1ilt, 
of  wl\:ch  tlie  yooil  old  v^oinan  liad  a  vast  collection. 


I  went  to  a  Jlason-lodge  cesternight,  where 
the  most  Worshipful-Grana  IMaster  Charters, 
and  all  the  Grand-Lodge  of  Scotlaad  visited.— 
The  meeting  was  nuinerous  and  elegant  ;  all  tha 
different  Lodges  about  town  were  present,  in  all 
their  pomp.  The  Grand  IMaster,  who  presided 
with  great  solemnity  and  honour  to  him.self  as  a 
gentleman  and  Mason,  aiuong  other  general 
toasts  gave   "  Caledonia,  and   Caledonia's  Bard, 

Brother  B ,"  which  rung  through  the  whole 

assembly  with  multifilied  honours  and  repeated 
acclamations.  As  I  had  no  idea  such  a  thing 
would  happen,  I  was  downright  thunder-strutk. 
and  trembling  in  every  nerve  made  the  best  re- 
turn in  iny  power.  Just  as  I  had  finished,  seme 
of  the  grand  officers  said,  so  loud  that  I  could 
hear,  with  a  most  comforting  accent,  "  Very 
well  indeed  !"  which  set  me  something  to  rights 
i^ain. 


I  have  to-d.iy  corrected  my  ]52d  page.     My 
best  good  wishes  to  Mr.  Aiken. 
I  am  ever. 
Dear  Sir, 
Your  much  indebted  humble  Servant 


No.  XXIL 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  EGLINTON. 

MY  LORD,  Edinhurghs  Jan,  17S7. 

As  I  have  bi't  slender  pretensions  to  philoso- 
[diy,  I  cannot  risn  to  the  exalted  ideas  of  a  ci- 
tizen of  the  world  ;  but  have  all  those  national 
prejudices  which,  I  believe,  glow  ])eculiarly 
strong  in  the  breast  of  a  Scotchman.  There  is 
scarcely  any  thing  Co  which  I  am  so  feelingly 
alive,  as  the  honour  and  welfare  of  my  country  ; 
and,  as  a  poet,  I  have  no  higher  enjoyment  than 
singing  her  sons  and  daughters.  Fate  had  cast 
my  station  in  the  verie>t  shades  of  life  ;  but  ne- 
ver did  a  heart  pint  more  aidently  than  mine, 
to  be  distinguished  ;  though,  till  veiy  lately,  I 
looked  in  vain  on  every  side  for  a  r.iy  of  light. 
It  is  easy,  then,  to  guess  how  much  I  was  gra- 
tified with  the  countenance  and  approbation  of 
one  of  niv  counfrv's  most  illustrious  sons,  when 
Mr.  Wauchope  called  on  me  yesterday,  on  the 
part  of  your  lordship.  Your  munificence,  my 
lord,  ceitainly  deserves  my  very  grateful  ac- 
knowledgments; but  your  patronige  is  a  boun- 
ty pecidiarly  suited  to  my  feelings.  1  am  not 
master  enough  of  the  etiquette  of  life  to  know 
whether  there  be  not  soiue  iinprojjriety  in 
troubling  your  lordship  with  my  thanks  ;  but 
my  heart  whisi)ered  me  to  do  it.  From  th» 
euMitions  of  my  inmost  soul  I  do  it.  Sel(i-h  in 
gratitude,  I  hope,  I  am  incapal)le  of;  and  mcr 
cenary  servility,  I  trust,  I  sh.iH  ever  have  so 
much  honest  pride  as  to  detest. 


CORRESPONDEXCE. 


259 


>o.  xxiir. 

rO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

m-jtM-KfU  Hdlnhurcih,  }bth  Jan.  17S7. 

YouKS  of  the  9th  ciincnt,  which  I  am  this 
mdnu'nt  honomt'd  witli,  is  a  deep  reproach  to 
nu'  for  iingritefiil  neglect.  I  will  tell  ymt  the 
re.il  truth,  for  I  am  miscrahly  awkward  at  a 
fill :  I  wished  to  have  written  to  Dr.  Moore 
before  I  wrote  to  you  ;  but  thoua;h,  every  d.iy 
»inee  I  received  yours  of  December  30th,  the 
i<l;'a,  the  wish  to  write  him,  has  constantly 
pressed  on  my  thoughts,  yet  I  could  not  for  my 
foul  set  about  it.  I  know  his  fame  and  charac- 
ter, and  I  am  one  of  "  the  sons  of  little  men." 
To  wiite  him  a  mere  matter-of-fact  atT.iir,  like 
a  merchant's  order,  would  be  disgracing  the  lit- 
tle character  I  h  ive  ;  and  to  write  the  author 
of  The  View  of  Society  and  Manners  a  letter 
of  sentiment — I  declare  svery  artery  runs  cold 
at  the  thought.  I  shall  try,  however,  to  write 
him  to-morrow  or  next  day.  His  kind  interpo- 
sition in  my  behalf  I  have  ulready  experienced, 
as  a  gentleman  waited  on  me  the  other  day,  <m 
the  part  of  L(>rd  Eglinton,  with  ten  guineas  bv 
way  of  subscription  for  two  copies  of  my  next 
edition. 

The  word  you  object  to  in  the  mention  I 
have  made  of  my  glorious  countryman  and  your 
immortal  ancestor,  is  indeed  borrowed  from 
Thomson  ;  but  it  does  not  strike  me  as  an  im- 
<jro|)er  epithet.  I  distrusted  my  own  judgment 
on  your  finding  fault  with  it, 'ami  applied  for 
the  opinion  of  some  of  the  literati  here,  who 
honour. me  with  their  critical  strictures,  and 
»c-iy  all  allow  it  to  be  proper.  The  song  you 
ksk  I  cannot  recollect,  and  I  have  not  a  copy  of 
it.  I  have  not  composed  any  thing  on  the^'reat 
Wallace,  ex<-ept  what  you  have  seen  in  print, 
anil  the  enclosed,  which  I  will  print  in  this  edi- 
tion. •  You  win  see  I  have  mentioned  s(<me 
others  of  the  name.  When  I  composed  mv 
1  Vismn,  long  ago,  I  had  attempted  a  description 
of  Kyle,  of  which  the  additional  stanzas  are  a 
part,  as  it  originally  stood.  i\Jy  heart  "-lows 
with  a  wish  to  be  able  to  do  justice  to  the  iiie- 
lits  of  the  Siirioiir  of  /lis  Cuuntri/,  which, 
sooner  or  later,  I  shall  at  least  attempt. 


ward  rusticity  and  crude  unpolished  Ideis  on  mv 
head — I  assure  you,  Madam,  I  do  not  dissemlile 
when  I  tell  you  I  tremble  for  the  conse(<ueiices. 
The  novelty  of  a  jxiet  in  my  obscure  situation, 
without  any  of  those  advantages  which  are 
reckoned  tieccssiry  for  that  character,  at  least 
at  this  time  of  day,  has  raised  a  partial  tide  of 
public  notice,  which  has  borne  me  to  a  height 
where  I  am  absolutely,  feelingly  certain,  my 
abilities  are  inadequate  to  support  me  ;  and  too 
surely  do  I  see  tliat  time  when  the  same  tide 
will  leave  me,  and  recede,  perhaps,  as  far  belovt 
the  mark  of  truth. 


Your  ))atronizing  me,  and  interestirtg  your- 
self in  my  fame  and  character  as  a  [joet,  I  re- 
joice in  ;  it  exalts  me  in  my  own  idea  ;  and 
whether  you  can  or  cannot  aid  me  in  my  sub- 
seription  is  a  trifle.  Has  a  paltry  subscription, 
bill  any  charms  to  the  heart  of  a' bard,  compar- 
ed with  the  pitronage  of  the  descendant  of  the 
immortal  Wallace? 


No.  XXIV 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 


You  are  afraid  I  shall  grow  into.xicated  with 
my  prosperity  as  a  poet.  Alas!  Jladam,  I 
know  myself  and  the  world  too  well.  1  do  not 
mean  any  airs  of  affected  modesty  ;  I  am  wil- 
ling to  believe  that  my  abilities  deserved  some 
notice  ;  but  in  a  most  enlightened,  informed 
»ge  and  nation,  when  poetiy  is  and  has  been 
the  study  of  men  of  the  first  natural  genius, 
Jidcd  with  all  the  powers  of  polite  learninir, 
polite  boolcs,  and  polite  company — to  be  drag- 
ged forth  to  the  full  glare  ot  le  irned  and  polfte 
observation,   with  all  my  imperfections  of  awk- 


»  Stanzas  in  tho   Vmnn,  l(ef;inninj  tliiril    stanza, 
Hy  stately  tov-er  j:  julacefair.-  and  ending  wiUi  tlie 
I     Brit  duan. 


SIR,  i7g7_ 

IMrs.  Dunt.op  has  been  so  kind  as  to  send  m 
extracts  of  letters  she  has  liad  from  you,  whera 
you  do  the  rustic  bard  the  honour  of  noticing 
him  and  his  works.  Those  who  have  felt  the 
anxieties  and  solicitudes  of  authorshi|v,  can  only 
know  what  pleasure  it  gives  to  be  noticed  in  such 
a  manner  by  judges  of  the  first  character.  Your 
criticivns.  Sir,  I  receive  with  reverence  ;  only, 
I  urn  sorry  they  mostly  came  too  late;  a  peccant 
passage  or  two,  that  I  would  certainly  have  al- 
tered, were  gone  to  the  press. 

The  hope  to  be  admired  for  a.ges  is,  in  by  far 
the  greater  part  of  those  even  who  are  authors 
of  repute,  an  unsubstantial  dream.  For  my  part, 
my  first  ambition  was,  and  still  my  strongest 
wish  is,  to  please  my  comiieers,  the  rustic  in- 
mates of  the  hamlet,  while  ever  changing  lan- 
guage and  m,iuners  shall  a'low  me  to  be  relished 
and  understood.  I  am  very  willing  to  admit 
that  I  have  some  poetical  abilities;  and  as  few, 
li'  any  writers,  either  moral  (,r  jjoetical,  tre  inti- 
mately acipiaiiitcd  with  the  closes  of  mankind 
aj»ong  whom  I  have  cliieHy  mingled,  I  ir.ay  have 
seen  men  and  ■.iiaiuiers  in  a  difieioiit  phi-is  fri;m 
what  is  common,  \\hich  may  a-sist  originality 
of  thought.  Still  I  know  very  well  the  novelty 
of  my  charactir  has  by  far  the  greatest  share  in 
the  learned  ai.d  polite  notice  I  have  lately  had  ; 
and  in  a  linguage  where  Pope  and  ChurcliiU 
hive  lai-ed  the  laugh,  and  Shenstone  and  Gray 
drawn  the  tear — where  'I'homsori  and  Beattie 
have  pauited  the  landscape,  and  Lyttleton  and 
Collins  deseiib.d  fh  •  heart,  I  am' not  vain  e. 
nougl-  to  hope  for  distinguished  poetic  fame. 


260 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  XXV. 

FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

SIR,  Clifford  Street,  Jan.  23,  1787. 

I  HAVE  just  rufeived  your  letter,  by  which  I 
find  I  hii'e  reason  to  complain  of  my  friend 
Mis.  Diinio])  for  transmitting;  to  you  extracts 
fruni  my  letters  to  her,  by  much  too  freely  and 
too  careles>ly  written  for  your  perusal.  I  must 
forgive  her,  however,  in  consideration  of  her 
good  intention,  as  you  will  torgive  me,  I  hope, 
for  the  freedom  I  use  with  certain  expressions, 
in  consideration  of  my  admiration  of  the  poems 
in  generd.  If  I  may  judge  of  the  author's  dis- 
position from  his  works,  with  all  the  other  good 
qualities  of  a  poet,  he  has  not  the  irritable  tem- 
per ascribed  to  that  race  of  men  by  one  of  their 
own  number,  whom  you  have  the  happiness  to 
resemble  in  ease  and  curious  fdicity  of  expres- 
sion. Indeed  the  poetical  beauties,  however 
original  and  brilliant,  and  lavishly  scattered, 
are  not  all  I  admire  in  your  works  ;  the  love  of 
your  native  country,  th.it  feeling  sensibility  to 
all  the  objects  of  humanity,  and  the  independent 
spirit  which  breathes  through  the  whole,  give 
me  a  most  favourable  impression  of  the  poet, 
and  have  made  ine  often  regret  that  I  did  not 
see  the  poems,  the  certain  effect  of  which  would 
have  been  my  seeing  the  author  last  summer, 
when  I  was  longer  in  Scotland  than  I  have  been 
fur  niiny  years. 

I  rejoice  v«rv  sincerely  at  the  eiicouragemerit 
you  receive  at  J^dmburgh,  and  I  think  you  pe- 
culiarly fortur.ite  in  the  i)atronage  of  Dr.  Blair, 
who,  I  am  informed,  interests  himself  very  much 
for  you.  I  beg  to  be  remembered  to  him  :  no- 
body can  have  a  warmer  regard  for  th  it  gentle- 
man tiian  I  have,  which,  independent  of  the 
worth  of  his  character,  would  be  kept  alive  by 
the  meniorv  of  our  common  friend,  the  late  Mr. 
George  B e. 

Before  1  received  your  letter,  I  sent  enclosed 
in  a  letter  to ,  a  sonnet  by  Miss  Wil- 
liams, a  young  poetical  lady,  which  she  wrote 
on  reading  your  flJountain-Daisy  ;  j)erhaps  it 
may  not  displease  you.  • 

1  have  been  trying  to  add  to  the  number  of 
your  subscribers,  but  1  find  many  of  my  ac- 
quaintance are  alrearly  among  them.  1  have 
oiily  to  add,  that  with  every  sentiment  of  es- 
teem, and  most  cordial  good  wishes, 
I  am, 

Your  obedient  humble  servant, 
J.   MOORE. 


•  The  sonnet  is  as  follows:— 

Wiiirj!  soon  the  garden's  flaunting  flowers  de- 
cay, 

And  ecattered  on  the  earth  neglected  lie, 
Die   "  Mouiitain-I)ai»y,"  chcnslicd  by  the  ray 

A  iioct  drew  from  heaven,  shall  never  die. 
Ah,  like  that  lonely  floucr  the  poet  rose  ! 

'Mid  penury's  bare  soil  and  bitter  gale; 


He  felt  each  storm  that  on  the  mountain  blows. 

Nor  ever  knew  the  shelter  of  the  vale. 
By  genius  in  her  native  vigour  nurst, 

On  nature  with  iinpassion'd  look  he  gazed  ; 
Then  through  the  cloud  of  adverse  fortune  buisl 

Indignant,  and  in  light  unbnrrow'd  blazed. 
Scoiia!   from  rude  affliction  shield  thy  bard, 

His  heaven-taught  numbers  Fame  herself  will 
guard. 


No.  XXVI. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

SIR.  Edinburcih.  \bth  Feb.  1787. 

Parbox  iny  seeming  neglect  iu  d»lay:ng  so 
long  to  acknowledge  the  honour  yoa  have  done 
me,  in  your  kind  notice  of  me,  January  S3d. 
Not  many  months  ago,  I  knew  no  other  em- 
plovraent  than  following  the  plough,  nor  could 
boast  any  thing  higher  than  a  distant  acquaint- 
ance with  a  country  clergyman.  Jlere  great- 
ness never  embarrasses  me  :  I  have  nothing  to 
ask  from  the  great,  and  I  do  not  fear  their 
judijment  ;  but  genius,  polished  by  learning, 
and  at  its  proper  point  of  elevation  in  the  eye  of 
the  Vt'orld,  this  of  late  I  frequently  meet  with, 
and  tremble  at  its  approach.  I  scorn  the  affec- 
tation of  seeming  modesty  to  cover  self-conceit. 
That  I  have  some  merit  I  do  not  deny  ;  but  I 
see,  with  frequent  wringing*  of  heart,  that  the 
novelty  of  mv  character,  and  the  honest  national 
prejudice  of  my  countrymen,  have  borne  me  to 
a  height  altogether  untenable  to  my  abilities. 

For  the  honour  IMiss  W.  has  done  me,  please. 
Sir,  return  her  in  my  name,  my  most  grateful 
thanks.  I  have  more  than  once  thought  of  p.iy- 
ing  her  in  kind,  but  have  hitherto  quitted  the 
idea  in  hopeless  despondency.  I  had  never  be- 
Sire  heard  of  her  ;  but  the  other  day  I  got  her 
poems,  which,  for  several  reasons,  some  belong- 
ing to  the  head,  and  others  the  offspring  of  the 
heart,  give  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.  I  have 
little  pretensions  to  tritic  lore:  there  are,  I 
think,  two  characteristic  features  in  her  poetry 
— the  unfettered  wild  flight  of  native  genius, 
and  the  querulous,  suinhre  tenderness  of  "  time- 
settled  sorrow." 

I  only  know  what  pleases  me,  often  without 
being  able  to  tell  why. 


No.  XXVIl 
TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  Esq.  Air. 
Edinhuryh,  Feb.  24,  1787 

MY   HONOURED    FIlIKNn, 

I  WILL  soon  be  with  you  now  in  (juid  Hack 
prent  ;  in  a  week  or  ten  days  at  farthest — 1  aic 
obliged,   againiit   my  own    wish,    to  print  sul>. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


261 


•cfiiiers  names,  so  if  any  of  my  Ayr  friends 
h.ive  s\iliscri|)tion  I)ills,   tiny  must  be  sent  in  to 

CVfei-h  (lirei'tly 1  am  iiL'ttin;;  my  phiz  <liitie  Jiy 

m  eniiiieiit  erfjraver  ;  and  if  it  c.in  lie  ready  in 
".'viw.  I  will  a|)])ear  in  my  book  looking  like  other 
fojls,  to  my  title  paf^e.* 

1  have  the  honour  to  be, 

liver  your  grateful,  &c. 


No.  xxviir. 

FROM  DR.   MOORE. 

Clifford  Street,  2Sth  Ftb.  1787. 

DEAR  SIR, 

Your  letter  of  the  15th  gave  me  a  great  deal 
of  pleasure.  It  is  not  suijirising  that  you  im- 
prove in  correctness  and  taste,  considering  where 
you  have  heen  for  some  time  past.  Ar,d  I  dare 
su't'ir  there  is  no  danger  of  your  admittin'^  any 
polish  ulrch  might  weaken  the  vigour  of  your 
native  powers. 

I  am  glad  to  perceive  that  you  disdain  the 
nauseous  aftectatiot:  of  decrying  your  own  merit 
as  a  poet — an  affectation  which  is  displayed  with 
niii-t  ostcnt.icion  by  tho^e  who  have  the  greatest 
share  of  self-conceit,  and  which  only  adds  utide- 
ceiving  falsehood  to  disgusting  vanity.  For  you 
to  deny  the  merit  of  your  poems  would  be  ar- 
raigning the  fixcil  opinion  of  the  public. 

As  the  new  edition  of  my  Vieiv  nf  Society 
is  not  yet  ready,  I  have  sent  you  the  former 
edition,  which,  I  beg  you  will  a.-cept  as  a  small 
n.aik  of  my  esteem.  It  is  sent  by  sea,  to  the 
care  o!  Mr.  Creech  ;  and,  along  with  these  four 
voIi:nies  lor  yourself,  I  have  also  sent  my  HLdi- 
':nl  Sketches,  in  one  volume,  for  my  friend  Mrs. 
Duidop  of  Dunlop  :  this  you  will  he  so  obliging 
as  to  transmit,  or  if  you  chance  to  pass  iooa  by 
l)iinlo]),  to  give  to  her. 

I  am  happy  to  hear  tint  your  subscription  is 
'O  ainjile.  ami  shall  rejoice  at  every  piece  of  goixl 
lortnne  that  befills  you  :  for  you  are  a  very 
great  favouiite  in  nty  fimily  ;  and  this  is  a 
higher  compliment  than  [lerhaps  you  are  aware 
of.  Il  includes  almost  all  the  professions,  and 
of  course  is  a  |)ro(jf  that  your  writings  are  adapt- 
ed to  various  tastes  anil  situation-*.  My  young. 
est  son  who  is  at  Winchester  school,  writes  to 
me  that  he  is  translating  some  stanzas  of  your 
H'illiitci:'en  into  Latin  verse,  for  thj  benefit  of 
his  comrades.  This  union  of  ta»te  partly  pro- 
ceeds, no  doubt,  from  the  cement  of  Scotti-h 
partiality,  with  which  they  are  all  somewhat 
tiiictured.    Even  i/our  translator,  who  left  Scot- 


•  This  portrait  is  etigravod  by  Mr.  Douro,  an  artist 
who  well  nieriis  the  c  ithet  bes:o,vcil  on  hi;n  b>  Itie 
pot'i,  after  a  pictiiri'  of  \Ir.  N;ismyth,  wlilcli  tic  pinit- 
eil  con  mil-,  e,  ami  libt  rally  preseiileJ  to  Uurns.  Tins 
picture  Ik '  f  tlic  cibniei  Mzc 


land    too    early    in    life   for  recollection,   it   not 
without  it. 


I  remain,  with  greatest  Rincerity, 
Your  obedient  servant, 

J.  MOORE. 


No.   XXIX. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRX. 

MY  LORD,  Etlinburg'u  !787. 

I  WAKTEU  to  purchase  a  iirotile  of  your  loi-H . 
ship,  which  I  was  told  was  to  be  got  in  town  • 
but  I  am  truly  sorry  to  see  that  a  blundering 
painter  has  spoiled  a  "  iuiman  face  divine.' 
The  enclosed  stanzas  I  intended  to  have  written 
below  a  picture  or  profile  of  your  lordship,  could 
I  have  been  so  happy  as  to  procure  one  with  any 
thing  (if  a  likeness. 

."^s  I  will  socm  return  to  my  shades,  I  wanted 
to  have  something;  like  a  material  oliject  fur  my 
gratitude  ;    I  wanted  to  have  it   in  my  power  to 
say  to  a  frietid.   There  is  my  noble  patron,  my 
generous  benefactor.      Allow   me,   my   lord,    to 
publish   these  verses.      I  conjure  your  lordship 
by   the  honest  throe  of  gratitude,   by  the  gene- 
rous wish  (if  benevolence,  by  all  the  powers  and 
feelings  which  comiose  the  magnanimous  mind, 
do  not  deny  me  this  petition.*      I  owe  to  your 
lordship  ;   and  what  has  not  in   some  other  in 
stances  always  been  the  cise  with  me,  the  weigh 
of  the  obligation  is  a  pleasing  load.      I  tru>t, 
have  a  heart  as  independent  as  your  lordship'^ 
than    which    I    can   say    nothing    more :    and 
would   not   he  beholden   to  f(vours   that  wou'i 
i  crucify   my  feelings.      Your  dignified  charactet 
in  life,  and  manner  of  su|>p()rting  that  ch.iracter 
are  flattering  lo  my  pride;   and  I  would  be  jea- 
lous of  the  purity   of  .iiy  grateful   attachment, 
where  I  was  under  the  pitmn  ige  of  one  of  the 
much  fiy(nireil  sons  of  f  ntune. 

.Mmo^t  every  poet  has  ce'ebrated  his  patrons, 
particularly  when  they  were  names  dear  to  fame, 
and  idustrious  it)  their  country  ;  allow  me,  then, 
my  lord,  if  you  think  the  verses  have  intrinsic 
merit,  to  tell  the  world  tiow  much  I  have  the 
honour  to  be 

Your  lordship's  highly  indebted. 
And  ever  grateful  humble  servant 


•  It  doce  not  appear  that  the  Earl  pranted  this  re 
rjiiest,  nor  have  the  verses  iJludud  to  been  fuiiu4 
among  the  MbS. 


262 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  XXX. 

70  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

MY  LORD, 

The  honour  your  lordship  has  done  me,  by 
your  notice  and  advice  in  yours  of  the  1st  in- 
stant, 1  shall  ever  gratefully  remember  : 

"  Praise   from   thy   lips  'tis  mine  with  jcy  to 

boast. 
They  best  can  give  it  who  deserve  it  most." 

Your  lordship  touches  the  darling  chord  of 
my  heart,  when  you  advise  me  to  fire  my  muse 
at  Scottish  story  and  Scottish  scenes.  I  wish 
for  nothing  more  than  to  make  a  leisurely  pil- 
grimaf^e  through  my  native  country  ;  to  sit  and 
muse  on  those  once  hard- contended  £elds,  where 
Caledonia,  rejoicing,  saw  her  bloody  lion  borne 
through  broken  ranks  to  victory  and  fame  ;  and, 
catching  the  inspiration,  to  pour  the  deathless 
names  in  song.  But,  my  lord,  in  the  midst  of 
these  enthusiastic  reveries,  a  long-visaged,  dry, 
moral- looking  phantom  strides  across  my  iuiagi- 
natioB,  and  pronounces  these  emphatic  words, 
''  1,  Wisdom,  dwell  with  prudence." 


This,  my  lord,  is  unanswerable.  I  must  re- 
Vjrn  to  my  humble  station,  and  woo  my  rustic 
muse  in  my  wonted  way  at  the  plough-tail, 
Stiil,  my  lord,  while  the  drops  of  life  warm  my 
heart,  gratitude  to  that  dear-loved  country  in 
nliich  I  boa>t  my  birth,  and  gratitude  to  those 
her  di>tiiigiiishcd  sons,  who  have  honoured  me 
to  much  «  itli  their  patronage  ami  approbation, 
fhaJI,  while  ste.'.ling  through  my  humble  shades. 
ever  distend  my  bosom,  and  at  times  draw 
forth  the  swelling  tear. 


Edinburgh.  Gentlemen,  I  am  sorry  to  be  toW 
that  the  remains  of  Rob.-rt  Fergusson,  the  ss 
justly  celebrated  poet,  a  man  whose  talents,  for 
apes  to  come,  will  do  honour  to  our  Caledo- 
nian name,  lie  in  your  church-yard,  among  the 
ignoble  dead,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

"  Some  memorial  to  direct  the  steps  of  the 
lovers  of  Scottish  song,  when  they  wish  to  shed 
a  tear  over  the  "  narrow  house,"  of  the  bard 
who  is  no  more,  is  surely  a  tribute  due  to  Fer- 
gusson's  memory ;  a  tribute  I  wish  to  have  the 
honour  of  paying. 

"  I  petition  you,  then.  Gentlemen,  to  permit 
ine  to  lay  a  simple  stone  over  his  revered  ashes, 
to  remain  an  unalienable  property  to  his  death- 
less fame.  I  have  the  honour  to  be.  Gentlemen, 
your  very  humble  servant,  (sic  suhscribitur ), 
"  ROBERT  BURNS." 

Thereafter  the  said  managers,  in  considera 
tion  of  the  laudable  and  disinterested  motion 
of  Mr.  Burns,  and  the  propriety  of  his  request, 
did,  and  hereby  do,  unanimously  grant  power 
and  liberty  to  the  said  Robert  Burns  to  erect 
a  headstone  at  the  grave  of  the  said  Robert 
Fergusson,  and  to  la;ep  up  and  preserve  the 
same  to  his  memory  in  all  time  coming.  Ex 
tractcd  forth  of  the  records  of  the  managers,  by 
William  Sprott,  Ckrk 


No.  XXXI. 

Ert.  Pr  pertij  in  favour  of  Mr.  Robert 
BuRNC,  to  erect  tinil  keep  up  a  Uendstoiie  in 
mtmory  of  Putt  Fergusson,  17S7. 

Session-lioiise,  xrithin  the  Kirk  of  Ca- 
voni/ntc,  the  ttceiity-secc-nii  ituy  of 
J'll/rii'iri/,  one  t/inimund  seven  bun- 
dled and  eiyhty-stven  years. 

Sederunt  of  the  managers  of  the  Kirk  and  Kiik- 
yard  Funds  of  Canongate. 

Which  day,  the  treasurer  to  the  said  funds 
proiluci'cl  a  letter  from  Mr.  Robert  liuriis,  of 
date  the  sixth  current,  which  wa"  read,  and 
appointed  to  be  en^ro-scd  in  tlieir  sedeiiiut- 
boiik,  'iiid  (if  wliicli  letter  the  tenor  foilou^. 
"   To    the    Honourable    Bailies    of   C'auongate, 


No.  XXXII. 

TO 


MY  BEAR  SIR, 

You  may  think,  and  too  justly,  that  I  am  a 
selfish  ungrateful  fellow,  having  received  so 
many  repeated  instances  of  kindness  from  you, 
and  yet  never  putting  pen  to  paper  to  say  — 
thank  you  ;  l)ut  if  you  knew  what  a  devil  of  u 
life  my  conscience  has  led  me  on  that  account, 
your  good  heart  would  think  yourself  too  much 
avenged.  By  the  bye,  there  is  nothing  in  the 
whole  frame  of  man  which  seems  to  me  so 
unaccountable  as  that  thing  called  conscience. 
Had  the  troublesome  yelping  cur  powers  tfti- 
cient  to  prevent  a  mischief,  lie  might  be  ol 
use  ;  but  at  the  beginning  of  the  business,  bis 
feeble  elToits  are  to  the  woi  kings  of  passion  -it 
tlie  iiif  lilt  frosts  of  an  autumnal  morning  to  the 
iinc'ouiled  fervour  of  tbe  rising  sun  :  and  no 
sooner  are  the  timiultiious  doini;s  of  the  wiiked 
deed  over,  than,  amidst  the  bitter  native  con- 
sequences of  folly,  in  the  very  vortex  of  our 
horrois,  up  starts  conscience,  and  barrows  w* 
with  the  feelings  of  the  d . 

I  h  ive  enclosed  you,  by  way  of  expi  ition, 
some  verse  and  pro~e,  that,  if  they  merit  a  place 
in  your  truly  entertaining  nii^cell.iny.  >ou  are 
"elcoine  to.  The  [.rose  extract  is  literally  a» 
.Mr.  Sprutt  scut  't  me. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


263 


Tilt  Inscnptum  on  the  Stone  is  as  follows  : 
HERE  LIES  ROBEUT  FERGUSSON, 

POKT. 

Bon.  S'piaxbsr  rilfi,  \~J\—Died,  Uth  October  1771. 

No  soulptiircil  mmble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
"  No  stoiitd  urn  nor  aniinatod  bust  ;" 

This  simple  stone  diiects  pale  Scotia  s  way 
To  puur  her  sorrows  o'er  her  poet's  dust. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  Stone  is  as  foUoics  : 

"  Ry  special  Rrant  of  the  5Iana;;ers  to  Robert 
Burns,  who  erected  this  stone,  ihis  burial-place 
is  to  remain  £ir  ever  sacred  to  chc  memory  of 
Robert  Ftrjjusson." 


No.  XXXIII. 

EXTRACT  OF  A  LETTER 
FROM 

Sth  March,  1 787. 

I  AM  truly  happy  to  know  you-  have  found  a 

friend   in  ;    his   patronage  of   you   does 

h;iii  great  honour.  He  is  truly  a  gofid  man  ; 
by  far  the  best  I  ever  kne'v,  or,  ])erhaps,  ever 
sliall  know,  in  this  Vv-orld.  Rut  I  must  not 
fpcak  all  I  think  of  him,  lest  I  should  be  thought 
partial. 

So  you  liave  obtained  liberty  from  the  masjis- 
trates  to  erect  a  stone  over  Fergu-soti's  grave  ? 
I  do  not  doubt  it ;  such  things  have  been,  as 
Shakespeare  says,   "  in  the  olden  time  :" 

"  The  poet's  fate,  is  here  in  emblem  shown, 
He  a>k'd  fur  bread,  and  he  received  a  stone.' 


w(udd  take  a  snujf,  wcll-i.ircf.  bed-i-oom  lor  me, 
where  I  may  have  the  pleasine  of  seeing  you 
over  a  mnrning  lup  of  tea.  Jiui,  .lyall  accouiits, 
it  will  be  a  matter  of  some  dilliculty  to  see  you 
at  all,  unless  your  c(Mn|iatiy  is  liespoki  a  week 
bufnre-han.I.  Tlure  is  a  great  riimiuir  hire  con- 
cerning your  <;reit  intimacy  with  tlie  Duchess  ot 
and  other  1  idles  of  distinction.      I  am 


really  told  that  "  cards  to  invite  fly  by  thousands 
each  night  ;"  and,  if  you  had  one,  I  siipp,i>e 
there  would  also  be  "  bribes  to  your  old  secre- 
tary."  It  seer.is  you  arc  resolved  to  make  hay 
while  the  sun  shines,   and  avoid,   if  ])o-sil)le,  tiie 

fite  of  poor   Ferijusson, 

Qiimcndit  ])ecitiii(i  priinum  est,  virtus  post  num- 
7niis,  is  a  good  maxim  to  thrive  by:  you  seemed 
to  despise  it  while  in  this  country  ;  but  proba- 
bly some  philosopher  in  Edinbuigh  has  taught 
you  better  sense. 

Pray,  are  you  yet  engraving  as  well  as  print- 
ing ? — Are  you  yet  seized 

"  With  itch  of  picture  in  the  front, 
With  bays  of  wickeii  rhyme  upon't  !" 

But  I  mu-^t  give  up  this  trifling,  and  attend 
to  matters  that  more  concern  myself  :  so,  as  the 
Aberdeen  wit  says,  adieu  dryli/,  ux  sal  drtnh 
phan  we  meet.* 


It  is,  I  believe,  upon  poor  Butler's  tomb  that 
this  is  written.  But  how  many  brothers  of 
Parnassus,  as  well  us  pour  Butler  and  pour  Fer- 
gusson,  have  asked  for  bread,  and  been  served 
with  the  same  sauce  ! 

The  magistrates  gave,  yon  liberty,  did  they  ? 


o 


g»nerous   magistrates  ! 


celebrated 


over  the  three  kin;;donis  for  his  jiublic  S|iirit, 
gives  a  poor  poet  liberty  to  raise  a  tornb  to  a 
pour  poet's  memory  ! — most  generous  !  ,  .  . 
once  u on  a  time  gave  that  .-aine  jioet  the  mighty 
sum  of  eighteen  pence  fur  a  copy  of  his  works. 
But  then  it  must  be  considered  that  the  poet  was 
at  this  time  absolutely  starving,  and  besought 
his  aid  with  all  the  earne-tness  of  hunger;   and. 

over  and  above,  he  received  a  worth,  at 

lea>t  one-thini  of  the  Value,  in  exchange,  but 
which,  I  believe  the  poet  afterwards  very  un- 
gratelully  expunged. 

Next  week  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
eeeiiig  yoa  in  Edinburgh  ;  and  as  my  stay  wili 
^  for  ei^lit  or  ten  days,  I  wish  you  or 


No.  XXXIV. 
TO  MR.  JA.MES  CANDLISII, 
Stjbent  :n  Piiys.'c,  Cci.llge,  Gia.^&oW 
EdirA.urgh,  March  21,  17S7. 

MY   EVER    DKAR    OLD   ACQt.' A  I  NTA  NCK, 

I  WAS  eipially  sniprised  and  pleased  at  your 
letter;  though  I  dare  say  you  will  think  by  my 
delaying  so  long  to  write  to  you,  that  I  ain  sc 
droivned  in  the  intoxication  of  good  fortune  as 
to  be  indilFeient  to  old  and  once  dear  coi.nec 
tions.  The  truth  is,  I  was  determined  to  wiitt 
a  good  letter,  fnil  of  argument,  aiiipbficitinn, 
erudition,  and,  as  Bayes  says,  u/l  t/i  it.  I  tli(iii;,'!it 
of  it,  and  thought  of  it,  but  for  my  soul  I  can- 
not :  and  lest  you  should  mistake  the  cause  of 
my  silence,  I  just  sit  down  to  tell  yon  ro.  Don't 
give  yourself  credit  though,  that  the  strength  ot 
your  lo^ic  scares  me  :  the  triitii  is,  I  never-  in, -an 
to    meet  you   on  that  ground  at  all.      You  have 


•  The  abo  e  extract  is  from  a  letter  of  one  of  the 
ahle-it  of  our  poet's  eoiropoiuleiils,  whieli  e  iiitaina 
soiiieiiitercslinjjaneedoresof  KerfiMss  n,  tliat  .voliould 
have  been  happy  to  have  insene.l,  if  thev  eoulil  have 
been  avitlieiitieaied.  '1  he  writer  ji.  mi.-.t.ikcMi  in  .suiipos. 
mg  Kie  magistrate^  of  K.liiihur>;h  liail  an,  sh.ire  .n  ihe 
transaction  res]iecti:ig  tlie  m  inurienl  ereer((l  f.ir  Ker- 
(•Msson  by  our  l)ar  I ;  ih'<,  it  i-i  evidi-nt,  |)  -SNe-l  l,-eiwpei» 
Hiiiris  .and  the  Ivirk  beginn  of  the  Canon-ate.  Neiitiei 
at  Kdinbiirgh,  nor  anywhere  e!-e,  d;)  ma];  s: rates  usa 
ally  trouble  themii-hcs  to  in(|iiire  how  rhe  home  of 
poor  poet  is  furniiheU.  or  how  his  grave  i>  adorneii 


264 


BURKS'  WORKS. 


shewn  me  one  fl.infj,  whicJi  was  to  he  deinon- 
st lilted  ;  tli.it  jitiiitij!  pritlu  of  reasoning,  with  a 
little  affectation  of  singularity,  may  mislead  tlie 
best  (if  liearts.  I,  likewise,  since  you  and  I 
Were  first  aequaiiited,  in  tlie  pride  of  despising 
old  wiimen's  stories,  ventured  in  "  the  daring 
path  Spinosa  trod  ;"  but  experience  of  the 
weakness,  not  tlie  strcngtii,  of  human  powers, 
made  nie  gl  id  to  grasp  at  revealed  religion. 

I  must  stop,  but  don't  impute  my  brevity  to 
K  wrong  cause.  I  am  still,  in  the  Apostle  Paul's 
phrase,  "  The  old  man  with  his  deeds"  as  when 
we  were  sporting  about  the  lady  thorn.  I  shall 
be  four  weeks  here  yet,  at  least  ;  and  so  I  shall 
txpect  to  hear  from  you — welcome  sense,  wcl- 
oome  nonsense. 

1  am.,  with  the  waimest  sincerity. 
My  dear  old  friend. 

Yours. 


No.  XXXV. 

TO  THE  SAME, 

MT  TEAR  FR^F.KD, 

I F  once  I  were  gone  from  this  scene  of  hurry 
and  dissipation,  I  promise  myself  the  pleasure 
of  that  correspondence  being  renewed  which  has 
been  so  long  broken.  At  present  1  liave  time 
for  notliing.  Dissipation  and  business  engross 
every  moment.  I  am  engaged  in  assisting  an 
honest  Scots  enthusiast.'  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
is  an  engraver,  and  has  taken  it  into  his  head  to 
publish  a  collection  of  all  our  songs  set  to  music, 
of  which  the  woids  and  music  are  done  by  Scots- 
men. This,  you  will  easily  guess,  is  an  under- 
taking exactly  to  my  taste.  I  have  collected, 
begged,  borrowed,  and  stolen  all  the  songs  I 
could  meet  with.  Pompey's  Ghost,  words  and 
music,  I  beg  from  you  immediately,  to  go  into 
his  second  number  :  the  first  is  already  pub- 
lished. 1  shall  shew  you  the  first  nundn'r  when 
]  see  you  in  Glasgow,  which  'vill  be  in  a  fort- 
night or  less.  Do  be  so  kind  as  send  me  the 
song  in  a  day  or  two  :  you  cannot  imagine  huw 
Uiuch  it  will  oblige  me. 

Direct  to  me  at  Jlr.  W.  Criiikshank's,  St. 
James's  Square,  New  Town,  Edinburgh. 


No.  XXXVI. 

TO  MRS.  DUX  LOP. 

MADAM,  EiUnhuTgh,  March  22,  17S7. 

I  KF.AD  your  lettir  with  wateiy  eyn.  A  lit- 
tle, very  little  while  ago,  /  Itad  scarce  a  friend 
iitt  the  atiilihorn  pride  of  my  own  hosom  ;  now 
(  am  distingiiislud,  pationized,  befriended  by 
you.      Your   friendly   advices,   I  will   not  give 

*Jtfhtuan,  Uieiiublisherof  theScotiMuiica\  .Museum. 


them  the  cold  name  of  criticisms,  I  receire  wita 
reverence.  I  have  made  some  small  alteration! 
in  wliat  I  before  had  printed  1  have  the  ad 
vice  of  some  very  iudiclous  friends  among  tin 
literati  here,  but  with  them  1  sometimes  find  it 
necessary  tn  claim  the  privilege  of  thinking  for 
myself.  The  n(d)le  Earl  of  Gl-^ncairn,  to  whom 
I  owe  more  than  tn  any  man.  does  me  the  hon- 
our of  giving  me  his  strictures  :  his  hints  v^  itb 
respect  to  impropriety  or  indelicacy,  I  follow  im- 
plicitly. 

Y'ou  kindly  intere'^t  yourself  in  my  future 
views  and  prospects  ;  there  i  can  give  you  uo 
light ;  it  is  all 

"  D.iik  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roli'd  together,  or  had  tried  his  beami 
Athwart  the  gloom  profound." 

The  appellation  of  a  Scottish  bard  is  by  far 
my  highest  priile  ;  to  continue  to  tleserve  it  is 
my  most  exalted  ambition.  Scottish  scenes  and 
Scottish  story  are  the  themes  1  coiil.l  wish  to 
sing.  1  have  no  dealer  aim  than  to  have  it  in 
my  power,  unpl.igued  with  the  routine  of  luisi- 
iiess,  for  which  heaven  knows  I  am  unfit  enough, 
to  make  leisurely  pilgt  images  through  Cali'doma  ; 
to  sit  on  the  fields  of  her  b.ittles  ;  to  wander  on 
the  romantic  banks  of  her  rivers  ;  and  to  muse 
by  the  st:itely  towers  or  venerable  ruins,  once 
the  honoured  abodes  of  her  heroes. 

But  these  are  all  Utopian  tlioughts  :  I  have 
dallied  long  enough  with  lite  :  'tis  time  to  be  in 
earnest.  1  have  a  fond,  an  aged  mother  to  care 
for  ;  and  some  other  bosom  ties  perhajis  equa'ly 
tender.  Where  the  individual  only  suffers  by 
the  consequences  of  his  own  thoughtlessness,  in- 
dolence, or  fiilly,  he  may  bi*  excus.ible  :  nay, 
srhining  abilitien,  and  some  of  the  nobler  virtues, 
may  half-sanctify  a  heedless  character  :  but 
where  God  ami  nature  have  intrusted  the  wel- 
fare of  others  to  his  care  ;  where  the  trust  is  sz- 
cred,  and  the  ties  are  dear,  that  man  must  l>e 
far  gone  in  selfishness,  or  strangely  lost  to  i Elec- 
tion, whom  the.se  connections  will  not  rouse  to 
exertion. 

I  guess  that  1  shall  dear  between  two  and 
three  hundred  jiouiids  by  my  authorship  ;  with 
that  sum  I  intend,  so  fir  as  I  may  lie  s.iid  to 
have  any  intention,  to  return  to  my  old  acipi  lin- 
tance,  the  plough,  and,  if  I  can  meet  with  a 
lea.se  by  which  I  can  live,  to  comnienee  farmer. 
1  do  not  intend  to  give  up  poetry  :  being  hied 
to  labour  secures  me  independence  ;  and  th« 
muses  aie  my  chief,  sometimes  have  been  my 
only  enjoymeiit.  If  my  practiie  second  my  re- 
solution, I  shall  have  principally  at  he.ii  t  the  .se- 
rious bu>iiiess  of  life  :  but  «  hlle  lollowing  my 
|)lough,  or  building  up  iiiy  shocks,  1  sha.l  east  a 
leisure  glance  to  ihit  de.ir,  that  only  feituie  ol 
my  character,  which  gave  me  the  notice  of  my 
country  and  the  patronage  of  a  Wallace. 

Thus,  lionourtd  mad. an,  I  have  given  yon  th« 
baril,  his  situation,  and  his  views,  native  as  thct 
are  in  his  own  bosom. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


265 


No.  XXXVIL 

TO  THE  SAAIE. 

MAD  KM,  Edi'thurph,  \^^lh  AprH.  17S7. 

There  is  an  alfoctation  of  gratitmle  which  I 
dislike.  Tlie  periods  of  Johnson  and  the  pauses 
of  Sti'rne  may  hide  a  selfish  heart.  I'or  niv 
part,  Madam,  I  trust  I  have  too  much  pilde  for 
S;'rvihty,  and  too  little  ])rudence  for  sel'isliMcss. 
I  have  th.is  moment  bri'ke  o])en  your  letter, 
but 

"  Ruile  am  I  in  speech, 

And  therefore  little  can  I  grace  my  cause 

]n  s|)eaking  for  myself — " 

so  I  sliall  not  trouhle  you  with  any  fine  speeches 
ind  huiifed  figcres.  I  shall  just  lay  my  hand 
on  mv  lieart,  ami  s:iy,  1  hope  I  shall  ever  liave 
the  tr'iest,  the  warmest,  sense  of  your  goddness. 

I  come  ahroa<l  in  print  for  certain  on  Wed- 
nesday. Your  orders  I  shall  punctuallv  attend 
to  ;  only,  by  the  way,  1  must  tell  you  that  I 
was  paid  before  for  Dr.  Moore's  and  Miss  W  's 
ropies,  through  the  medium  of  Commissioner 
Cochrane  in  this  |i!ace  ;  but  that  we  can  settle 
wlien  I  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  you. 

Dr.  Smith*  was  just  gone  to  London  the 
aiorniug  b'ifore  I  received  your  letter  to  him. 


Mo.   XXXVIII. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

E'/inhnr/f/i,  -23(1  April,  17S7. 

I  RECEIVED  the  books,  and  sent  tlie  one  you 
ir.entionfd  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  I  am  ill-skilled  in 
bc-ating  the  coverts  of  imagination  for  metaphors 
of  gratitude.  I  thank  you,  Sir,  for  the  honour 
you  have  done  me  ;  and  to  my  latest  hour  will 
warmly  remember  it.  To  be  highly  pleased 
with  your  book,  is  what  I  have  in  common 
with  the  world  ;  but  tii  regard  these  volumes  as 
a  'nark  of  the  author's  friendly  esteem,  is  a  still 
more  supreme  gratification. 

I  leave  l!i'.*fil)urgh   in  the  course  of  ten  dayg 
or  a  fortnight  ;  and  afier  a  few  pilgrimages  over 
some  of  the  clas-ic  ground  of  Caledonia,   Cow- 
den  Kmiivts,    JJiiit/is  of     Yurroic,    Twefd,  &'C. 
I  shall  return  to  my  rural  shades,  in  all   likeli- 
bood  never  more  to  quit  them       I  have  formed 
many  intimacies  and  friendships  here,  but  I  am 
afraid  they  ar-e  all  of  too   tender  a  construction 
to  beat  c.irri.ige  a  hundred  aiid  fifty  miles.     To 
tile  rich,  tiie  great,   the  fishioiiable,  the   polite,  I 
'  have  no  eijuivilent  to  olfer  ;   and  1   am  afraid  ' 
my  meteor  appearanee  will   by  no  means  entitle' 
me  to  a  settled  coiiespondenee  with  any  of  you, 
Tvho  are  the  permanent   lights  of  genius  and  li- 
terature. 


My  mo'.t  respectful  compliments  to  Miss  W 
If  once  this  tangent  flight  of  mine  wei-e  over 
and  I  were  returned  to  my  wimleil  leisurely 
motion  in  my  old  circle.  I  may  probably  endea. 
vour  to  return  her  poetic  coiupliinent  in  kind 


No.  XXXIX. 

EXTRACT  OF  A    LETTER 

TO  MRS    DUNLOP. 

EJinhuriih,  nOth  April,  17S7. 

Your  critieisins.  Madam,  I  under- 
stand very  well,  and  could  have  wished  to  hive 
pleased  you  better.  You  are  right  in  your  guesg 
that  I  am  nut  very  amenable  to  counsel.  Poets, 
much  my  superiors,  have  so  11  ittered  toose  who 
possessed  the  adventitious  (lualities  of  wealth  and 
power,  that  i  am  determined  to  Sattir  no  cre- 
ated being  either  in  prose  or  verse. 

I  set  as  little  by ,  lords,  cleigy,  cri- 
tics, &c.  as  all  these  respective  gentry  do  by 
my  hardship.  I  know  what  I  may  expect  from 
the  world  by  and  by — illiberal  abuse,  and  i)er- 
hai)s  contem|.>tuous  neglect. 

I  am  happy,  Madiiin,  that  some  of  my  own 
favourite  pieces  are  distinguished  by  your  par- 
ticular approbation.  For  my  Dream,  wliieh 
has  unfortunately  incurred  your  loyal  displea- 
sure, I  hope  in  four  weeks,  or  less,  to  h  ive  the 
honour  of  appearing  at  Duuiop  iu  its  defence,  in 
person. 


No.    XL. 


TO  THE  REVEREND  DR.  HUGH  BLAIB. 
Lawn-Market,  Edinhurpt,  3il  May,  1767. 

REVEKENn   AND  MUCH   RESfECTED  SIR, 

I  LEAVE  Edinburgh  fo-n;orrow  nwuiiing,  but 
could  not  go  without  troubiinu'  you  with  half  a 
line,  sincerely    to  thank    you    for  the   kindness, 
prti'onage,  and   fiiendship  you   have  sliown  me. 
I  often  telt  the  enib.ii  r.is-ment  of  mv  singular  si 
tuatioa  ;   drawn   forth   from    the  veriest  shade* 
of  life  to  the  glare  ot  rernaik  ;   and  honourefl  by 
the  notice  of  those  illustrious  names  of  my  coun- 
try, whose  works,   while  they  are  appl  ludnl  tc 
the  end  of  time,  will  ever  insti  net  and  mend  the 
heart.      However  the  meteor-like  novelty  of  my 
appearance  iu  the  wmld    might  attract    nutice, 
and  honour   me  with    the  aeijuaintance  of  the 
permanent  lights  of  genius  and  literature,  those 
who  are   truly  benefactors  of  the   immortal   na- 
tcre  of  man  ;  I  knew  very  well,  that  my  utuio 
merit  was  far  un'^rjual  to  the  task  of  pieservi 
that  character  when  once  the  njveltv  wus  ov# 
I  have  made  up  uiy  iiiiud,  that  abuse,  or  almc 


266 


BURKS'  WORKS. 


rren     neglect,    will    cot    surprise    nie    in     my 
quirtfis. 

I  li.ive  sent  you  a  pioof  imiircssion  of  Beu- 
go's  work  fur  ir.e,  Jone  on  Indian  piper,  as  a 
trifling  liut  sincere  te>tiniony  with  ubal  beart- 
warm  gratitude  I  aai,  &c. 


No.  XLI. 

FROM  DR.  BLAIR. 

Arffi/Ie- Square,  Edinburgh,  Mi  May,  1787. 

DEAR  SIR, 

I  WAS  favoured  tliis  forenoon  with  your  very 
oh'.ijfins:  letter,  together  with  an  impression  of 
your  portrait,  for  which  I  return  you  iny  hest 
thani\S.  Tile  success  you  liave  met  with  I  do 
nut  thuik  was  heyond  your  merits  ;  and  if  I 
have  had  any  small  hand  in  cimtriliuting  to  it, 
it  gives  me  gieat  pleasure.  I  know  no  way  in 
which  literary  persons,  who  are  advanced  in 
years,  can  do  more  service  to  the  woild,  than 
in  forwarding  the  efforts  of  rising  genius,  or 
bringing  forth  unknown  merit  from  obscurity. 
I  was  the  first  person  who  brought  out  to  the 
notice  of  tlie  world,  the  poems  of  Ossian  :  first 
by  the  Fraymttits  of  Ancitnt  Poetri/,  which  1 
published,  and  afterwards,  by  my  setting  on 
foot  the  undertaking  for  collecting  and  publish- 
ing the  Worhs  if  Ossian  ;  and  1  have  aiw.iys 
considered  this  as  a  meritorious  action  of  my 
life. 

Your  situation,  as  you  say,  was  Indeed  very 
singular  ;  and,  in  being  iirought  out  all  at  once 
from  the  shades  of  deepest  privacy,  to  so  great 
a  share  of  public  notice  and  observation,  ynu 
had  to  stand  a  severe  trial.  I  am  hapjiy  that 
yciu  have  stooil  it  so  well  ;  and  as  fir  as  I  have 
known  or  heard,  tbouj;h  in  the  midst  of  many 
temjitations,  without  reproach  to  your  charac- 
ter and  behaviour. 

You  are  now,  t  presume,  to  retire  to  a  more 
private  walk  of  lil.  ;  and  I  trust,  will  conduct 
yourself  there  with  industry,  prudence,  and  ho- 
nour. You  have  laid  the  fouinlation  for  just 
public  esteem  In  the  midst  of  those  emidoy- 
nients,  which  your  situation  will  lender  projier, 
you  will  not,  I  Impe,  neglect  to  promote  that 
wteeni,  by  cultivating  your  genius,  and  attend- 
ing to  such  productions  of  it  as  may  luise  your 
ehaiacter  still  higher.  At  the  tame  time,  be 
aot  in  too  pi  eat  a  ha<te  to  come  forward,  'lake 
lime  and  leisuie  to  impmve  uiid  mature  your 
talents  ;  for  on  any  second  [iroduction  you  give 
Jit:  world,  your  fate,  as  a  poet,  will  veiy  much 
dcpnid.  Tlicre  is,  no  doul»t,  a  gloss  of  novel ry 
which  time  wears  off.  As  you  very  pro])erly 
bint  yourself,  you  are  not  to  be  Burprised  if,  in 
}our  r^ral  retieat,  you  do  not  find  yourself  sur- 
•ounded  wit'  that  glare  of  notice  and  a|)|iliuso 
which  here  sbmie  upon  you.  No  man  can  bu 
j^.mk'  pott  vvilbiiut   be-log  somewhat  of  a  phi- 


losopher. He  ma=t  hy  his  account,  tTjit  ^nj 
one,  who  exposes  himself  to  public  observafion, 
will  occasionally  meet  with  the  attacks  of  illi- 
beral censure,  which  it  is  always  best  to  over- 
look and  despise.  He  will  be  inclined  some- 
times to  court  retreat,  and  to  disapjiear  from 
public  view.  He  will  not  affect  to  shine  al- 
ways, that  he  may  at  proper  seasons  come  forth 
with  more  advantage  and  energy.  He  will  not 
think  himself  neglected  if  he  be  not  always 
praised.  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  you  see,  o( 
an  old  man,  to  give  advice  and  make  reflection* 
which  your  own  good  sense  will,  I  dare  say, 
render  unnecessary. 

As  you  mention  vour  being  iust  about  to 
leave  town,  you  are  going,  I  should  suppose,  to 
Dumfriesshire,  to  look  at  some  of  Mr.  Jliller's 
farms.  I  heartily  wish  the  offers  to  be  mad,' 
you  there  may  answer ;  as  I  am  persuaded  you 
will  not  easily  find  a  more  generous  ami  bettei^ 
hearted  proprietor  to  live  under  than  I\Ir.  r»lll. 
ier.  When  you  return,  if  you  come  this  way, 
I  will  be  happy  to  see  you,  and  to  know  con- 
cerning your  future  plans  of  life.  You  will 
find  me,  by  the  2-2d  of  this  month,  not  in  mv 
bouse  ia  Argvle  Scpiare,  but  at  a  country-house 
at  Restalrig,  about  a  mile  east  from  Edinburgh, 
near  the  Musselburgh  road.  Wishing  you  all 
success  and  prosperity,  I  am,  with  real  regdi  J 
and  esteem, 

Dear  Sir, 

Youi3  sincerely, 

HUGH  BLAiR. 


No.  XLII. 

TO  WILLIAJI  CREECH,  Esq. 
(^of  Edinburyh,')  London. 

Selhlrh,  ISth  May,  1737. 

MY   HONOURED   TRIE  NO, 

The  enclosed*  I  have  just  wrote,  nearly  ex 
tempore,  in  a  solitary  inn  in  Selkirk,  after  a 
miserable  wet  day's  riding. — I  have  been  over 
most  of  East  Lothian,  Berwick,  R.:xhurgli,  and 
Selkirkshire's  ;  and  next  week  I  begin  a  tour 
through  the  north  of  England.  Yesterday  I 
dined  with  Lady  Harint,  sister  to  my  noble  pa- 
tron. Quern  Dcus  cvnservel  /  I  woiilil  write  till 
I  would  tire  you  as  much  with  dull  |)riise  as  I 
dare  say  bv  this  time  you  are  with  wretched 
verse,  but  I  am  jaded  to  death  ;  so,  with  a  grite- 
ful  farewell, 

I  have  the  honour  to  he, 

Good  Sir,  yours  sincere'v* 


•  Elegy  ou  W.  Creech ;  ^ee  tJie  Poetry. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


267 


No.  XLIII. 
FROM  DR.  MOORE 
GUjford  Street,  May  23,  1787. 

CTAR    ilR, 

I  liAi)  the  pleasure  of  your  K-tter  by  IMi'. 
Crtedi,  anil  soon  alter  he  sent  me  the  new  eili- 
rion  of  your  poems.  You  seem  to  think  it  \n- 
juuilicnt  on  you  to  send  to  each  subscriber  a 
number  of  eo])ies  proportionate  to  his  subseiip- 
tion  money  ;  hut  you  may  (lei)enil  upon  it,  few 
lubsiTihers  expect  more  than  one  copy,  what- 
ever they  subscribed.  I  must  inform  you,  how- 
ever, that  I  took  twelve  copies  for  tho>e  subscri- 
bers for  whose  money  you  were  so  arxurate  as 
ti)  send  me  a  recei|)t  ;  and  Lord  Ei^linton  told 
me  he  had  sent  for  six  copies  for  himself,  as  he 
wished  to  p;ive  fiv«  of  them  in  presents. 

.Sume  of  the  poems  you  have  added  in  this 
last  edition  are  beautiful,  particularly  the  Win- 
ter Ni/jlif,  the  Address  to  Edinburgh,  (ireeu 
grow  the  Rushes,  and  the  two  songs  immediate- 
ly fiillowing  ;  the  latter  of  which  was  exijuisite. 
Vt\  the  way,  I  imagine  you  have  a  peculiar  ta- 
lent for  such  compositions,  which  you  ought  to 
induli^c.  *  No  kind  of  poetry  demands  uuu'e 
delicieyor  higher  polishing.  Horace  is  more 
admired  on  account  of  his  Odes  than  all  his 
other  writings.  But  nothing  now  added  is 
equal  to  your  Vision  and  Cutter's  Satnrdny 
Aiiiht.  In  these  are  united  fine  imagery,  na- 
tural and  pathetic  description,  with  sublimity  of 
language  and  thought.  It  is  evident  that  you 
already  possess  a  great  variety  of  expression  and 
cnmuiand  of  the  English  language  ;  you  ought, 
therefore,  to  deal  more  sparingly  for  the  future 
in  the  provincial  dialect  : — why  should  yuu,  by 
using  thi:t,  limit  the  number  of  your  admiiers  lo 
those  who  understaiui  the  Scottish,  when  yo  i 
can  extend  it  to  all  peisons  of  taste  who  under- 
stand the  English  language?  In  my  opinion, 
you  should  plan  some  larger  work  than  any  you 
have  as  yet  attempted.  I  mean,  leflect  upon 
some  proper  suliject,  and  arrange  the  plan  iu 
your  miiid,  witluuic  begirming  to  execute  any 
p.ut  of  it  till  jou  have  studied  most  ot  the  best 
, English  poets,  and  read  a  little  more  of  history. 
The  Greek  and  Rinnan  stories  you  can  read  in 
some  abridgment,  and  soim  become  master  of 
the  must  brilliant  ficts,  which  must  h  gbly  de- 
light a  poetical  mind.  You  shmttd  also,  aiul 
very  soon  may,  become  master  of  the  heathen 
niyiliology,  to  which  there  are  everlisting  allu- 
siiins  iu  all  the  poets,  and  which  in  itsell  is 
ch.irmingly  fanciful.  What  will  require  to  l)e 
studied  with  more  attention,  is  modern  history  , 
that  is,  the  lii>tory  of  France  and  Great  Rntain, 
from  the  begiuningof  Henry  the  Seventh's  reign 
I  knmv  very  well  you  have  a  mind  capable  of 
ittuining  knowledge  by  a  shorter  pic)ce>s  than 
w  cummualy  used,  aiul  I  am  certain  you  are  ca- 


•  His  siitisequcnt  comjuKitions  will  bear  testimony 
■a  the  ai-i'uraey  of  Dr.  .NUiort's  judyiutul. 


pahle  of  making  a  better  use  of  it,  when  attain 
ed,  than  is  generally  done. 

I  beg  you  will  not  give  yourself  the  trouble 
of  writing  to  me  when  it  is  itieonrentnit,  and 
make  no  apoloiiv,  when  you  do  write,  for  ha- 
ving postponed  it  ;  be  assured  of  this,  however 
that  I  shall  always  be  happy  to   hear  fiom  you 

I  think   my  fiieuil  Mr.  to'd   me   tl.at  yoi; 

had  some  poems  in  manuscript  by  you  of  a  siti- 
rical  and  humorous  nature  (in  which,  by  thfl 
way,  I  think  you  very  strong),  which  your  pru- 
dent fiieuds  prevailed  on  you  to  omit,  particu- 
larly one  called  S(>inihi>di/'s  Confession  ,  if  you 
will  entrust  me  with  a  sight  of  any  of  tliese,  I 
will  |)awn  my  word  to  give  no  cojjies,  and  vvill 
be  obliged  to  you  for  a  perusal  of  them. 

I  understand  you  intend  to  take  a  farm,  and 
make  the  useful  and  respectable  business  of  hus- 
bandry your  chief  occupation  ;  this,  I  hope,  will 
not  prevent  your  making  occasional  addresses  to 
the  nine  ladies  who  have  shown  you  such  fa- 
vour, one  of  whom  visited  you  in  the  r.idd  chip 
bii/t/i/i.  Virgil,  bet'iue  you,  proved  to  the  world 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  business  of  husband- 
ry inimical  to  poetry  ;  and  I  sincerely  hope  thai 
you  may  alford  an  exam])le  of  a  good  poet  being 
a  succes-fiil  farmer.  1  fear  it  will  nut  be  in  my 
power  to  visit  Scotland  this  season  ;  when  I  ilo, 
I'll  endeavour  to  find  you  out,  for  I  heartily 
wish  to  see  and  converse  with  you.  If  ever 
vour  occasions  call  you  to  this  place,  I  make  no 
doubt  of  your  paying  me  a  visit,  and  you  may 
depeiul  on  a  very  coidial  welcome  from  this  fa- 
mily.     I  am,  dear  Sir, 

Your  friend  and  obedient  servant. 

J.   MOORE. 


No.  XL  IV. 
TO  MR.   \V.  MCOLL, 
Master  of  the  High-School,  Edinburgh. 
Ciirl'sle,  June  1,  1TS7. 

KIND,    IIONFST-IIEARTED   WILLIK. 

I'm  sitten  down  here,  after  seven  and  forty 
miles  riilin,  e'en  as  furjesket  and  foriiiaw'd  as  a 
forlougliten  cock,  to  gie  you  some  not  mi  o'  my 
land  lowper-llke  stravaguin  sin  the  ^onowfu' 
hour  that  I  slieuk  hands  and  puted  wi'  ada 
lieeliie. 

My  auld,  ga'd  gleyile  o'  a  meere  his  hucliy- 
all'd  up  bill  and  down  brae,  in  Scutland  and 
England,  as  teugh  and  birnie  as  a  veia  devil  wi 
me.'      It's  true,    she's  as  pooi  s  a  sang-maker 


•  This  mare  was  the  Poc's  favnuriic  Ji  nnv  On> 
nis,  iifwhiim  lionnuraUle  ami  most  hiiimimui  lTlel^ 
liuii  Is  ma>!e  in  a  lellet,  iiiserleil  ill  IU.  Ciiriie's  einUoiL, 
vol    1.  i>.  li.5. 

Tliisiilil  ami  faithful  servant  ol  the  Poct''i  was  named 
by  hiin,  .ifui  lie  oil  WMUiaii,  *nu  m  her  «ai  <Ka>nsi 
reli^ii  us  ii>iiii\aQoii,  threw  a  stool  ai  tin'  Ue.m  <>< 
K.',i:.l)  ir^li's  lie.il,  wlieii  lie  aiteiiintnj  iii  1  '.jT,  to  in 
iroilu'f  'he  bcoitish  Litu  ^y.     •'  On  Sioulav,  tne  i.'.j4 


268 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


and  as  hanl's  a  kirk,  and  tippei-talpers  when 
she  tdks  the  gate,  first  .ike  a  lady's  gentlen'oinan 
in  a  niiniiw.ie,  or  a  hen  on  het  girdle,  but 
she's  a  yauld,  pnti'.herie  Girran  for  a'  that,  and 
has  a  sroniack  like  Willie  Stalker's  ineere  that 
wad  hae  dis'^eested  tunihlcr-wheels,  for  she'll 
vi'hip  me  afF  her  five  stiniparts  o'  the  best  aits 
at  a  d(!wn-sittiii  and  ne'er  fa<h  her  thumb. 
When  anre  her  ringbanes  and  spavies,  her  crucks 
and  cramps,  are  fairly  soupl'd,  she  beets  to, 
beets  til.  and  ay  the  hindmost  hour  the  tightest. 
I  couhl  wager  her  price  to  a  thretty  pennies 
that,  for  twa  or  three  wooks  ridin  at  fifty  mile 
adi),  the  deil-stii-ket  a  five  gallopers  acqueesh 
Clyde  and  Whithorn  could  cast  s.ait  on  her  tail. 

I  hae  damler'il  owre  a'  the  kintra  frae  D;ini- 
bir  to  Se  craig,  and  hae  forgather'd  wi'  mony  a 
guid  fi.low,  aiid  monie  a  wcelfar'd  hizzie.  I 
met  wi'  twa  dink  quines  in  particlar,  ane  o' 
them  a  son-ie,  fine,  fudgel  lass,  l)aith  braw  and 
bonie  ;  the  tither  was  a  clean- shankit,  straught, 
tight,  weelfar'd  winch,  as  blithe's  a  lintwhlte 
on  a  fliiwerie  thnrn,  and  as  sweet  and  inode«t's 
«  new  blawn  plunirose  in  a  hazle  sliaw.  Thev 
Were  liaitli  bn (I  to  niaiiiers  by  the  beiik,  and 
oiiie  ane  o'  them  had  as  muckle  smeddum  and 
runiblgumtiun  as  the  half  o'  some  presbvtries 
that  yiiu  and  I  baith  ken.  They  play'ri  me  sik 
a  deevil  o*  a  shavie  that  I  daur  say  if  my  hari- 
gals  were  turn'd  out,  ye  wad  see  twa  nicks  i'  the 
heart  o'  nie  like  the  mark  o'  a  kail-whittle  in  a 
castock. 

I  was  ginn  to  write  you  a  lang  pvstle,  hut, 
Gude  forgie  nie,  I  gat  mysel  sae  notouriously 
bitchify'd  the  day  after  kail-time  that  I  can 
hardly  stoiter  but  and  ben. 

IMy  best  respecks  to  the  guidwife  and  a'  our 
comnuin  fricns,  espiciall  Mr.  and  Mrs  Cruik- 
shank  anil  *l'4'  bone-t  guiilnian  o'  Jock's  Lodge. 

I'll  be  III  iJimfries  the  morn  gif  the  beast  be 
to  the  fore,  aii.i  the  branks  biile  bale. 

Gude  be  wi'  you,  Willie  ! 

Amen  !— 


j  throe  years,    at  thirty  pounds  sterling  a-ye»r) 
and  am  happy  some  unexpected  accidents  inter- 
vened that  prevented  your  sailing  wlrh  tiie  vei 
sel,   as  I  have  great  reason  to  think  Mr.  Dou- 
I  glas's  employ  would  by  no  means  liave  answer- 
ed  your  expectations.     I  received  a  copv  of  your 
publications,  for  which  I  return  von  mv  thanks, 
and  it  is  my  own  opinion,  as  well  as  that  o.'  r-ach 
of  my  fr'ends  as  have  seeti  them,   they  an-  most 
excellent   :n   their  kind  ;  although    some  could 
have  wished  they  had  been  in  the  English  style, 
as  they  allege   the   Scottish    ilialeet   is   now  be- 
'  coming  obsolete,    and  therebv  the  eler;ance  and 
beauties  of  your  poems  are  in  a  great  measure 
■  lost    to  far  the  greater  part  of  the  comniuuitv. 
Nevertheless  there  is  no  <loubt  you  harl  sufficient 
reasons   lor  your  conduct — peihaps  the  wishes 
of  some  of  the  Scottish  nobility  and  gentry,  your 
patrons,  who  will    always   relish    their  own  (Id 
ccuintry  style;   ana   y(mr   own   inclinations   for 
the  same.      It    is  evident  from  several    pissages 
in  your  works,  you  are  as  capable  of  writing  in 
the  Engli-h  as  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  and  I  am 
in  great  hopes  your  genius  for  poetry,   ficim  the 
specimen  you  have  alieady  given,  will  turn  out 
both    for    profit    and    honour    to    yourself  and 
country..     I   can  by  no  means   advise  you  now 
^  to   think  of  coming  to   the  West  Iiulies,    as,    1 
I  assure   you,   there   is    no   encouragement   fir  a 
'  man  of  leaining  and   genius  here  ;   ami  am  very 
;  confident   you  can   do   far   better  m  Great   Bri- 
tain, than  in  Jamaica.      I   am  glad  to  hear  my 
;  friends   are  well,  and  shall   always    be  happy  to 
hear  from   you  at  all    lonvenient  opportunities, 
wishing   you  success  in  all   your  undertakings. 
I  will  esteem  it  a  particular  favour  if  v<ui   will 
send  me  a  copy  of  the  other  edition  you  are  now 
printing. 

I  am,  with  respect. 

Dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 

JOHN  HUTCHINSON 


No,  XLV. 


FROM  MR    JOHN  HUTCHINSON. 
Jamitica,  St.  Anus,  \ilh  June,  17S7. 

KIR, 

I  iiECFivEn  yours,  dateil  Ediid)urgh,  2d  Ja- 
nuary, I7S7,  wherein  yiui  ac(juaiut  me  you  were 
engaged  with  Mr.  Douglan  of  I'ort  Antonio,  for 

of  July,  the  l)c-n  of  Kilinbur(.»h  prepared  to  ofFiciate 
in  St  t;ile-'<.  The  eo:i(;ie^'ali(iM  e'liiliniicil  r|uic't  'ill 
till-  -erviee  liejan,  wliiii  an  old  unman,  iin|icllecl  liy 
suil.leii  in.li  nalion.  sL:irIeil  up.  .mil  exeUiiiiioK  alood, 
Vlll.tin!  ■I<i-t  ihoii  siv  ilic  M  is<  at  iiiv  lui(  ''  llue.v 
tile  stool  on  which  -lie  h.id  iK'ir.  sittiiii;.  at  Ihe  Dean's 
lii-ail.  A  wild  uproar  eoiiiiiiciii  ed  that  iiist.int.  The 
•i-rv.'io  wa-  mierrii|iied.  Tlic  woiiiru  inv.iclod  tlie 
d<vl  with  exccr.i  \,^u^,  ancl  onlcrics,  a  d  the  DtMii  ili... 
I'll!  .iCeil  hinisflf  fiiin  Iik  siirpil  e  to  isLMpc  Itoin  their 
hand.  "— tui/^/ji  Uttl  iif  Scut  and,  vol.  in.  p.  122. 


No.  XLVr, 
TO  MR.  W.  NICOLL. 

Mauchline,  June  18,  1737. 

My  DEAR  FRIEND, 

I  AM  now  ai rived  safe  in  mv  native  country 
after  a  very  agreeable  jaunt,  and  have  the  plea- 
sure to  find  all  my  friends  well.  I  Ureakfasted 
with  your  grey-headed,  reverend  friend,  Mr. 
Smitli;  and  was  highly  pleased  both  with  the 
coriii  d  welcome  he  gave  me,  and  his  most  ex- 
cellent appeaiance  and  sterling  good  sense. 

I  have  been  with  .Mr.  Miller  at  Dalswinton, 
and  am  to  meet  him  again  in  August.  Fioin 
my  view  of  the  I.inds  and  bis  reception  of  my 
bardship,  my  hopes  in  that  bu-iness  are  rather 
nurided  ;   but  .still  thev  are  but  si  •nder. 

I  am  (jiiite  charmed  with  Diimliies  folkf— • 
Air.  HurimiJe,    the  clergyman,   in  particula.*,  M 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


2G9 


s  Tnsn  whom  I  jVi  ill  ever  pjrjtefuUy  rememlier  ; 
anil  his  wife,  Guild  foipjie  me,  I  h.iil  almost 
broke  llie  tent'.i  coinm.indiiient  on  her  account. 
Slriiplicity,  tie!r:ince,  good  sense,  sweetness  of 
disposition,  good  luinioiir,  kind  hos[)it,ility,  are 
tile  constituents  of  her  m:iniier  and  heart  ;  in 
short — hut  if  I  say  one  word  more  ahout  her,  I 
sl'ill  be  directly  in  love  with  her. 

I  never,  my  frieiul,  thought  mankind  very 
capihie  of  any  thini;  generous  ;  but  the  stiteli- 
ness  of  the  Patiicians  in  Edinburgh,  and  the 
servility  of  my  plebeian  brethren,  (who,  per- 
haps, formerly  eyed  me  askance),  since  I  re- 
turned home,  have  nearly  put  me  out  of  conceit 
altogether  with  my  species.  I  have  Iwught  a 
pocket  Milton  which  I  carry  perpetually  about 
with  me,  in  order  to  study  the  sentiments — the 
dauntless  magnanimity  ;  the  intrepid,  unyield- 
ing independence,  the  desperate  daring,  anil 
noble  defiance  of  hardship,  in  that  great  per- 
sonage, S.vTA.v.  'Tis  true,  I  have  just  now  a 
little  cash  ;  t)ut  I  am  afraid  the  star  that  hith- 
erto has  shed  its  m  iligiiant,  purpose-blasting 
rays  full  in  my  zenith  ;  that  noxious  planet  so 
baneful  in  its  influences  to  the  rhyming  tribe,  I 
much  dread  it  is  not  yet  beneath  my  horizon. — 
Mijifortune  dodges  the  path  of  human  life  ;  the 
poetic  mind  finds  it-elf  miserably  deranged  in, 
and  iiiitit  for  the  walks  of  business ;  add  to  all, 
that,  thoughtless  follies  an<l  hire-brained  whims, 
like  so  many  ir/nes  fatiii,  eternallv  diverging 
from  the  right  line  of  sober  discretion,  sparkle 
with  st2p-bewitching  blaze  in  the  idly-gazing 
eyes  of  the  poor  heedless  Bard,  till,  pop,  "  he  I 
falls  like  Lucifer,  never  to  hope  again."  God 
grant  tkis  may  be  an  unreal  picture  with  re- 
spect to  me  !  but  should  it  not,  I  have  very  j 
little  dependence  on  mankind.  I  will  clo-e  my 
litter  with  this  tribute  my  heart  bids  me  piiy 
you — the  many  tics  of  acquaintance  and  friend- 
eliip  which  I  have,  or  think  I  have  in  life,  I 
have  felt  along  the  lines,  and,  d — n  them  !  they 
are  almost  all  of  thuni  of  such  "tail  coutextuie, 
that  I  am  sure  they  would  not  stand  the  breath 
of  the  least  adverse  breeze  of  fortune  ;  but  fiom 
yiu,  my  ever  dear  Sir,  I  look  with  conlidence 
for  the  A])ostolic  love  that  shall  wait  on  nie 
"  through  good  report  and  bad  report" — the 
love  which  Solomon  emphatically  says  "  Is 
strong  as  death."  My  comj)liments  to  Mrs.  ' 
IS-Wl,  and  all  the  circle  of  our  comiuon  friends. 

P.  S.  I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh  about  the  latter 
end  of  July. 


No.  XLVII. 
TO  GAVIX  HAMILTON,  Esq. 


and  Stirling,  and  am  {eligbted  with  Ihelr  ap- 
pearance :  richly  waving  crops  of  wheat,  bai  ley, 
&c.  but  no  harvest  r.t  all  yet,    except  in   one  or 

two    places,    an   old    Wife's   Ridge Yestmday 

morning  I  rode  from  this  tcovr,  iip  the  mean- 
dring  Devon's  banks  to  pay  my  respects  to  some 
Ayrshire  folks  at  Ilarvieston.  After  breakfast, 
we  made  a  party  to  go  and  see  the  famous  Ciu- 
dron-linn,  a  remarkable  cascade  in  the  Devon, 
about  five  miles  above  Harvieston ;  and  after 
sjiending  one  of  the  most  pleasant  days  I  ever 
had  in  my  life,  I  returned  to  Stirling  in  the 
evening.  They  are  a  family,  Sir,  thou;h  I  had 
not  liad  any  prior  tie  ;  though  they  had  not  beea 
the  brother  and  si-ters  of  a  certain  geueroui 
friend  of  mine,  I  would  never  forget  them.  I 
am  told  you  have  not  seen  them  these  several 
years,  so  you  can  have  very  little  idea  of  what 
these  young  folks  are  now.  Your  brother  is  aa 
tall  as  you  are,  but  slender  ratlier  th.in  other- 
wise ;  and  I  have  the  sitisfiction  to  inform  you 
that  he  is  getting  the  better  of  those  consump- 
tive symptoms  which  I  sujipose  you  know  were 
threatening  hira.  llis  nuke,  and  particularly 
his  manner,  resemble  you,  but  he  will  still  have 
a  finer  free.  (I  put  in  the  word  still,  to  please 
Mis.  Hamilton.)  Good  sense,  modesty,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  just  idea  of  that  respect  that 
iirin  owes  to  man,  and  has  a  right  in  his  turn 
to  exact,  are  striking  features  in  his  character  ; 
and,  what  with  me  is  the  Alpha  and  the  Ome- 
ga, he  has  a  heai  t  might  adorn  the  breast  of  a 
poet  !  Grace  has  a  good  figure  and  the  look  of 
health  and  cheeifulne-s,  but  nothing  else  re- 
nijikable  in  her  jierson.  I  scarcely  ever  s.iw  >o 
striking  a  likeness  as  is  between  her  aiid  }(iur 
l.ttle  Beenie  ;  the  mouth  and  chin  particularly. 
She  is  reserved  at  first  ;  hut  as  we  grew  hiU"' 
acquaiiiti-d,  I  was  del  ghted  with  the  native 
frankness  of  her  manner,  and  the  sterling  sense 
of  her  observation.  Of  Charlotte,  I  cannot 
speak  in  common  terms  of  adniiratioa :  she  is 
not  only  beautiful,  but  lovely.  Her  form  is  ele- 
gant ;  her  features  not  regular,  ijut  tliey  hive 
the  smile  of  sweetness  and  the  settled  compla- 
cency of  good  nature  in  the  highest degice  ;  and 
her  complexion,  now  that  she  has  ha])|)i!y  re-- 
covered  her  wonted  heal'h,  is  equal  to  Miss 
Burnet's.  After  the  exercise  of  our  riding  tc 
the  Falls,  Charlotte  waa  exactly  Dr.  Donue'a 
mistress  : 


"  Her  pure  and  eloquent  blood 


Spoke     in     her     cheeks,     and     so    dislinctly 

wrought. 
That  one  would  almost  say  her  body  thought.* 


Her  eyes  are  fascinating  ;  at  once  expressive  ol 
gO<id  sense,  tenderness,  and  a  noble  mind. 

I  do  not  give  you  all   this  account,   my  good 

!  Sir,  to  flatter  you.      I  mean  it  to  reproach  you. 

Such  relations  the  fir>t  peer  in  the  realm  mit'ht 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  Stirling,  2Stk  Aug.  1787.      own  with  pride;   then  why  ilu  you  not  keej'  up 

Here  am  7  on  my  way  to  Inverness.    I  have   more   correspondence    witt    these   so    amiable 

raniblea  over  the  rich,    fertile  car»cs  of  Falkirk    young   folks?    1    had   a   tlpusand   qnestioiis  te 


5f7C 


BURNS'  WORKS 


answer  about  you  a'l :  I  Imd  to  desciibe  tliL' 
little  ones  \v:t\\  the  iv.iniiteiicss  of  an.iromv. 
Thty  were  liiijlily  rleliuhteil  when  I  tolil  thein 
that  J.)lm*  \v,is  so  ^ood  a  bov,  and  so  fine  a 
scholar,  and  that  Willie  f  was  goin-j  on  stili 
very  pretty  ;  but  I  have  it  in  commission  to 
tell  her  from  them  that  beauty  is  a  poor  silly 
bauMe  without  she  be  good.  Miss  Chalmers  I 
had  left  in  Eiiiii!)\ii-Lrh,  but  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  ineetinnf  \vith  Mts.  Chalmers,  only  Ladv 
M'Kenzie  beinsr  rather  a  little  alarmini^ly  ill  of 
a  sore-throat,  somewhat  marr'd  our  enjoyment. 
I  shall  not  be  in  Ayrshire  for  four  weeks. 
]My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Mrs.  Ha- 
milton, Miss  Kennedy,  and  Dr.  M'Kenzie.  I 
shall  probably  write  him  fiom  some  stage  or 
other 

I  am  ever,  Sir, 

Yours  most  gratefully. 


No.  XLVIir. 

TO  MR,  WALKER,  BLAIR  OF 
ATIIOI  E 

Inverness,  5th  Sept.  1787. 

MT   DEAR  Sla, 

I  HAVE  just  time  to  write  the  foregoing,  | 
and  to  tell  you  that  it  was  (at  least  most  part 
of  it),  the  effusion  of  an  half  hour  I  spent  at 
Rruar.  I  do  not  mean  it  was  extempore,  for  I 
have  endeavoured  to  brush  it  up  as  well  as  Mr. 

N 's  that,  and  the  jogginjj  of  the  chaise, 

woulil  allow.  It  eases  my  heart  a  good  deal, 
as  rhyme  is  llie  coin  with  which  a  ])oet  pays  his 
debts  of  honour  or  gratitude.  What  I  owe  to 
the  noble  fam  ly  of  Athole,  of  the  first  kind,  I 
shall  ever  proudly  boast  ;  what  I  owe  of  the 
last,  so  help  me  God  in  my  hour  of  need,  I 
shall  never  forget. 

The  little  "  angel  band  ! — I  declare  I  pray- 
ed for  them  very  sincerely  to-diy  at  the  Fall  of 
Fyars.  I  shall  never  forget  the  fine  family- 
piece  I  saw  at  Blair ;  the  amiable,  tlie  truly 
noble  Ducliess,  with  her  smiling  little  sera])ii 
in  her  lap,  at  the  head  of  the  table  ;  the  lovely 
"  olive  |>lants,"  as  the  Hebrew  bard  finely  says', 
round   the   happy  mother ;   the   beautiful  Mrs 

G ,   the  lovely,  sweet  Jliss  C.  &c.     I  wish 

I  had  the  powers  of  Guido  to  do  them  justice  ! 
My    Liiid    Duke's   kind    hos|iitality,    markedly 

kind,  indeed Mr    G.  of  F "s  charms  of 

Co::versation  — Sir    W.  M 's  friendship— in 

short,  the  recollection  of  all  that   jiolite,   agree- 


•  This  is  tlie  "  wef  cttilie  Jchnnif,"  mentioned  in 
Bump's  ilcilicaiion  to  Oaviti  llanHlton,  I•^(|.  I'o  this 
gftitli'mnn,  ami  every  branch  of  (he  family,  tlioFMiior 
IS  inilebteil  for  mmli  intornintion  resjieptinq  the  poet, 
anil  \  ery  uratefully  aeiiuowleilijes  the  kimlncss  shewn 
to  him-elf. 

t  N..W  married  to  the  Rev.  John  Toci,  Minister  of 
Mi'uelil  Ml-. 

t  "  'I'ho  humble  Petition  of  Bruar-Water  to  the 
Duke  of  -Mhole- 


able  company,   raises  an  hon.'-c  t:lo-.v  in  ihv   tw 
som. 


Xo.  XLIX. 
TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

Ediuhurgh,  llih  Sept.  \']%1 

MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 

I  AHKivED  here  safe  yesterday  evening,  aftet 
a  tour  of  twenty-two  day-;,  and  tiavelling  near 
six  j-andred  miles,  windings  included.  My 
farthest  stretch  was  about  ten  miles  beyond  In- 
verness. I  went  through  the  heart  of  the 
Highlands,  by  Crieff,  Taymouth,  the  famous 
seat  of  Lord  Breadalbaue,  down  the  Tay, 
among  cascades  and  druidical  circles  of  stones 
to  Dunkekl,  a  seat  of  the  Duke  of  Athole  ; 
thence  cross  Tay,  and  up  one  of  his  tribvtary 
streams  to  Blair  of  Athole,  another  of  the 
Duke's  seats,  where  I  had  the  honour  of  spend- 
ing nearly  two  days  with  his  Grace  and  family; 
thence  many  miles  through  a  wild  country,  a- 
mong  cliffs  grey  with  eternal  snows,  and  gloomy 
savage  glens,  till  I  crossed  Speyand  went  down 
the  stream  through  Strathspey,  so  famous  in 
Scottish  music,  Badenoch,  &c.  till  I  reached 
Grant  Castle,  where  I  spent  half  a  day  with 
Sir  James  Grant  and  family  ;  and  then  cros-ed 
the  country  for  Fort  George,  but  called  by  the 
way  at  Cawdor,  the  ancient  seat  of  Macbe'ath  ; 
there  I  saw  the  identical  bed  in  which,  tradi- 
tion says.  King  Duncan  was  murdered:  lastly, 
from  Fort  George  to  Inverness. 

I  returned  by  the  coast,  through  Nairn,  For- 
res, and  so  on.   to  Aberdeen  ;   thence  to  Stone- 
hive,  whiMe  James  Burnes,  from  Montrose,  met 
me  by  appointment.      I  spent  two  days  -among 
our   relations,   and   found  our   aunts,   Jean  and 
Isabel,  still   alive,   and  hale  old  women.      John 
Caird,  though  born  the  same  year  with  our  fa- 
ther, walks  as  vigorously  as  I  can  ;   they  have 
had  several  letters   from  his  son  in  New  York. 
William  Brand  is  likewise  a  stout  old   fellow  : 
i)ut  further    particulars    I    delay  till   I    see  you, 
which   will    be    in    two  or   three  weeks.      The 
rest   of  my   stages  ara   not   worth  rehearsing : 
warm  as  I  was  from  Ossian's  country,  where  I 
had  seen    his  very  grave,   what  cared  I  for  fish- 
ing  towns   or  fertile  carses  .?   I   slept  at  the  fa- 
mous Brodie   of  Brodie's  one  night,  and  dined 
at    Gordon    Ca^tle   next   day   with    the    Duke, 
Duchess,  and  family.      I    am  thinking  to  cause 
my  old    mare    to   meet   me,   by  means   of  John 
l{on  lid,  at  Glasgow  ;   b  it  you  shall  hear  faithei 
fiom  me  befoie   I   leave  Edinburgh.      My  duty 
and  many  comjiiinients  from   the  north,   to  my 
mother,    and   my  brotherly  compliments  to  tlie 
rest.      I  lave  been  trying  for  a   birtli  for  Wil- 
liam,   be;   am    not   likely    to    be    successfuL— - 
FareweJ.. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


271 


No.  L. 


FRO.M  MR.   R- 


na,  Ochtertyre,  22(/  October,  1787. 

*TwAS  only  yesterday  I  i?ot  Culonel  Eiliuon- 
jtdun's  answer,  that  neitlier  the  words  of 
DuwH  the  burn  JDavie,  nor  Dainty  Davie  (I 
f(ir;;(it  wlilcli  vnn  nu'iitioned),  were  written  l)y 
Colonel  G.  Crawford.  Next  time  I  meet  liim, 
I  will  inquire  about  his  cousin's  poetical  talents. 

Enclosed  are  tlie  inscriptions  you  requested, 
and  a  letter  to  !\Ir.  Young,  wliose  company  and 
musical  talents  will,  I  a:n  persuaded,  be  a  feast 
to  you.*  Nobody  can  give  you  better  hints, 
as  to  your  present  i)lan,  than  he.  Receive 
aJso  Omeron  Cameron,  which  seemed  to  make 
such  a  deep  impression  on  your  imagination, 
that  I  am  not  without  hopes  it  will  beget  some- 

"  These  Inscriptions,  so  much  admiretl  by  Bums, 
We  below : — 

WRITTEN  IX  176S. 

rC'R  THE  SALICTUM     AT  OCHTERTYRE. 

SiLUDRiTATis  voluptatisquc  causa. 

Hoc  S.ilictum, 

Palutiem  olim  infidam, 

Mihi  meisnue  <le>icc()  at  exorno. 

Hie,  procul  ueijotiis  strepituque 

Innoeuis  dfiiciis 

S;lviilas  inter  nasceiites  reptantii, 

.Xpiumque  labnrcs  suspicicncli, 

Knior, 

Hie,  si  fixit  Dcus  opt.  max. 

I'rope  hunc  fontera  pelluciduin. 

Cum  qu.vlam  jiiveiitutis  amico  superstite, 

Sa;|ie  conquiescam,  senex, 

.w<ittntu3  moiiieis,  meoque  Isetus! 

Sin  alitcr — 

/Evique  paululum  supersit, 

Vdssilvula-,  et  amici, 

Caeteraque  amcena, 

Valete,  diuque  Ictaraini  I 


ENGLISHED. 

To  improve  both  air  and  soil, 

I  dram  and  decorate  tliis  plantation  of  willows, 

W  liich  was  lately  an  unprofitable  marass. 

Here,  far  from  noise  and  strife, 

1  love  to  wander. 

Hovi  fondly  marking  the  i)rogrcss  of  my  trees, 

So.v  studyini;  tlie  bee,  its  arts  and  manners. 

Hero,  if  it  |ilcases  Alnui;lity  God, 

May  I  often  rest  in  the  evening  of  li.'e. 

Near  that  transparent  fountain, 

With  some  surviv  iiii;  friend  of  my  youSilt 

Contented  with  a  competciicy, 

.And  hapjiy  with  my  lot- 
If  vain  the>e  humble  wishes, 
And  life  draws  near  a  close, 

Ve  trees  and  friends. 

And  wh  (tever  else  is  dear, 

FarCAcIi,  and  long  may  ye  flourish. 


ABOVE  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  HOUSE:. 

WRITTEN  IN  177-5. 

Miai  mei^qne  utinam  continga<  , 

Prope  Taichi  mAri^inem, 

Avito  in  Agelio, 

Rene  vivere  faustequa  mori  I 


thin^  to  delight  the  public  in  c,-.ie  time  :  anJ, 
no  doubt,  the  circun.stances  of  this  little  tale 
might  be  varied  or  extended,  so  as  to  make 
part  of  a  pastoral  comedy.  Age  or  wounds 
iiiight  have  kept  Omeron  at  home,  whilst  his 
conntrymcn  were  in  the  tield.  His  station 
may  be  somewhat  varied,  without  losinjj  his 
simplicity  and  kindness  ....  A  group 
of  characters,  male  and  female,  connected  with 
the  plot,  might  be  formed  from  his  f.imily,  or 
soine  neighbouring  one  of  rank.  It  is  not  in- 
dispensable that  the  guest  should  be  a  man  of 
high  station  ;  nor  is  the  political  quarrel  in 
which  he  is  engaged,  of  much  importance,  un- 
less to  call  forth  the  exercise  of  generosity  and 
faithfulness,  grafted  on  patriarchal  hospitality. 
To  introduce  state  affiirs,  would  raise  the 
style  above  comedy  ;  though  a  sina'l  spice  of 
them  would  season  the  ctmveise  of  swains. 
Uptm  this  head  I  cannot  say  more  than  to  re- 
commend the  study  of  the  character  of  Euma'us 
in  the  Odyssey,  which,  in  Mr.  Pope's  transla- 
tion, is  an  exijuisite  and  invaluable  drawin? 
froin  nature,  that  would  suit  some  of  our  coun- 
try elders  of  the  present  day. 

There  must  be  love  in  the  plot,  and  a  happy 
discovery  ;  and  peace  and  par-ion  may  be  the 
reward  of  hospitality,  and  honest  attachment 
to  misguided  principles.  When  you  have  once 
thought  of  a  plot,  and  brought  the  story  into 
form.  Dr.  Blacklock,  or  ]\Jr.  II.  Mackenzie, 
may  be  useful  in  dividing  it  into  acts  and 
scenes  ;  for  in  these  matters  one  must  pay 
some  attention  to  certain  rules  of  the  drama. 
These  you  could  afterwards  fill  up  at  your  lei- 
sure. But,  whilst  I  presume  to  give  a  few 
well-meant  hints,  let  ine  advise  you  to  study 
the  spirit  of  my  namesake's  dialogue,  •  which 
is  natural  without  being  low,  and,  utiilLT  the 
trammels  of  verse,  is  such  as  country  peo))le  in 
tl-.eir  situatiims  speak  every  day.  You  have 
only  to  bring  down  your  own  strain  a  very  lit- 
tle. A  great  plan,  such  as  this,  would  con- 
center all  your  ideas,  which  faciht.ites  the  exe- 
cution, and  makes  it  a  part  of  one's  pleasure. 

1  approve  of  your  plan  of  retiring  from  din 
and  dissi[)ation  to  a  farm  of  very  mudeiate  size, 
.-ufficient  to  find  exercise  fcjr  minil  aiul  body, 
but  not  so  great  as  to  absorb  better  thin;^s. 
And  if  s.mie  intellectual  pur-uit  be  well  cliosen 
and  steadily  pursued,  it  will  be  more  lucrative 
than  most  farms,  in  this  age  of  rapid  improve- 
me;.t. 

L'pon  this  subject,  as  your  well-wisher  auil 
admirer,   permit  iv.e  to  go  a  step  fartl  er.     Let 


ENGLISHED. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Tcith, 

In  the  small  but  sweet  inheritance 

Of  my  fathers, 

.May  I  and  mnic  live  .ii  peace. 

And  die  in  joyful  hope  ! 


These  in'oriiitions,  and  th;  trinslatioas,  are  in  tht 

hand-wriliii!;  of  Mr.  !l . 

•  Allan  Ilamsay,  in  the  Gentle  Shephe:d. 


272 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


those  l)rl;;lit  tilcnts  wli!(;h  the  Alinijhty  has 
bestoH'eil  on  you,  \i;  hcnct-fiirth  einjiloveil  ti> 
the  n(il)le  piir|ji)se  of  su|ipi'rtiiig  the  caii>e  of 
truth  and  virtue.  An  iini^^inition  so  varieil 
and  forcible  as  yours,  m  ly  <lo  this  in  many  dif- 
ferent modes  ;  mir  is  it  necessary  to  be  always 
serious,  which  you  have  been  to  gooil  purpose  ; 
good  morals  may  be  recommended  in  a  comedy, 
or  k'ven  in  a  sonj.  Great  allowances  are  due 
to  the  heat  and  iuexpeiience  of  youth  ; — and 
few  poets  can  boa-it,  like  Thomson,  of  never 
havi.ig  written  a  line,  which,  dying,  thev  would 
wisli  to  blot.  In  particular,  I  wish  you  to 
keep  clear  of  the  thorny  walks  of  satire,  which 
makes  a  man  a  hundred  enemies  for  one  friend, 
and  is  doubly  dangerous  when  one  is  supposed 
to  extend  the  slips  and  weaknesses  of  indivi- 
duals to  their  sect  or  p  irty.  About  modes  of 
faith,  serious  and  excelletit  men  have  always 
difTered  ;  and  there  are  certain  curious  ques- 
tions, wliicli  may  aff.ird  scope  to  men  of  meta- 
physical he  uls,  b'.it  selilom  mend  the  heart  or 
temper.  Whilst  these  points  are  beyond  hu- 
man ken,  it  is  sufficient  that  all  our  sects  con- 
cur in  their  views  of  morals.  You  will  forgive 
me  for  these  hints. 

Well  !  what  think  you  of  good  lady  G.  ? 
It  is  a  pity  she  is  so  deaf,  and  speaks  so  ItkHs- 
tiiictly.  Her  house  is  a  specimen  of  the  man- 
sions of  our  gentry  of  the  last  age,  when  hos- 
pitaliiy  and  elevation  of  mind  were  conspicu- 
ous amidst  plain  fare  and  plain  furniture.  I 
shall  be  glad  to  hear  fiou!  you  at  times,  if  it 
Were  no  more  than  to  show  that  you  take  the 
eiFusiotis  of  an  obscure  man  like  me  in  good 
part.  I  heg  my  best  respects  to  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Bljcklock,* 

And  am.  Sir, 

Your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

J.  RA.MSAY. 


Nc    Lf. 


FROM  MR.  W 


•  TALE  OF  OMERO.V  CAMERON. 

Iw  one  of  the  wars  betwixt  the  Crown  of  Scotland 
ami  the  L  irds  of  the  Isles,  Alex^iruler  Stewart,  Karl  of 
Mar  (.1  distiiipuishe.l  character  in  the  tifreenth  cen- 
tury), and  Donald  siewail,  Karl  of  Caithness,  had  the 
conini.nul  of  the  ro\al  army.  Tliey  marched  into 
LoehabiT,  with  a  view  of  attacking  a  body  of  M'Don. 
aids,  commanded  by  Donald  Halloch,  and' posted  upon 
an  arm  of  the  sea  which  intersects  that  conntrv.  Hav. 
iiig  timely  'melligence  of  their  approach,  the  iiisnr- 
penLs  got  off  precipitately  to  the  opposite  shore  in  their 
turaghs,  or  boats  covcrel  with  skms.  The  king's 
troo|K  cne.mipe.l  n  f  ill  ecurity;  but  theM'l")onalds, 
rctionnig  about  midinglU.  surprised  them,  killed  the 
Earl  of  Caithness,  and  destroyed  or  dispersed  the  wliole 
army. 

The  Karl  of  Mar  escaped  in  the  dark,  without  any 
utteii'lanis,  and  made  for  the  more  hilly  part  of  lh<? 
comitry.  In  the  course  of  his  tiight  he  came  to  the 
house  of  a  poor  man,  uh^e  name  was  Omeron  Came- 
r'.it.  The  landlord  welcomed  his  guest  with  the  nt-. 
inosl  kindness;  b  it,  as  ihe.c  was  no  meat  in  the  house, 
he  told  his  wife  he  w(nild  directly  kill  Maol  Otlluir,  \ 
to  r.u-d  the  stranger.  "  K'll  our  only  cow  !"  said  she, 
"our  own  and  our  little'  dren's  princiiia!  siijiport  !" 
Moru  attentive,  however.  ^..  the  present  call  for  hospi- 
tality, than  to  the  reiAonstraiices  of  his  wife,  or  the 
fii'ure  exi^'encies  of  his  familv,  he  killed  the  eoiv. 
The  best  and  tcmlcrtst  parts  weie  immediately  roasted 

*  Moot  Odhar,  (.  t.  the  brown  humble  cow.  | 


Athoh  House,  13M  Sufte'nher,  17S-. 
YoL'a  letter  of  the  .5th  reached  me  only  oj 
the  11th;  what  awkward  route  it  hid  takeu  ! 
know  not  ;  but  it  deprived  me  of  the  pleasure 
of  writing  to  you  in  the  manner  vo  i  proposed, 
as  you  must  have  left  Dundee  before  a  lerter 
could  possibly  have  got  there.  I  hope  your 
disappointment  on  being  forced  to  leave  us  \ra» 
as  gieat  as  appeared  from  ytmr  expressions. 
This  is  the  best  consolation  for  the  greatness 
of  ours.  1  still  think  with  vexatiim  on  that 
ill-timed  indi'-position  which  lost  me  a  dav's 
enjoyment  of  a  man  (I  speak  without  flatteiy) 
possessed  of  those  very  dispositions  and   talents 

I  most  admire  ;   one 

.  .  .  .  You  know  how  anxious  the  Duke 
wa?  to  have  another  day  of  you,  and  to  let  Mr. 
Dundas  have  the  pleasure  of  your  conversation 
as  the  best  dainty  with  which  he  could  enter- 
tain an  honoured  guest.  You  know  liliewise 
the  eagerness  the  ladies  showed  to  detain  you  ; 
but  perhaps  you  do  not  know  the  si  hems 
which  they  devised,  with  tlicir  usual  fertility 
in  resources.  One  of  the  servants  was  sent  to 
your  driver  to  bribe  him  to  loosen  or  pull  otT  a 
shoe   from  one  of  his  horses,   but   the   ambus'' 


before  the  fire,  and  plenty  of  iinirich,  or  Highlani* 
soup,  prepared  to  conclude  their  mial. — The  whol-  r*- 
niily  and  their  gnest  ate  lieartily,  and  the  evemiiu'  was 
silent  as  usual,  in  telling  talcs  and  singing  scmgs  1  e- 
siileaL-hecrl'ul  tire.  l!ed-timc  cnmej  ()n'.ei\.n  hnishcd 
the  hearth,  spread  the  cow  hide- iijion  it,  and  de-iroil 
the  stranger  to  he  down.  The  E.irl  wrapped  his  pl.iid 
about  him,  and  slept  souml  on  the  hide,  whiM  the 
family  betook  Iheinsclvcs  to  rest  in  a  corner  of  the 
same  room. 


Next  morning  they  had  a  plt^nliful  hrcakfnsr,  and  at 
his  departure  his  guest  askcil  Cameron,  il  he  knei" 
whom  he  had  cnterUiined?  "  Ymi  may  prubatiiv," 
answered  he,  "  be  one  of  the  king's  olTiccis ;  hut  who- 
ever  you  ate,  you  came  here  in  distrcs;,  and  herr  it 
was  my  duly  to  protect  you.  To  what  my  cottage 
aft'irded,  you  are  most  welcome." — "  Vo'nr  guest, 
then,"  replied  the  other,  "  is  the  Earl  of  Mai :  and  if 
hereafter  you  fall  into  any  misfortune,  fail  not  tocome 
to  the  castle  of  Kildnimiiiic." — "  M\  blessing  be  "ith 
you  I  1  oble  stranger."  said  Omcion;  "  if  1  am  ever  in 
distress,  you  shall  soon  see  me." 

The  royal  army  was  soon  after  re-assemblcd  ;  and  the 
insuigents,  finding  thcmschcs  unable  to  make  l:c,-:d 
ag  linst  It,  di-]H'rscd.  The  M'Donalds,  however,  got 
notice  that  Omeron  had  been  the  Earl's  host,  and 
forced  him  to  lly  the  country,  lie  came  with  his  wite 
and  children  to'the  gate  of  Kildrnmmie  Cnslle,  :ind 
required  admittance  with  a  confidence  which  han  ly 
corresponded  with  his  h.diit  anil  appearance.  The 
porter  lold  him  rudely,  his  l.nrdsliip  was  at  dinner,  aid 
mujt  not  be  disturbed.  Hi- bcaine  noisy  aid  iiiipor- 
tun.itc:  at  last  his  iiaine  wasahnounced.  Upon  hear- 
ingihat  it  wasOnipron  Camco.n,  the  Eail  st.irteil  from 
his  S'.-at,  and  is  said  to  have  CNelaimed  in  asort  of  |ioc. 
tical  otanr.a,  "  I  w.asanight  in  Ins  house,  and  fircj 
most  plentifully:  but  linked  of  clothes  w.is  iiiv  bid 
Omeron  from  Hreugach  is  an  excellent  fellow  !"  He 
was  mtrodiiicl  into  the  grcnt  hall,  and  received  with 
the  welcome  he  deserved-  Up, in  hearing  ho.v  I  e  had 
been  tr-  ateit,  ihe  Earl  gave  him  a  four  mcrk  land  ncai 
thecasile;  and  it  is  said  there  are  still  in  the  countrj 
a  number  of  Cainerons  descended  of  this  llighlanc 
£  urns  us* 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


271^ 


hilc'd.  Proh  minim  !  The  driver  was  incor- 
ruptiUt,  Your  VLMsi's  have  f^ivt-n  lis  iiiui-li 
dfliijlit,  iiml  I  think  will  pinduce  their  ]>io;icr 
effect.*  Tlii'y  |iroi!iioi.'d  a  ])i)\vi'rful  one  iiii- 
mi'iiiatcly  ;  for  the  morning  after  I  read  tlieni, 
we  all  set  out  in  proee^'i.ni  to  the  Bruar,  where 
none  oF  the  ladies  had  bee »  these  seven  in 
eii;ht  years,  and  a;.^iin  enjuyed  tliera  theie. 
The  p.i'^sj^i.'s  we  nio^t  admired  are  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  'lying  troiits.  Of  the  high  fall 
"  twisting  strensjth,"  is  a  happy  picture  of  the 
upper  part.  The  characters  of  the  birds, 
"  mild  and  mellow,"  is  the  thrush  itself.  The 
benevolent  anxiety  for  their  happiness  and  safe- 
ty I  highly  approve.  The  two  stanzas  be- 
ginnini,'  "  Here  haply  too" — darkly  dashing  is 
most  descriptively  Ossiaaic. 


Here  I  cannot  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of 
mentioning  an  incident  which  happened  yester- 
day at  tlie  Bi  uar.  As  we  |)assed  the  door  of  a 
most  miserable  hovel,  an  old  woman  curtsied 
to  us  With  ioiks  of  such  povei  ty,  and  sucii  con- 
tentment, that  each  of  us  iuvolunt.irily  gave  her 
some  money.  She  was  astonished,  and  in  the 
confusion  of  her  gratitude,  in'-ited  us  in.  Miss 
C.  and  I,  that  we  might  not  hurt  her  delicacy, 
entered — but,  good  God,  what  wretchedness  ! 
It  w  IS  a  cow-house — her  own  cottage  had  been 
burnt  last  winter.  The  poor  old  creature  stood 
peifectly  sihut — looked  at  I\I;ss  C.  then  to  the 
inonry,  and  burst  into  tears — Miss  C.  joined 
her,  anil,  with  a  vehemence  of  sensibility,  took 
out  her  purse,  and  emptied  it  into  the  old  wo- 
man's lap.  What  a  charming  scene  ! — A  sweet 
accomplished  girl  of  seventeen  in  so  angelic  a 
bitUiition  !  Take  your  pencil  and  paint  her  in 
ynur  most  glomng  tints. — Hold  her  up  amidst 
the  darkness  of  this  scene  of  human  woe,  to  the 
icy  dames  that  flaunt  through  the  gaieties  of  life, 
witiii'Ut  ever  feeling  one  generous,  one  great 
cniotiiin. 

Two  days  after  you  left  us,  I  went  to  Tay- 
mouth.  It  is  a  chaiining  place,  but  still  I 
ihink  art  has  been  too  busy.  Let  me  be  your 
Cicerone  for  two  days  at  Dunkeld,  and  you 
will  acknowledge  that  in  the  beauties  of  naked 
nature  we  are  not  surpassed.  The  loch,  the 
Gothic  arcade,  and  the  fall  of  the  hermitage, 
gave  me  most  delight.  But  I  think  the  last 
has  not  been  taken  proper  ;ulvantage  of.  The 
hermitage  is  too  nmch  in  the  common-puce 
style.  Every  body  exp"cts  the  couch,  the  book- 
press,  a  d  the  hairy  gown.  The  Duke's  idea 
I  think  better.  A  rich  and  elegant  apartment 
is  an  excellent  contrast  to  a  scene  of  Alpine 
horrors. 

I  must  now  beg  your  permission  (unless  you 
have  some  other  design)  to  have  your  veises 
printed.     They   ajipear   to   me   extremely   cor- 


rect, and  some  particular  stanzas  wojiM  give 
univeisil  pleasure.  Let  me  know,  however,  if 
you  incline  to  give  them  any  farther  touches. 

Were  they  in  some  of  the  public  papers,  w« 
could  more  easily  disseminate  them  among  our 
trienils,  which  many  of  us  are  anxious  to  do. 

N\'hen  you  |)ay  your  promised  visit  to  the 
Braes  of  Ochtertyre,  Mr.  and  .Mrs.  Graham  of 
B  ilgowan  beg  to  li.ive  the  pleasure  of  conduct- 
ing you  to  the  bower  of  Bessy  licU  and  Mary 
(iray,  which  is  now  in  their  possession.  Tlie 
Durhess  would  give  any  consideration  fur  an- 
other sight  of  \»)ur  letter  to  Dr.  Moore  ;  we 
must  fall  upon  s(Miie  methori  ,f  procuring  it  for 
her.      I  shall  enclose   this   to  our  mutual  fiiend 

Dr.  B ,  who  mav  forward  it.      I  shall  be 

extremely  happy  to  hear  from   you  at  your  first 
leisure.      Enclose  your  letter  in  a  cover  address- 
ed to  the  Duke  of  Atholo,  Dunkeld. 
God  bless  you, 

J W . 


No.  LIL 


FRO:\I  .AIR.  A- 


:\i- 


siR,  6th  October,  1TS7. 

n.vviNo  just  arriveil  from  abroad,  I  had  youf 
poems  put  into  my  hands:  the  ple.isure  I  r». 
ceived  in  reading  them,  has  induce  I  me  to  »o. 
licit  your  lilierty  to  publish  them  anumgst  a 
number  of  our  countrymen  in  America,  (tt 
which  |)lace  I  shall  shortly  return  j,  and  wher« 
they  will  be  a  treat  of  such  excellence,  tkit  i 
would  be  an  injury  to  your  merit  and  their  feel- 
ing to  prevent  their  appeariiig  in  public. 

Receive  the   following    hastilv-writtaa   liuei 
from  a  well-wisher. 

Fair  fa'  your  pen,  my  dainty  Rob^ 

Your  lei-om  way  o'  writing. 
Whiles,  glowiing  o'er  vour  warks  I  sob, 

Vt'hilcs  laugh,  whiles  downright  gieeting 
Your  sonsie  tykes  may  charm  a  chiel, 

Theii  words  are  wondrous  bonny. 
But  guid  Scotch  drink  the  truth  dues  si.^ 

It  is  as  guid  as  ony 

Wi*'  you  this  day. 

Poor  Mailie,  troth,  I'll,  nae  but  think* 

Yc  (lid  the  poor  thing  wrang. 
To  leave  her  ttther'il  on  the  brmk 

Of  st.mk  sae  wide  and  lang  ; 
Her  dyitvg  woids  upbraid  ye  sair, 

C'ly  fye  on.  your  neglect  ; 
Guid  f.iitli  !   gin  ye  had  got  play  fair 

This  dttid  had  stretch'd   your  neck 

That  mounifu'  da^ 


•  •■  The  humble  petition  of  13ruar-W«tcr  to  ^.e  1  B"^„.Y'^'"'  ""^'  ^'"^  •'"^  ^  f*"'  fa"'» 
Duke  of  Athole."  _  „  I      Wi  sic  d  wmsome  baroje, 

S  3 


27* 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Whi  pront  Ml'  st'ir!^  bcj^jn  to  (l;iut, 

And  tik'  liiiii  by  the  giirdie  ; 
it  SL'ts  na  ony  liiwhmd  chiel, 

Like  you  to  vtrse  cr  ihynie, 
For  few  like  you  can  fley  the  de'il, 

And  skolp  aukl  wither'd  Time 
On  ony  day. 

It's  fair  to  praise  ilk  canty  callan, 

X?e  lie  of  puiest  fame, 
If  Ke  but  tries  to  raise  as  Allan, 

Aukl  Scotia's  bonny  name  ; 
To  you,  therefore,  in  humble  rhyme, 

Iktter  1  canni  gi'e. 
And  tho'  it's  but  a  swatch  of  thine, 

Accept  these  lines  frae  me, 

Upo*  this  day. 

Frae  Jock  o'  Groats  to  bonny  Tweed, 

Frae  that  e'en  to  the  line, 
In  ilka  place  wb.ere  Scotsmen  bleed, 

There  shall  your  hardship  shine; 
I!k  honest  chiel  \\  ha  reads  your  buick. 

Will  there  aye  mutt  a  brither, 
Fe  lang;  may  seek,  and  lang  will  look, 

Ere  he  fin'  sic  anitlier 

On  ony  day. 

Feart  that  my  cruicket  verse  should  spalrge 

Bome  wark  of  wordie  inak', 
J'se  iiae  mair  o'  this  head  enlarge. 

But  now  my  farewell  tak' : 
Lang  Biay  you  live,  lang  may  you  write. 

And  sing  like  English  Wcischell, 
This  prayer  I  do  myself  indite, 

From  >y.uurs  still,  A •  M  ., 

This  very  day. 


No,  LIII. 
FROM  MR.  J.  RAMSAY, 

TO  THE 

REVEREND  W.  YOUNG,  at  Erskine. 

LEAR  Sin,  Ochtcrtijre,  22d  Oct.  1787. 

Allow  me  to  iutroduc*;  Mr.  Burns,  whose 
pneu's,  I  dare  say,  have  given  you  much  plea- 
t-urc.  Upon  a  ])ers()nal  acquaintjnce,  I  doubt 
tot,  you  will  relish  the  man  as  much  as  his 
works,  in  which  there  is  a  rich  vein  of  intel- 
lectual ore.  ][c  has  heard  some  of  our  High- 
land liiinic.'s  or  songs  jjlayed,  wliich  delighted 
hini  so  much  that  he  has  made  words  to  one 
(IV  two  of  them,  which  will  render  these  more 
popular  As  lie  has  thought  of  l)cing  in  your 
'i'laiter,  I  am  persuaded  you  will  not  think  it 
labiHir  lost  to  indulge  the  |ioet  of  nature  with  a 
vauiple  of  those  sweet  artless  melodies,  which 
only  want  to  be  murrivd  (in  MiLoti's  phia.-e) 
to   congeiiial   vords.      1  wisli  we  could  conjure 


up  the  ghost  of  Joseph  M'D.  to  infuse  into  OUT 
bard  a  portion  of  his  enthusiasm  for  those  ne- 
glected airs,  which  do  not  suit  the  fastidious 
musicians  of  the  present  hour.  But  if  it  h» 
true  that  Corelli  (whom  I  looked  on  as  the 
Homer  of  music)  is  out  of  date,  it  is  no  proof 
of  their  taste  j — this,  however,  is  going  out  of 
my  province.  You  can  slow  Mr.  Burns  the 
manner  of  singing  these  same  luhiigs  ;  and,  il 
he  can  humour  it  in  words,  I  do  not  despair  ol 
seeing  one  of  them  sung  upon  the  stage,  in  the 
original  style,  round  a  napkin. 

I  am  very  sorry  we  are  likely  to  meet  so  sel- 
dom in  this  neighbourhood.  It  is  one  of  the 
greatest  drawbacks  that  attends  obscurity,  that 
one  has  so  few  opportunities  (;f  cultivating  ac- 
quaintances at  a  distance.  I  hope,  however, 
some  time  or  other,  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
beating  up  your  quarters  at  Erskine,  and  ol 
hauling  you  away  to  Paisley,  &c.  ;  meanwhile 
I  beg  to  be  remembered  to  Mes.-rs.  Boog  lad 
Mylne. 

If  Mr.  B.  goes  by ,  give  him  a  billet  on 

our  friend   IMr.  Stuart,    who,    1   presume,   does 
not  dread  the  frown  of  his  diucesun. 
I  am,  Dear  Sir, 
Your  most  obedient  humble  servant, 

J.  RAMSAY 


No.  LIV. 
FROM  MR.  RAMSAY, 


TO 


DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

DEAR  SIR,  Ochlerti/re,  21ih  Oct.  1787. 

I  RECEIVED  yours  by  Mr.  Burns,  and  givfi 
you  many  thanks  for  giving  me  an  opportunity 
of  conversing  with  a  man  of  his  calibre.  He 
will,  I  doubt  not,  let  you  know  what  passe<l  be- 
tween us  on  the  subject  of  my  hints,  to  which  I 
have  made  additions,  in  a  letter  se;it  him  t'other 
(lay  to  your  care. 


You  may  tell  Mr,  Burns,  when  you  see  him, 

that  Colonel  Edmonstoune  t(/ld  me  t'other  day, 
lliat  his  cousin.  Colonel  George  Crawfoid,  was 
iio  poit,  but  a  great  singer  of  songs  ;  but  that 
bis  eldest  brother  Robert  (by  a  former  mail iige) 
had  a  great  turn  that  way,  having  written  the 
words  of  Ike  Hush  ulioon  Traquair,  and 
Twetdside.  That  tlie  Mary  to  whom  it  was 
addressed  was  Jlary  Stewart  of  the  Castleiiiilk 
finiily,  afterwards  wife  of  Mr.  John  Uelehes. 
Tiie  Colonel  never  saw  Robeit  Crawford,  though 
he  was  at  his  burial  fifty-tive  yea's  aro.  Ha 
was  a  pretty  young  man,  and  had  liveil  1  >iiir  i.T 
1  ranee.  Lady  Ankei  ville  is  his  niece,  and  maj 
know  more  of  his  poetical  vein.     Ad  epitiph 


CORRESPONDEN'Cii. 


276 


Tir.nn.T  lil<e  me  nii'^Tit  moralize  upon   the  v.inity 
of  liCi'.   ;iMil   tlie  vanity  of  those  swert  rffn^ioMs. 
—  Hut  I  liavc  liarilly  room  to  otfer  my  l)ost  com- 
pliiiiiiiits  to  Mis.  BliU'klock  ;   and  I  am, 
Dear  Doctor, 
Your  most  oheilient  humble  servant, 

J.  RAMSAY. 


No.  LV 


FROM  MR.  JOHN  lAIURDOCII. 

tiY  DEAR  SIR,        L'tndnn,  2Sth   Oct.  17S7. 

As  my  friend,  Mr.  Brown,  is  goinc^  from  this 
[jlace  to  your  neighhourhnod,  I  emhraee  the  op- 
portunity of  tellin;!  you  that  I  am  yet  alive,  to- 
Vralily  uell,  and  always  in  cx|)ectation  of  being 
l)etter.  By  the  much-valued  letters  before  me,  I 
see  that  it  was  my  duty  to  have  i,nven  you  this  in- 
telliijence  aliout  three  vears  aiul  nine  months  a^o  ; 
and  have  nothin;i;  to  allej;e  r.s  an  excuse  but  that 
we  |)oor,  busy,  l)nstliiig  bodies  in  London,  are  so 
much  taken  up  with  the  Vdrious  pursuits  in  which 
we  are  here  en^;aged,  that  we  seldom  think  of 
any  person,  creature,  place,  or  thin;;^,  that  is  ab- 
sent. But  this  is  not  altoijether  the  case  with 
me;  fiu-  I  often  think  of  you,  and  Hirnie,  and 
I{)issel,  and  an  nnj'athi»iud  dipt/i,  ami  lowa/i 
Iriinstiine,  all  in  the  same  minute,  althoutjh  you 
Hnd  they  ai'e  (as  I  suppose)  at  a  con»iderable  dis- 
tance. I  flatter  myself,  however,  with  the  pleas- 
ing thought,  that  you  and  I  shall  meet  some 
time  or  other  either  in  Scotland  or  Engl.ind. 
If  ever  vou  come  hither,  you  will  have  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  your  poems  relished  by  the  Ca- 
ledonians in  London,  full  as  much  as  they  can 
be  by  those  of  Edinburgh,  We  frequently  re-  [ 
jie.it  some  of  your  verses  in  our  Caledonian  so- 
ciety ;  aiid  you  may  believe,  that  I  am  not  a  | 
bttlt  vain  that  I  have  had  some  share  in  culti- 
vating such  a  genius.  I  was  not  absolutely  cer- 
tain that  vou  were  the  author,  till  a  few  days  a- 
po,  when  I  m  ide  a  visit  to  JSIrs.  Hill,  Dr. 
IM'Comb's  eldest  (hur^hfer,  who  lives  in  town, 
and  who  told  me  that  she  was  inforined  of  it  by 
a  letter  from  her  sister  in  Edinburgh,  with  whom 
yoM  had  been  in  company  when  in  that  capital. 

Pray  let  me  know  if  you  have  any  intention 
of  visiting  this  huge,  overgrown  metropolis?  It 
would  afford  matter  for  a  large  poem.  Here  you 
would  hive  an  opportunity  of  indulging  your 
vein  in  the  study  of  maidiind,  perhaps  to  a  gre  it- 
er degree  than  in  any  city  ujion  the  face  of  the 
globe  ;  for  the  inhabitants  of  London,  as  you 
kuow  are  a  collection  of  all  nations,  kindreds, 
and  tongues,  who  make  it,  as  it  were,  the  centre 
ot  their  commerce. 


took  such  uncommon  pains  to  in.stil  into  your 
minds  from  your  earliest  inf.incy  '  May  yo.l  livE 
as  he  did  !  if  you  do,  y(ui  can  never  be  unhappy. 
I  feci  myself  grown  serious  all  at  once,  ai;d  af 
fected  in  a  manner  I  cannot  describe.  I  sh.i'! 
only  add,  that  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  |)lea'^uifS 
I  |)romise  myself  before  I  die,  that  of  seeing  the 
family  of  a  man  whose  memory  I  revere  more 
than  that  of  any  j)erson  that  ever  I  Wiis  ac- 
quainteil  with. 

I  am,  my  dear  Friend, 

Yours  sincerely, 

JOHN  MURDOCH. 


No.  LVL 


FROM  lAIR. 


SIR,         Gordon  Castle,  Sist  October,  17S7. 

If  you  were  not  sensible  of  your  fiult  as  v.-eil 
as  of  your  loss  in  leaving  this  jila'-e  so  sudiU'nlv, 
I  should  condemn  you  to  starve  upon  cauld  had 
Uiv  ae  tinnnont  at  least  ;  and  as  for  Dick  La- 
tine,*  your  travelling  companion,  without  ban- 
ning him  wi'  a"  the  curses  contained  in  your  let- 
ter, (which  he'll  no  value  a  bawbee),  I  should 
give  him  nought  but  Stra^bogie  custucks  to  chew 
for  sax  onks,  or  aye  until  he  was  as  sensible  of 
his  error  as  you  seem  to  be  of  yours. 


Present  my  respectful  com])!iments  to  Mrs. 
Burns,  to  my  dear  friend  Gilbert,  and  all  the 
rest  o'  her  amiable  childien.  May  the  Father 
of  the  universe  bless  you  ail  with  those  princi- 
ples and   dispositioi.     that    the   best  of  parenta 


Your  song  I  showed  without  producing  the 
author  ;  and  it  was  judged  by  the  Duchess  to  be 
the  production  of  Dr.  Beattie.  I  sent  a  copy  of 
it,  by  her  Grace's  desire,  to  a  Mrs.  M'Pherson 
in  Badenoch,  who  sings  Morag  and  all  other 
Gaelic  songs  in  great  perfection.  I  have  re- 
corded it  likewise,  by  Lady  Charlotte's  desire, 
in  a  book  belonging  to  her  ladyship,  where  it  is 
in  cumpiny  y^.ih  a  great  many  other  poems  and 
versL's,  some  of  the  wi  iters  of  which  are  no  less 
eminent  for  their  political  than  fur  their  poetical 
abilities.  When  t!ie  Duchess  was  informed  that 
you  were  the  author  she  wished  you  had  written 
tile  versus  in  Scotch. 

Any  letter  directed  to  me  here  will  come  t« 
hand  safely,  and,  if  sent  under  the  Duke's  cover, 
it  will  likewi>e  ccune  free  ;  that  is,  as  longastlia 
Duke  is  in  this  country. 

I  am,  Sir,  yours  sincerely. 


No.  LVIL 

FROM  THE  REV.  JOHN  SKLN'NER. 

SIR,  Linxhart,  Wtli  Nov.  1787. 

YfUR  kind  return  without  date,  but  of  post« 
mark  October  25th,  came  to  my  hand  only  thij 
day  ;  and.   to  testify  my  punctuality  to  my  ptn 


•  Mr,  Xicoiu 


276 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


etic  cng.igement,  I  sit  down  imm,?rfiately  to  an- 
swer it  in   kind.      Your   ai-kr.owledgnient  of  my 
poor  but  just  encomiums  on  your  surprising  ge- 
niu!=,   ami   your  ojiinion  of  my  rhyming  excur- 
sions, are  lioth,    I  think,   by  far  too  high.      Tlie 
difference  between  our  two  tracts  of  education 
and  wavs  of  life  is  entirely  in  your   favour,  and 
gives  you   the  jjreference  every  manner  of  way. 
'    know   a  classical  education   will   not  cieate  a 
veisifying  t.i>te,  but  it  mightily  improves  and  as- 
sists  it ;    and    though,  where  both  these  meet, 
there  may  sometimes  be  ground  for  approbation, 
yet  where  taste  appe;irs  single,   as  it  were,   and 
neitlier   cramped   nor  sujjported   iiy  acquisition, 
I  will  always  sustain  the  ju.-ticeof  its  prior  d.iiin 
to  aj»})l  luse.      A  small  portion  of  taste,  this  way, 
I  have  liad  almost  from  childhood,   especially  in 
thv  old  Scottish  dialect :    and  it  is  as  old  a  thing 
as  I   remember,   my  fondness  for  C/irist  kirk  o' 
the    Giien,    which   1   had    by  heart  ere  I  was 
twelve  years  of  age,  and  wiiich,   some  years  ago, 
I  attempted   to  turn  into  Latin   verse.     While  I 
was  young,  I  dabbled  a  good  deal  in  these  thmgs  ; 
but,  on  getting  the  black  go»vn,  I  gave  it  pretty 
much  over,  till  my  daughters  grew  up,  who,  be- 
ing all   good   singers,   plagued   nie   for  words  to 
some  of  their  favourite  tunes,   and  so  extorted 
these  effusions,  which  have  made  a  public  appear- 
ance beyond   my  expectations,   and   contrary  to 
my  intentions,  at  the  same  time  that  I  hope  there 
is    nothing   to    be  found   in    them   uncharacter- 
istic,  or  unbecoming  the  cloth,  which   I  would 
aluays  wish  to  se.-  respected. 

.'Vs  to  the  assistance  you  propose  from  nic  in 
the  ur.iiertaking  you  are  engaged  in,'  I  am  sorry 
1  cannot  give  it  so  far  as  I  could  wish,  anil  you, 
perhaps,  expect.  IMy  daughters,  who  were  my 
oiilv  intelligencers,  are  all  /i;r/s  /'jm'V/a/c,  and 
tile  old  woinm  their  mother  h  is  lost  that  t  iste. 
There  are  two  from  my  own  pen,  which  1  might 
cive  you,  if  worth  tiie  while.  One  to  the  old 
Scotch  tune  of  Dumbiirlons  Drums. 

The  other  pel  haps  you  have  met  with,  as 
viuir  noble  fi  ieiid  the  Duchess  has,  I  am  told, 
heard  of  it.  It  was  squeezed  out  of  me  by  a 
brother  parson  in  her  neighbourhood,  to  accoin- 
mo.late  a  new  Highland  reel  for  the  Marquis's 
biith-day,  to  the  stanza  of 

«  Tune  your  fiddles,  tune  them  sweetly,"  &c. 

If  this  last  answer  your  purpose,  you  niay 
have  it  from  a  lirother  of  mine,  3Ir.  James  Skin- 
ner, writer  in  Edinburgh,  who,  1  believe,  can 
give  the  music  too. 

There  is  another  humorous  thing,  I  have  heard 
said  to  be  ilone  by  the  Catholic  priest  Geddes, 
and  which  iut  my  taste  mucl-  : 

'■  TL.'re  was  a  weewifeikie  was  coming  frae  the 

ftir. 
Had    gotten   a  little   drapikie,   which   bred   her 

meikle  care  ; 


It  took  upo'  the  wifie's  heart,  and  slie  began  tt 

spew, 
And  quo'  the  wee  wifeikie,  I  wish  I  binna  fou 
/  iL-islt,  §"e.  ^c. 

I  liave  heard  of  another  new  composition,  Dy 
a  young  ploughman  of  my  acquaintance,  thai  1 
am  vastly  jileased  with,  to  the  tune  of  The  hu- 
mours of  Gkii,  which  I  fear  won't  do,  as  the 
music,  I  am  told,  is  of  Irish  original.  I  have 
mentioned  these,  such  as  they  are,  to  show  my 
readiness  to  oblige  you,  and  to  contribute  my 
mite,  if  I  could,  to  the  patriotic  work  you  have 
in  hand,  and  which  I  wish  all  success  to.  You 
have  only  to  notify  your  mind,  and  what  you 
want  of  the  above  shall  be  sent  you. 

Rleintime,  while  you  are  thus  publiclv,  I 
may  say,  employed,  do  not  sheath  your  own 
proper  and  piercing  weapon.  Fronj  what  1 
have  seen  of  you  is  already,  I  am  inclined  to 
hope  f'U-  much  good.  One  lesson  of  virtue  and 
morality,  delivered  in  your  amusing  style,  and 
from  such  as  you,  will  operate  more  than  dozens 
would  do  from  such  as  me,  who  shall  be  told  it 
is  our  employment,  and  be  never  more  miniled  : 
whereas,  from  a  pen  like  yours,  as  being  one  of 
the  many,  what  comes  will  be  admired.  Ad- 
miration will  produce  regard,  and  regard  will 
leave  an  impression,  especially  whm  cxamph 
gi.es  along. 

Now  binna  saying  I'm  ill  bred, 
Else,  by  my  troth,  I'll  not  be  glad 
For  cadgers,  ye  have  heard  it  said. 
And  sic  like  fiy, 
JIaun  aye  be  harland  in  their  trade, 
And  sae  maim  I. 

Wishing  you  from  my  poet-pen,  all  success, 
and  in  my  other  character,  all  happiness  and 
heavenly  direction, 

I  remain,  with  esteem, 

Youi  sincere  fr-'^nd, 

JOHN  SKINNER. 


•  •■  A  plnn  of  publishing  a  completa  collection  of 
<«ot'Jsh  bongs,"  Ate. 


No.  LVIII.  • 

FROM  MRS.  ROSS. 

SIR,         Kilravock  Castle,  SOth  Nov.  1787. 

I  HOPE  you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  beliere, 
that  it  was  no  defect  in  gratitude  for  your 
punctual  performance  of  your  paiting  promise, 
that  has  made  me  so  long  in  ackn.  ivlcdging  it, 
but  merely  the  difficulty  I  had  in  getting  the 
Hluhlaiid  songs  you  wished  to  have,  accurately 
noted  :  they  are  at  last  enclosed  :  but  how  shaL 
I  convey  along  with  them  those  graces  they  ac- 
quired from  tiie  melodious  voice  of  one  of  the 
fiir  spirits  of  the  hill  of  Kildruuimie  !  These  i 
mu-t  leave  to  your  imaginatiijn  to  siipjjly.  I 
has  powers  sufficient  to  transport  you    to  hi'f 


CCRRESPONDEXCE. 


277 


ji<U>.  to  rccill  her  at  rents,  an  J  to  make  tliem 
still  viDrate  in  the  ears  of  men  ory.  To  l-.er  I 
etr.  inilol)t(;(l  for  se;ting  the  enclnseil  notes. 
The/  are  clothed  with  "  thnuiilits  that  bre.ithe, 
anil  tcorils  th;.t  hurii."  These,  however,  heiiijj 
in  ai\  nnknoirn  ^K^\\'n^f■  to  yo",  you  must  ai^iiin 
have  recoiiise  to  *h\t  same  fertile  iinacjinatioii 
of  y.iars  to  interpret  them,  anil  suppose  a  lover's 
(iescription  of  the  heiiities  of  an  adored  mistress 
— why  did  I  say  uiikiiovvn  ?  The  langnaj^e  of 
love  is  an  universal  one,  that  seenw  to  have 
escaped  the  eotifusion  of  B^bel,  and  to  be  un- 
derstooil  l)v  all  nations. 

I  rejoii-e  to  find  tliat  ynii  were  pleased  with 
so  m my  thinj^s,  persons,  and  places  in  yonr 
northern  lour,  heeause  it  leads  me  to  hope  von 
may  ho   induced  to  revisit  them   ajriin.      That 

the  old  L..st!e  of  K k,  and  its  iiihahitants, 

were  amontfst  these,  adds  to  my  satisfiction.  I 
am  even  vain  enim<!;h  to  admit  your  very  fiat- 
terinc;  application  of  the  line  of  Addison's  ;  at 
anv  rate,  allow  nie  to  helieve  that  "  friendship 
will  maintain  the  2'-ound  she  has  occupied"   iu 


nicnits  -^f  ,I(ih,  of  afl1xtion-!)carir.!j  memory, 
when  tlicv  sat  down  with  him  seven  .lays  aitd 
seven  nij;hts,  and  spake  not  a  word. 


I  am  natural'y  of  a  superstitious  cast,  anrt  a« 
soon  as  inv  wonder-scareil  im  i'.;inatlr)n  re;;ained 
its  consciousness  and  rcsumeil  its  functions,  I 
ca>t  ahont  what  this  in  inia  of  yours  mii,'ht  por- 
tend. My  foreboding  ideas  had  the  wide  stretch 
of  possibility  ;  and  several  events,  p;reat  in  their 
mai;tiitu('.c,  and  important  in  their  consequences, 
oci-urred  to  my  fincy.  The  downfil  of  the 
conclave,  or  the  iru^hius;  of  the  cork  rumps  ;  a 

ducal  coronet    to  Lord    Georsje  G and   the 

p'-i^estant  interest ;   or  St.  Peter's   keys  to   .   . 

You  want  to  know  how  I  come  on.  I  am 
just  in  stutn  quo,  or,  not  to  insult  a  gentleman 
with  my  Latin,  "  in  auld  use  an<l  wont."  The 
noble  Earl  of  olcncairn  took  me  by  the  hand 
to-dav,  and   interoted  himself  in   my  concerns, 


with  a  goodness  like  that  benevolent  being, 
both  our  hearts,  in  -pite  of  absence,  anil  that,  whose  image  he  so  richly  bears.  He  is  a 
when  we  do  meet,  it  will  be  as  acquaintance  of,  stronger  pioof  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul, 
a  score  of  years  standing  ;  and  on  this  footing,  '  than  any  that  philosophy  ever  prodaced.  A 
consider  me  as  interested  in  the  future  course  of  mind  like  his  can  never  die.  Lot  the  worship- 
your  fame,  so  spleniliilly  commenced.  Any  ful  squire,  H.  L.  or  the  reverend  M  iss  J.  i\L 
communications  of  the  progress  of  your  muse  go  into  their  piimitive  nothing.  At  best  they 
will  be  received  with  s>t-'at  gratitude,  and  the  me  but  ill-dige'<ted  lumps  of  chaos,  only  one  of 
fire  of  your  genius  will  have  power  to  warm,  them  strongly  tinged  with  hituuiinous  particles 
even  US,  frozen  sisters  of  the  north.  and    su'phuretnis  effluvia.      Dut    my   noble  pa- 

Tbe  .friends   of   K k    and    K  c  \  tron,  eternal  as  the  heroic  swell  of  magnanimi- 

unite  in  cordial  regards  to  you.  When  you  in-  ty,  and  the  generous  throb  of  benevtdence,  shall 
ciine  to  figure  either  in  your  idea,  suppose  some  look  on  with  princely  eye  at  "  the  war  of  ele- 
of  us  re  iduig  your  poems,  and  some  of  us  singing  '  ineiits,  the  wreck  of  matter,  aad  the  crush  of 
your  songs,  and  n  «-  little  Hugh  looking  at  your  v,-orlds,'" 
picture,  and  you'll  seldom  be  wrong.  We  re- 
member Mr.  N.  with  as  mu(  n  good  will  as  we 
do  any  body,  who  hurried  Mr.  Burns  from  us. 

Farewell,  Sir,  I  can  only  contribute  the  j^^  following  fragments  are  all  that  now  ex- 
wi'/<)u-\s  mite  to  the  esteem  and  admir.itiim  ex-  j^^  „f  twelve  oi  fourteen  of  the  fine-t  letters 
cited  by  your  merits  and  genius,  but  this  I  give  jj^ ,{  Burns  ever  wrote.  In  an  evil  hour,  the 
U  she  <lid,  with  all  my  heart— being  sincerely  originals  were  thrown  into  the  (ire  by  the 
VHurs,  E.  R.  late  .Mrs.  Adair  of  Scarborough;   the  C/tar- 

litte  so  often  mentioned  in  this  (orrespon- 
dence.  and  the  lacly  to  whom  "  Jhe  Jiitnkt 
of  the  JJtvon''  is  addressed.  E. 

No.  LX. 

TO  MISS  MARGARET  CHALMERS, 
(now  »irs.  hav,  of  Edinburgh). 


No.  LIX. 


TO. 


-DALRYMPLE,  Esq.  OF 
ORANGEFIELD. 


I 


BEAR  SIR,  Edinhvrffh,  1787. 

1  scpposE  tne  devil  is  so  elated  with  his  suc- 
ress  with  you,  that  he  is  determined  by  a  coup 
de  main  to  complete  his  purposes  on  you  all  at 
once,  in  making  you  a  poet.  I  broke  ojien  the 
letter  you  sent  me  ;   hummed  over  the  rhymes  ; 

and,  as  I  saw  they  were  extempore,  said  to  my-    the  heart.      1   am  determined   to   pay  Charlotte 
Mifthey   were  very  well  :    but    when    I    saw  at   a  poetic   compliment,   if  I  could    hit  on    some 


Sept.  26.   17S7. 
SEND    Charlotte    the    first    number   of  the 
soti<fS  ;    I   would   not  wait   lor  the  second  num- 
ber ;    I    hate    deliys    in   little    marks  of   friend- 
ship, as  I  hate  dissimulation  in   the   laiiKuatje  of 


the  bottom  a  name  that  I  shall  ever  value  will 
grateful  respect,  "  1  gapit  wide  I  ut  naethlng 
•l>aic"      I    was   nearly  as    much   struck    as  tlie 


glorious   old    Scotch    air,    in    number   second.* 
•  of  the  Seoli  Musical  Museum. 


JJ 


278 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


You  will  see  a  smal  attempt  on  a  shred  of  pa- 
per in  the  hook ;  nut  tliough  Dr.  Blackhjck 
comniendwl  it  very  hijrhly,  I  am  not  just  sutis- 
6ed  with  it  myself.  I  intend  to  make  it  de- 
gcription  of  some  kind  :  the  whining  cant  of 
kive,  except  in  real  par.sion,  and  hy  a  masterly 
nand,  is  to  me  as  iiisulTerahle  as  the  preaching 
6«nt  of  old  Fatlier  Snieaton,  Whig-minister  at 
Kdmaurs.  Darts,  fl.imes,  cnpids,  loves,  graces, 
and  all  that  farrago,  are  just  a  Mauchline 
.   — a  senseless  rabble. 

I  got  an  excellent  poetic  epistle  yesternight 
from  the  old,  venerable  author  of  Tullochgo- 
runi,  John  of  Badenyon,  &c.  I  suppose  you 
know  he  is  a  clergyman.  It  is  by  far  the  finest 
pjttic  c(Mnpliment  1  ever  got.  1  will  send  you 
a  copy  of  it. 

1  go  on  Thursday  or  Friday  to  Dumfries  to 
wait  on  Rlr.  Miller  about  hi.s  farms. — Do  tell 
that  to  Lady  IM'Kenzie,  that  she  may  give  me 
credit  for  a  little  wisdom.  "  I  wisdom  dwell 
with  ))rudence."  What  a  blessed  fire-side  ! 
How  hapi)v  should  I  be  to  pass  a  winter  even- 
ing under  their  venerable  roof!  and  smoke  a 
pipe  of  tobacco,  or  drink  water-giuel  with  them  ! 
What  solemn,  lengthened,  laughter-quashing 
giavity  of  phiz  '  Wiiat  sage  remarks  on  the 
ood-for-nothing  sons  and  daughters  of  indis- 
cretion and  folly  !  And  what  frugal  lessons,  as 
we  stiaitened  the  fire-side  circle,  on  the  u>es  of 
the  poker  and  tongs  ! 

JNliss  N.  is  very  well,  and  begs  to  he  remem- 
bered in  the  old  way  to  you.  1  used  all  my 
eloquence,  all  the  [lersuasive  flourishes  of  the 
hand,  ami  heart-melting   modulation 


B' 


our  family),  I  am  determined,  if  rt.y  Dum^riei 
business  fail  me,  to  return  info  partnership  witli 
him,  and  at  our  leisure  take  another  farm  ia 
the  neighbourhood.  I  assure  you  1  look  fot 
high  compliments  from  you  and  Charlotte  on 
this  very  sage  instance  of  iny  unfathomable,  in- 
compiehensihh;  wisdom.  Talking  of  Charlotte,, 
I  must  tell  her  that  I  have  to  the  best  of  my 
power,  jiaid  her  a  poetic  compliment,  now  com- 
])letcd.  The  air  is  admirable  :  true  ol  1  High- 
land. It  was  the  tune  of  a  Gaelic  song  whicb 
an  Inverness  laily  sung  me  when  I  w  \s  there; 
and  I  was  so  charmed  with  it  that  I  begged  hei 
to  write  me  a  set  of  it  from  her  singing  ;  for  it 
had  never  been  set  before.  I  a.n  fixed  that  it 
shall  go  in  Johnson's  next  number;  so  Cha,.- 
lotte  and  you  nt-ed  not  spend  your  precious  timt 
in  contradicting  me.  I  won't  saj  the  poetry  is 
first-rate ;  though  I  am  convinced  it  is  very 
well  :  and,  what  is  not  always  the  case  with 
compliments  to  ladies,  it  is  not  oidy  sincere  but 
just. 

{Here  follows  the  song  of  "   The  Banks  of  thl 
Devon.") 


in  my  power,  to  urge  litr  out  to  Ilerveiston, 
but  all  in  vain.  I\Iy  rhetoric  seems  quite  to 
have  lost  its  eflct  iin  the  lovely  half  of  man- 
kind. I  have  seen  the  day — but  that  is  a  "  tale 
of  other  vears." — In  my  con>cierice  I  believe 
that  niv  heart  has  been  >o  o!t  on  fire  that  it  is 
absolutely  vitrified.  1  look  on  the  sex  with 
suiiiething  like  the  admiration  with  which  I  re- 
gaid  the  starry  sky  in  a  frosty  December  night. 
I  admire  the  beauty  of  the  Creator's  workman- 
shij)  ;  I  am  charmed  with  the  wild  but  grace- 
ful eccentricity  of  their  motions,  and — wish 
them  good  night.  I  mean  this  with  resi)ect  to 
a  ceitaiii  passion  diint  f  iii  tu  Vhoiineur  d'etre 
vn  mi^eriib/e  esrhive  :  as  for  fiieiidsl.ip,  you 
and  Charlotte  have  uiven  me  ])leaMire,  perma- 
nent pleasure,  "  wliiih  the  woild  cannot  ^ive, 
nor  take  away,"  1  hope;  and  which  u'U  ou. 
Lst  the  heavens  and  the  earth. 


Edmhnrrih,  Nov.  21,  1  7S7. 
I  HAVE  one  vexatious  fiult  to  the  kiudly- 
welcome,  well  filled  sheet  which  1  owe  to  your 
and  Charlotte's  goodness — it  ccmtains  too  ui\,ch 
sense,  sentiment,  ami  good-sjielling.  It  :s  im- 
possible that  even  you  f  v>,  whom  1  declare  to 
f  periods  j  my  God,    I    will    givi  cred't   f..r  a.-.y   ■■}.:z'-''>'  of 


"Without  (lute. 
I  HAVE  been   at  Dumfries,    and    at  one  visit 
m^re  shall  be  decided  about  a  farm  inthatcoun 

e 

1 

an 


excellence  the  sex  are  capi'de  of  attaining,  it  is 
impossible  you  can  go  on  to  correspond  at  that 
rate  ;  so  like  those  who,  Shenstme  says,  retire 
because  they  have  made  a  good  speech,  I  shall 
after  a  few  letters  hear  no  more  o*"  you.  I  in 
sist  that  you  sh.ill  write  whati-ver  kmiics  first 
what  ytm  see,  what  you  read,  what  you  hear, 
what  you  adn.ire,  what  you  dislike,  ti  ilL-s,  bag- 
atelles, nonsense ;  or  to  fill  up  a  cm iitr,  e'en 
put  down  a  laugh  at  full  length.  Now  none 
of  your  polite  hints  about  flattery  :  I  leave  that 
to  your  lovers,  if  you  have  or  shall  have  ai:y  : 
though  thank  heaven  I  have  found  at  last  two 
girls  who  can  be  luN-.iviantly  happy  in  tluir 
own  minds  and  with  one  another,  without  ihat 
commonly  necessary  appendage  to  female  bl.ss, 

A    I.QVrK. 

Char'.c*.te  and  you  are  just  two  favourite  rest- 
ing places  for  my  soul  in  her  wanderings  through 
the  weary,  thorny  wddeiness  of  this  world- 
God  knows  I  am  ill-fitted  for  the  struggle  :  i 
gloiy  in  being  a  Pott,  and  I  want  to  be  thoughl 
a  wise  man — I  would  foniily  be  generous,  aiii 
I  wish  to  he  rich.  AUer  all.  I  am  afiaid  I  am 
a  lost  subject.  "  Si;me  folk  h.ie  a  hunlic  o 
fauts,  an'  I'm  but  a  m'er-do-weel." 


ry       1    am    rathi-i  bipLl..ssiu   it;   but   as    my  j       ^IftiTiioon To  close  the  nul.mcholy  refl.-c- 

jrothrr  is  an  excellent   farmer,   and  is,   besides,    tioiis  at  the  end  of  last  sheet,    1  shall  just  ad.l  t 
e.xceedin-ly  prudent,    scd)  i   m  n.    ((piilities    piece  of  ilevotion  ciminion'y  known  in  CaiTick. 
lich  are   only  a   jounger  l;r..ther's   foituue  in    by  the  title  of  the   •'  Wabster's  grace." 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


279 


''  f!f>nis  say  Trere  (liiovo^,  nnd  o'en  »ae  arc  \vc, 
Some  S1V  Wc'  lie,  ana  e  fii  sae  ili)  U'e  ! 
Guide  f(irj:(.'  u<,  iinci  1  Hope  sue  will  he! 
V[t  and  to  )our  louiiis,  lads." 


EiUnhurgh,  Dec.  12,  1787. 

I  AM  here  under  the  care  ot"  asurfjeon,  with 
1  hniisfd  HtiiI)  extfnd'cd  on  a  ciishiiui  ;  and  tlie 
tints  of  my  mind  vyin;^  with  the  livid  honor 
prv-iedint(  a  midnight  tluimifr-storin.  A  drun- 
ken coachman  was  tlie  c.iiise  of  the  fust,  and 
inconiparalily  the  lightest  evil  ;  misfortune,  bo- 
dily constitution,  hell  and  myself,  have  formed 
a  "Quadruple  Alliance"  to  p;uarantee  the  other. 
I  got  my  fall  on  Saturday,  and  am  getting  slow- 
ly Letter. 

I  have  taken  tooth  and  nail  to  the  hihle,  and 
am  got  through  the  five  hooks  of  Mosos,  and 
hilt  w.iy  in  Joshua  It  is  really  a  glorious 
book.  I  sent  for  my  bookbinder  to-day,  and 
ordered  him  to  get  me  an  octavo  bible  in  sheets, 
the  best  paper  and  print  in  town  ;  and  bind  it 
with  all  the  eleg.mce  of  his  craft. 

I  would  give  my  best  song  to  my  worst  ene- 
my, I  mean  the  merit  of  making  it,  to  have  you 
and    Ch.irlotte  by  n^-.      You   are  angelic  crea- | 
tures,   and    would   pour  oil  and   wine  into   mv 
wounded  spirit. 

I  enclose  you  a  proof  copy  of  the  "  Banks  of  i 
the  Divon,"  which  present  with  mv  best  wishes  '. 
to   Charlotte.      The    "  Ochil-hills,'"    you    shall  i 
probably  have  next  week  lor  yourself.     None  of 
your  tine  soeeches  ! 


banners  of  iinagir,  itioH:  «liim,  c.ipiice,  anij 
passion;  anil  the  heavy -armed  veteran  regulars 
of  wisdom,  pruc..nce  ami  fore-thought,  move  so 
very,  very  slow,  that  I  am  almost  iu  a  state  of 
perpetual  warfare,  and  alas  !  fre(iuent  defeat. 
There  are  just  t^vo  creatures  ihit  I  would  envy, 
a  horse  in  his  wild  state  tiaveising  the  foresti 
of  Asia,  or  an  oyster  on  some  of  the  desert 
shores  of  Knrope.  The  oiit;  has  not  a  uisfa 
without  cnjoymeut,  the  other  has  neither  wish 
nor  fear. 


E'linhiirnh,  Dec.  19,  17S7. 
I  BEGIN'  this  letter  in  answer  to  yours  of  the 
I7fli  current,  which  is  not  yet  cold  since  i  read 
it.  The  atnio-pbere  of  my  soul  is  vastly  clearer 
than  when  I  wrote  yiii  last  For  the  liist  time, 
yesterday  I  cros^eil  the  room  on  crutches.  It 
Would  do  your  heart  good  too  see  my  baidship, 
not  on  my  ptutic,  but  on  my  on/ten  stilts; 
throwing  my  best  leg  with  an  air  !  and  with 
r.s  much  hilarity  in  my  gait  and  countenance, 
as  a  May  frog  leaping  across  the  newly  harrowed 
ridge,  enjoying  the  fiagrance  of  the  refreshed 
earth  after  the  long-expected  shower  ! 


Editihnrgh,  Ulrrch  It,  ]7f<8. 
I  KNOW,  my  ever  dear  friend,  that  you  will 
be  pleased  with  the  news  when  I  tell  you,  1 
have  at  last  taken  a  lease  of  a  farm.  Yester- 
night I  completed  a  bargain  wi'h  Mr.  Miller, 
of  l),iNwlnton,  for  the  farm  of  EHisI.imI,  nn  the 
banks  of  the  Nith,  between  five  ,iiid  six  miles 
above  Dumfries.  I  begin  at  Whitsundjy  to 
build  a  house,  drive  lime,  &c.  and  heaven  he 
my  help  !  for  it  will  take  a  strong  elfmt  to 
bring  my  mind  into  the  routine  of  business.  I 
h  ive  dischiritcd  all  the  army  of  r.iy  former  pur- 
suits, f.incies  ,md  plea-nres  ;  a  motley  host  !  and 
have  literally  and  strictly  retained  ordv  the  iileas 
of  a  few  frieiiils,  whiih  I  have  inco]  purated  into 
a  life-guard.  I  trust  in  Dr.  Johnson's  oliserva- 
tion,  "  Where  much  is  attempted,  something  is 
done."  Fiimness  both  in  sntlerance  and  exer- 
tion, is  a  character  I  woulil  wi-h  to  be  t!i(nu>ht 
to  possess  ;  and  havt  'ihv.iys  despiseil  the  whin- 
ing yelp  of  con\i)laiiit,  and  the  cowardly,  feeble 
resolve. 


Poor  Miss  K,  is  ailing  a  good  deal  this  win- 
ter, and  begged  ine  to  reniendier  her  to  you  the 
first  time  I  wrote  you.  Suiely  woman,  anii.ible 
woimin,  is  (ii-fen  made  in  vain  I  Top  delicite'y 
formed  for  the  roii<;her  pursuits  of  ambition  ; 
too  noble  for  the  diit  of  avarice,  and  even  too 
geiitle  for  the  rage  of  pleasure  :  foiiied  indeed 
for  and  highly  susi  eptihie  of  enjoyment  and  rap- 
ture ;  but  that  enjoyment,  al  is  !  almost  wholly 
ut  the  mercy  of  the  caprice,  malevidence,  stupi- 
dity, or  wickedness  of  an  animal  at  all  time* 
comparatively  unteuling,  and  oitjii  brutal. 


I  can't  say  I  am  altogether  at  my  ease  when 
I  Rcc  any  where  in  my  path,  that  meagre,  squa- 
lid, Afinine-faced  spectre,  poverty  ;  attendtd  as 
he  always  is,  by  iron- fisted  oppression,  and  leer- 
inp  contempt;  but  I  have  sturdily  withstood 
ji*  l.uiTetings  m my  a  hanl-labuwred  day  already, 
a-.d  still  my  motto  is — I  daiif.  !  My  worst 
Hiieiny  !s  Moiinciiie.  I  lie  so  miserably  open  to 
the  inroaiis  and  incursinns  of  a  mischievous, 
ight-aniied,   well-mounted   banditti,    under  the 


1  MaucUine,  7lh  April.  17S8. 

I  I  AM  indebted  to  you  and  Mi«s  Nimmo  for 
letting  me  know  Miss  Ki'n<'(ly.  Strange  !  how 
apt  we  are  to  indulge  pitji.ilices  in  our  jud"-- 
nients  of  one  another  !  liven  I,  w  lio  |il(jne  uiv- 
self  on  my  skill  in  marking  diaiaeters  ;  bei«use 
I  am  too  jjrnud  of  my  chiiacter  as  a  man,  to  be 
dazzled  in  my  judgment /ir  glaring  wealth  ;  and 
too  proud  of  my  situriou  as  a  pnor  man  to  be 
biassed  ac/ninst  sipialid  poverty ;  I  was  unac- 
quainted with  Jlisti  K.*s  very  uneonimon  worth 


ri 


I  am  eoin£»  on  a  jjood  flc.il  proc^esnive  in  mnn  •  pet  any  fliin^  to  do.     T  wanted  ».n  Jiut,   wliicb 
grand  but,    tlie   sober  science  of  life.      I   have    is  a  d.m^iToiis,    an   unh;i|)py   sltii;itii>n.      I   go 
lately  made  some  sacrifices   fi>r  which,    were    I    this  without  any  hiinirinG;  on,   or  mortifyina;  -n)- 
riv(t  voce  with  you  to  paint  the  sit\iation    and    licitation  ;   it   is  ininiediate  hn-ad,    and   thomrh 
recount  the  circumstances,  you  would  applaud  ;  poor  in  comparison  of  tiie  last  e'gliteen  months 

of  my  existence,  'tis  luxury  in  comparison  of  oil 
my  preceding;  life  :  besides,  the  counuissioneis 
are  some  of  them  my  acquaintances,  and  all  of 
tbein  my  firm  friends. 

N'o  date. 

Now  for  that  wayward,  unfortunate  thing, 
jTiVseif.  I  have  broke  measures  with 
and  last  week  I  wrote  him  a  frosty,  keen  letter. 
He  replied  in  terms  of  chastisement,  and  pro- 
mised me  u|ion  his  honour  that  1  should  have 
tlie  account  on  Monday  ;  but  this  is  Tuesday, 
and  yet  I  have  not  heard  a  word  from  hnn. 
Ciod  I'.ive  mercy  on  me  !  a  poor  d-mned,  in- 
caiiti(nis,  doped,  unfortunate  foul  !  The  sport, 
the  miserable  victim,  of  rebellious  pride  ;  hypo- 
chiinilriac  iinajjination,  agonizing  sensibility, 
and  bedlam  pa-sions  ! 

"  /  wi.sli  Unit  I  were  dead,  hut  I'm  no  like 
to  die  .'"  1  bad  lately  "  a  hairbreadth  'scape  in 
th'  imminent  dcailly  breaeli"  of  love  too.  Thank 
my  stars  1  got  off  lieart-whole,  "  waur  fleyd 
than  hurt." — Iitterruptitin. 

I  have  this  moment  got  a  hint      .... 

I   fear   I  am  sometliing 

like — undone — but  1  hope  for  the  best.  Come, 
stubborn  pride  and  unshrinking  resolution  !  ac- 
company me  througli  this,  to  me,  miserable 
world  !  You  must  not  desert  me  !  Your  fi  iend- 
•hip  I  think  I  can  count  on,  though  I  should 
date  my  letters  from  a  marching  regiment. 
Kirly  in  life,  and  all  my  life,  I  reckoned  on  a 
rciiiiting  drum  as  my  forlorn  hope.  Sericujsly 
thouL'h,  life  at  present  presents  me  with  but  a 
nularicbdly  ])ath  :  Ijut — my  limb  will  soou  be 
sound,  and  I  shall  struggle  on. 


NO.  LXI. 
TO  MISS  CHAOIERS. 

MY  DEAR  MADAM,      Edinliurijh,  Dec.  17S7. 

I  JUST  now  have  read  yours.  The-  poetic 
compliments  I  pay  cannot  be  misunderstoc>d. 
They  are  neither  of  them  so  particular  as  tc 
point  7/ou  out  to  the  world  at  larije  ;  and  the 
circle  of  your  acquaintances  will  allow  all  1 
have  said.  Besides  I  have  complimented  you 
chiefly,  almost  solely,  on  your  mental  cliarms. 
Shall  I  be  plain  with  you  ?  I  will ;  so  look  to  it. 
Personal  attractions,  Madam,  yon  have  much 
above  par;  wit,  understandinsr,  and  woith,  vou 
possess  in  the  first  class.  This  is  a  cursed  ilat 
way  of  telling  you  these  truths,  but  let  nie  hear 
no  more  of  yinir  sheepish  timi.litv.  I  know 
the  world  a  little.  I  know  what  they  will  say 
of  my  poems;  by  second  sight  I  sup])o>e  ;  for 
I  am  seldom  out  in  my  conjectures  ;  and  you 
may  believe  ine,  my  dear  Madam,  I  would  not 
run  any  risk  of  hurting  you  by  an  ill-judged 
compliment.  I  wish  to  show  to  the  world,  the 
odds  between  a  poet's  friends  and  those  of  sim- 
ple jirosemen.  More  for  your  information  hnth 
the  pieces  go  in.  One  of  them,  "  Vi'here  brav- 
ing all  the  winter's  harms,"  is  aheidv  set — 
the  tune  is  Neil  Gow's  Lamentation  for  Aber- 
cainey  ;  the  other  is  to  be  set  to  an  old  High- 
l.md  air  in  D.iuiel  Dow's  "  collection  of  ancient 
.Scots  music  ;  the  name  is  lid  n  ('/idillich  air 
inn  Dlieiith.  My  treacherous  memory  has  for- 
'^ot  every  circumstance   about  Les    Incus,  only 

I  think  you  mentioned  them  as  being  inC 's 

possession.  I  shall  ask  him  about  it.  1  .iin 
.ifciiid  the  song  of  "  Somebody"  will  come  too 
late — as  I  shall,  for  certain,  leave  town  in  a 
week  for  Ayrshire,  and  from  that  to  numfries, 
but  there  my  hopes  are  slender.  I  leave  my 
dlrccticm  in  town,  so  any  thinir,  wheiever  I  am, 
will  reach  me. 

I  saw  your's  to  — ^-^—  it  is  not  too  severe, 
nor  did  he  take  it  amiss.  On  the  contrary, 
like  a  wldpt  s])aniel,  ho  talks  of  being  with  you 

in  the  Chiistmas  days.      Mr.  has  given 

him  the  invitation,  and  he  is  determined  to  ac- 
cept of  it.  O  selfishness  !  he  owns  in  his  so- 
bci  moments,  that  from  his  own  volatility  of 
berfttioD.  'I  be  (piest  on  is  not  at  wh  it  door  of  inclination,  the  circum>rances  in  which  he  is  si- 
fortui'.c's  jialace  slull  we  enter  in;  but  what  tnited  and  his  knowledge  of  his  talhei 'a  dspo 
duurn  •low  she  oiM'ii  to  us?     I  was  not  likely  to  [sition, — the  wholt    'jllair  is  chiinerica! — yet   b 


Eilinhiirijh,  Sundiiy, 
Tn-,MORRow,    my    dear    Madam,     1    leave 
Edinburgh. 


1  have  altered  all  my  plans  of  future  life.  A 
farm  that  I  eoiild  liv,-  in,  I  cmilil  not  find  ;  anil 
indeed,  after  the  necessary  support  my  brother 
aid  the  rest  of  the  family  required,  I  ould  not 
venture  on  firming  in  that  style  suitable  to  my 
feelings.  You  will  condemn  me  for  the  next 
step  I  have  taken.  1  have  entered  into  the  ex- 
cise. I  stay  in  the  west  about  throe  weeks,  and 
th<n  return  to  Kdinburgh  fur  six  weeks  instruc- 
tions ;  afterwards,  fnr  I  git  employ  instantly,  I 
go  oil  a  fiiiiit  a  Dien, — it  nuin  Jioi.  I  have 
ghosen  tl'.is,  my  dear  friend,    al'ler   mature  deli 


CORRESPCNDENCE. 


281 


trill  gratify  an  ii!!o  penchant  at  tlie  enormous, 
iTiiel  ex|H-nsc  of  perh.ips  ruining  the  peace  ot" 
llie  vi'ty  wdiiiin  for  wlioni  lie  professes  tlie  ee- 
ni  runs  passion  of  love  !  He  is  a  f^entli'iiian  in 
Ills  mini!  ami  manners,  tant  pis  ! — He  is  a 
volalilo  sclioni-lioy  :  the  heir  of  a  man's  for- 
tni.i'  vvlui  will  knows  the  value  of  two  times 
two  ! 

IVrii'tion  seize  them  anil  their  fortunes,  lie- 
fore  tliey  shnulil  make  the  amialile,  the  lovul\ 
■  the  (leiitled  ohjeet  of  their  pnrse-inouil 

coritenipt. 

1  am  (loulily  happv  to  hear  nf  I\Irs.  's 


recovery,  lit  cause  1  leally  tlioiifjht  all  was  over 
with  her.  There  are  days  of  pleasure  yet  a- 
Waiting  her. 

'   As  I  cam  in  l)y  GUnap 
I  met  «ith  an  aged  woman  ; 
She  hade  me  cheat  up  my  heart, 
For  the  be^t  o'  my  days  was  coming;." 


No.  LXiI. 
TO  MISS  1\I 


-N. 


Sutart/inj  Nou7i,  No.  2.   St.  Jumes'is  Sqr. 
New-  Town.  lidinhiiTyh, 

Here  have  I  sat,  my  dear  Madam,  in  the 
Btony  attitude  of  jeiplexed  stmly  for  tifteen  vex- 
atious minutes,  my  head  a>kew,  benilini;  over 
the  inteniied  caid  ;  my  fixed  eye  insensible  to 
the  very  light  of  day  poured  around  ;  mv  pen- 
dulous goose- feather,  loaded  with  ink,  lian;;ing 
over  the  future  letter  ;  all  for  the  impoi  tant 
purpose  of  writing  a  complimentary  card  to  ac- 
company your  trinket. 

Coir.pliments  is  such  a  miserahle  Greenland 
exjiression  ;  lies  at  such  a  chilly  pol.ir  distance 
from  the  ton  id  zone  of  my  cOMstitiitlon,  that  I 
cannot,  for  the  very  soul  of  me,  n-e  it  to  arv 
jii'iMin  fur  whom  I  have  the  twentieth  ])art  of 
the  e^tcen.,  every  one  must  have  for  you  who 
knows  you. 

As  I  leave  town  in  three  or  four  days,  I  can 
give  nijsclf  the  pleasure  of  calling  for  you  only 
tor  a  minute.  Tuod  ly  evening,  sometime  ahout 
seven,  or  alter,  1  shall  wait  on  you,  fur  your 
fari-«ell  commands. 

The  hinge  of  your  hex,  I  put  into  the  hands 
of  the  proper  Connoisseur.  The  broken  glass, 
likewi«e,  went  under  review  ;  but  deliberative 
WisiloiQ  thought  it  would  too  much  endanger 
tiie  w'  jle  fabiic. 

1  am,  du.ir  Madam, 

With  all  sincerity  of  enthusiasm, 
Your  very  humble  Servaut. 


No.  LXIII. 

TO  I\IR.  ROBERT  AINSLIR,  EniNBURCH 

jmdinhiirrjlu  Siuiilin/  J[i>rnii:g, 
Niw.  2:3,   ITt^V. 

I  BFG,  my  dear  Sir,  von  would  not  make 
any  appointment  to  take  us  to  Mr.  .Muslie's  to- 
night. On  looking  over  my  engairements,  con- 
stitution, present  state  of  my  he.i'th,  some  little 
vexatious  soul  concerns,  &c.  I  find  I  can't  sup 
abroad  to-night. 

1  shall  be  in  to-day  t\\\  one  o'clock  if  you  have 
a  lei-ure  hour. 

Yon  will  think  it  romr.ntic  when  I  tell  you, 
that  I  find  the  idea  of  your  friendship  ainuist 
necessary  to  my  existence.  —  Yon  assume  a  pro- 
per length  of  face  in  my  bitter  hcnirs  of  blue- 
devilism,  and  you  laugh  fuily  up  to  my  hiyhest 
wishes  at  niv  ponit  t/iinr/s. —  1  don't  know,  upon 
the  whole,  if  you  are  one  of  the  fust  frllows  in 
God's  world,  but  you  are  so  to  me.  I  tell  you 
this  just  now  in  the  conviction  that  some  in- 
equalities in  my  temper  atui  manner  inay  per- 
haps sometimes  make  you  suspect  that  1  am  not 
so  warmly  as  I  ought  to  be 

Your  /iicua. 


No.  LXIV. 

TO  JOHN  BALLANTINE,  Esq. 

AVhii.e  here  I  sit,  sad  and  solitary,  by  the 
side  of  a  tiie  in  a  little  country  inn,  and  diving 
my  wet  clothes,  in  jiops  a  poor  fellow  of  a  soil-er 
and  tells  me  he  is  going  to  Ayr.  By  beavcns  I 
say  I  to  myself,  with  a  tiileof  good  spirit.s  which 
the  magic  of  that  sound,  Auld  Toon  o'  Avr, 
cmijuied  up,  1  will  send  my  last  song  to  Ml. 
Ballantine. — Here  it  is — 

(  The  first  sketch  of  "  Ye  liatiks  and  liraes  a 

liuniiie  Dunn.") 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCHES. 

No.  LXV. 
FROM  THE  POET  TO  DR.  MOORE, 

GIVING  A   SKETCH  OF  HIS  MI'E. 

SIR,  Miiuchlinc,  2'/  Aug.   ITS?. 

For  some  months  past  I  have  been  iamb- 
ling  over  the  country  ;  but  I  atn  now  confined 
with  some  lingering  complaints,  originating,  a& 
I  take  it,  in  the  stomach.  To  divert  niys)nrit» 
a  little  in  this  mineral)  e  fog  of  cw/j'.-j,  I  b.ive  ta. 
ken  a  whim  to  give  you  a  histoiv  of  ui\sclf 
My  n^aie  has  made  surae  little  noise  in  this  coua> 


:;82 


BTJRNS'  WORKS. 


try  ;  /au  have  (Tnne  me  the  linnour  to  intcrept 
Jduise  t  very  waiiulv  in  my  behalf;  and  I  think 
a  faitli'nl  atcount  (if  what  diaratter  of  a  man  I 
am;  and  how  I  camt'  by  that  character,  may  ptT- 
h«ps  amn'e  you  in  an  idle  nionunt.  I  will  give 
you  an  litmest  nai native;  though  I  know  it  wiil 
he  cffen  at  my  own  expense  ; — for  I  assure  you, 
Sir,  I  liave,  like  Solomon,  whose  chaiactei',  ex 
ct'pt  in  the  trifling  affair  of  tciad'.m,  I  sonie- 
tiines  think  I  resemble, — I  have,  I  say,  like  him, 
tuntcil  Jill/  ei/i.i  to  bthold  madin'ss  and  fully,  and, 
like  him  too,  frequently  shaken  hands  with  their 
intoxicating   friendship.       .       .  After   you 

have  perused  these  p  ip;es,  should  you  think  them 
triflin};  and  impertinent,  I  only  beg  leave  to  tell 
you,  that  tiie  poor  author  wrote  them  under  some 
twitching  quahns  of  conscience,  arising  from  a 
Biispici.m  that  he  was  doing  what  he  ought  not 
to  do ;  a  |iredicament  he  has  moie  tlian  once 
been  in  before. 

I  have  not  the  most  distant  pretensions  to 
assume  that  character  which  the  pye-coatcd 
guardians  of  escutcheons  call  a  Gentleman.  \\'hen 
at  hdiiiburgb  last  winter,  I  got  accjuainted  in 
tlie  Herald's  Office  ;  and,  looking  through  that 
giaaaiy  of  honours,  I  there  fouiid  almost  every 
name  in  the  kinijdum  ;   but  for  me, 

"  Jly  ancient  but  ignoble  blood 

Has  ciept  through  scoundrels  ever  since  tlie 
flood." 

Gules,  purpure,  argent,  &c.  quite  disowned  me. 
My  fatlu,'r  was  of  the  noith  of  Scot!and,  the 
son  of  a  farmer,  and  was  thrown  by  early  mis- 
fortunes on  the  woifd  at  large  ;  where,  after  many 
years  wanderings  and  sojouiiiings,  he  jdcked  up 
a  pretty  large  quaijtity  of  observation  and  e.\|)e- 
rieuce,  to  wh.ich  I  am  indebted  for  most  of  my 
little  pretensions  to  wisdom. — I  have  met  with 
few  who  unileistood  mtii,  their  vianiier!<,  cint/ 
t/teir  uo!/s,  equ  il  to  liiin  ;  but  stubborn,  uugaiii- 
Jy  integr.ty,  and  head  oug,  ungovernable  iiasci- 
bility,  are  disqualifying  circumstances  ;  coiise- 
quently  I  was  born  a  very  poor  man's  son.  Tor 
the  fust  six  or  seven  years  of  my  life,  my  fa- 
ther was  a  gardeiier  to  a  worthy  gentleman  of 
small  estate  in  the  neiglibciurli  lod  of  Ayr.  Ihid 
be  c(Miiinued  in  that  stati.iii,  I  u.'ist  have  march- 
ed cif  to  be  one  of  the  little  unoeriiui'.s  atiout  a 
farm-bouse;  but  it  was  his  dearest  wi^h  and 
prayer  to  have  it  in  his  jjower  to  keep  li;s  chil- 
dren under  his  own  eye  till  they  could  discern 
between  good  and  evil  ;  so,  with  the  assistance 
of  his  generous  master,  my  father  ventured  on 
a  small  f-iiai  on  his  estate.  At  those  years 
I  was  l;y  no  means  a  favour  ite  w  ith  any  body. 
1  was  a  t;o(jd  deal  noted  for  a  retentive  menioiy, 
a  litubliorn  sturdy  sunuthiiig  in  my  di«|iiisi;ii>n, 
gild  an  enthu-ia-tie  idiot  peiy.  I  siy  i'l'ot  j'iety, 
because  1  wan  then  but  a  child.  'Ihou^;!!  it  eo-t 
the  scboolinjster  some  thrasbings,  ]  made  an  tx- 
3elieiit  liiiglisli  Kcliidar  ;  and  liy  tlie  tiiiit;  1  was 
ten  oi  eleven  years  of  a^'e,  I  wa.s  a  critic  in  >ul>- 
ttantives,    vei  bn,   und  puitici]des.      In  my  ii.taiit 


'  and  boyish  days,    too,   I  owed   much  to  an  old 
Woman  wlio  resided  in  the  family,   remark abli 
for   her   ignorance,   credulity,   and   superstition. 
I  She  had,  I  suppose,   the  largest  i  ollection  ia  tlie 
country   of  tales   and  songs  concerning   devils, 
ghosts,    fairies,     brownies,    witches,     warlocks, 
'  sjiuokies.  keljdes,  elf-candles,  dead  -ligVits,  wi  aiths, 
j  ajiparitions,   cantrips,  giants,   enchanted  towers, 
(Iragon-i,   and   other  trumpery.*    This  cultivated 
■  the  latent  seeds  of  poetry  ;   but  hail  so  strong  an 
:  effect  on   my  imagination,   that  to   this  hour,   in 
'  my  nocturnal  rambles,  I  sometimes  keep  a  sharp 
j  look-out  in  suspieioi's  places  ;   and  t'nough  no- 
body can  be  more  sceptical  than   I  am    in   such 
masters,  yet  it  often  takes  an  effort  of  jihilosnphy 
to  shake  of  these  idle  terrors.     The  e  irliest  com- 
position that  I  leeidlect  taking  pleasute  in,  wis 
T/ie  VUiuit  of  Mirza,  and  a  hyniu  of  Addison's, 
beginning,    Hotv    are    thy    Servants    blest,     O 
Lord  !  I  particularly  remember  one  half-stanza 
which  was  music  to  my  boyish  ears — 

"  For  though  on  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 
High  on  the  broken  wave — " 

I  met  with  these  ])ieces  in  Mason's  Em/lish 
Collection,  one  of  my  school-books.  The  two 
first  books  I  ever  read  in  private,  and  which 
gave  me  more  pleasute  than  any  two  books  I 
ever  read  since,  were.  The  Life  of  llannbid, 
and  The  History  of  Sir  William  Wallace. 
Hannibal  gave  my  \oung  ideas  such  a  turn,  th.it 
I  used  to  strut  in  raptiiies  up  and  down  after  the 
reciuiting  drum  anil  bjg-jiipe,  and  wish  luyseif 
tall  enough  to  be  a  soldier  ;  while  tiie  story  ol 
Wallace  [louied  a  Scottish  prejudice  into  my 
veins,  which  will  bod  along  there  till  the  flood- 
gates of  life  shut  in  eternal  rest 

Polemical  divinity  about  this  time  was  put- 
ting the  country  half-mad  ;  and  I,  ambitious  ol 
shining  in  conversation  parties  (Ui  Sundays,  be- 
tween sermons,  at  funer.ils,  &e.  used,  a  few  years 
afterwards,  to  puzzle  Calvinism  with  so  much 
heat  anri  indiscretion,  that  I  raised  a  hue  and  cry 
of  heresy  against  me,  which  has  not  ceasc^d  tu 
this  hour. 

My  vicinity  to  .\yr  was  of  some  advantage 
to  me.  ]\Iy  S(  cial  <li;position,  when  not  check- 
ed by  some  modifications  of  spirited  pride,  was, 
hke  our  chatechi«ui-defiiiition  of  iufiuitude, 
wil/ioiU  bomids  or  limits.  1  formed  several  con- 
nections with  other  younkers  who  possessed  su- 
perior advantages,  the  yoitncjliny  actors,  who 
were  busy  in  the  rehearsal  of  parts  in  which  tl  ey 
were  shortly  to  appear  on  the  stage  of  life, 
where,  alas!  I  was  destined  to  drudge  behind 
the  seenes.  It  is  not  coiiimojily  at  this  gieen 
ace  that  our  vouni!;  L'eiury  have  a  lust  sense  of 
the  immense  distance  between  them  and  llieir 
riggid  play-fellows.  It  t.ikis  a  few  dashes  into 
the  wi'rid,  to  give  the  young  great  man  that  pio- 
jier,  dec-eut,  unuoticing  disregard  tor  the  |  oor, 
insignificant,  stupid  devils,  the  iiiechanics  and 
peasantry  around  him,  who  were  perh.ips  Witn 
in  the  same  village.      My  young  superiors  ncveJ 


CORRESPONDEMCE. 


283 


msalted  the  clnnterlt/  appearance  of  my  ploujli- 
hoy  c.ircass,  the  two  extremes  of  wlm-li  were  of- 
ten expo-ieil  to  .ill  the  inclemencies  of  all  the  sea- 
tons.  They  u'ouid  give  me  stray  volumes  of 
looks  amonc;  them,  even  then,  I  could  pick  up 
dome  oIxervatioiH  ;  and  one,  whose  heart  I  am 
sure  nut  even  the  Mmuiii  JJegum  sceni-s  h  ive 
tainted,  helped  me  to  a  little  French.  I'artin;^ 
with  tliese  mv  young  friends  ami  henefictors,  as 
they  occasionally  went  off  for  the  East  or  West 
Indies,  was  often  to  me  a  sore  affliction  ;  hut  I 
was  soon  called  to  more  serious  evils.  My  fa- 
ther's "enerous  master  died  ;  the  firm  proved  a 
ruinous  bargain  ;  and,  to  clench  the  mi>furtune, 
we  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  factor,  who  sat  for 
the  picture  I  have  drawn  of  one  in  my  Tdle  of 
Twa  Dogs.  Jly  father  was  advanced  in  life 
when  he  married  ;  I  was  the  eldest  of  seven 
children  ;  and  lie,  worn  out  by  early  hardships, 
was  unfit  for  libour.  My  fither's  spirit  was 
soon  irritated,  but  uot  easily  broken.  There  was 
a  fret'dom  in  his  lease  in  two  years  more  ;  and  to 
weatlur  these  two  years,  we  retrenched  our  ex- 
penses. We  lived  very  poorly  :  I  was  a  dexter- 
ous ploughman,  for  my  aije  ;  and  the  next  eldest 
to  me  was  a  brother  (Gd!)ert)  who  could  drive 


could  make  verses  like  printed  ones,  composed 
by  men  who  had  Greek  and  Litin;  but  my 
girl  sun-^  a  Sitn;^,  which  was  said  to  be  com- 
posed by  a  small  country  laird's  son,  on  one  of  hii 
fither's  maids,  with  whom  he  was  in  love  ;  and  I 
saw  no  reason  wliy  I  might  not  ihvme  as  well  as 
he  ;  f  )r,  excepting  that  he  could  snieai'  sheep,  and 
cast  pears,  his  father  living  in  the  moor  land?, 
he  had  no  more  scholar-craft   than  my<e!f. 

Thus  with  me  began  love  and  poetry  ; 
which  at  times  have  been  my  only,  and  till 
within  the  last  twelve  months,  h.ive  been  my 
hi'.;hest  enjoyment.  Jly  father  struggleil  on 
till  he  reached  the  freedom  in  his  lease,  when 
he  entered  on  a  l.irger  farm,  about  ten  miles 
farther  in  the  country.  The  nature  of  the 
bargain  he  maile  was  such  as  to  throw  a  little 
ready  money  into  his  hands  at  the  commence- 
ment of  his  lease  ;  otherwise  the  affair  would 
have  been  inipracticalde.  For  four  years  we 
lived  comfortably  here  ;  hut  a  d  ffercnce  com- 
mencing between  him  and  his  landlord,  as  tc 
terms,  after  three  years  tossing  and  whirling 
in  the  vortex  of  lltigati(m,  my  f.ther  was  just 
saved  from  the  horrors  of  a  jail  by  a  consump- 
tion,  which,  after    two  years'   promises,   kindly 


the  plough  very  well,  and  help  me  to  thr.ish  the  j  stepped  in,  and  carried  him  away,  to  where  the 
corn.  A  novel  writer  might  perhaps  have  view-  Ui"t7.e(/  cense  from  troubling,  and  wJicre  the 
cd  these  scenes  with  souie  s.itisfiction  ;   but  saUceur!/  arc  at  rest. 


did  not  I  ;   my  indignation  yet  IkiIIs  at  the  recol 
lection  of  the  s  1  factor's  insolent   threa- 

tening letti.'is,  which  used  to  set  lis  all  In  tears. 
This  kind  of  life — the  cheerless  gloom  of  a 
hermit,  with  the  unceasing  moil  of  a  galley- 
si  ive,  brou:;ht  me  to  my  sixteenth  year  ;  a  lit- 
tle before  which  period  I  first  comuiittel  the  sin 


It  is  (luring  the  time  that  we  lived  en  this 
farm  th.it  my  little  story  is  most  eventful.  I 
was,  at  the  beginning  of  this  peri  id,  perhaps 
the  most  ungainly,  awkward  boy  in  the  pari.ih 
— no  Sdlituire  was  less  acquainted  with  the 
ways  of  the  world.  What  I  knew  of  ancient 
story  was  gatliered    from    Saliinins  and    (Juih- 


of  Ilhvme.  You  know  our  country  cust  in  of  t'ik's  geo^ra|)liical  grammars  ;  and  tlie  i.leas  I 
coupling  a  man  and  woman  together  as  partners  had  formed  of  moilern  tnanners,  of  litei.ituic, 
in  the  labours  of  harvest.  In  my  fifteenth  an-  land  criticism,  I  got  from  the  Sjicctut  r.  Tlase 
tumn  my  partner  was  a  bewitching  cieature  a  ,  with  /^oyje'.v  lf''.ir/;i,  some  plays  of  S'lakspeare, 
year  younger  than  myself.  My  scarcity  of  |  Tull  n/ul  D'ckson  on  Agriculture,  the  I'lin- 
English  denies  me  the  power  of  doin^  her  jus- ]  </(e -n,  L  che's  Essmj  on  the  Huiiuui  l/n- 
tice  in  that  language  ;  but  you  know  the  Scot- ' '/er,s7aH'//«./,  Stitchhouse's  IHsti>rii  of  the 
tish  idiom — .-he  was  uliuniiie,  siceet,  sou.sie  hiss.  lhl:le.  Justice's  liritisk  (iiirdeutr's  .'.  iriclot^. 
In  short,  she  altogether,  unwittingly  to  herself,  i  Pnyle's  Lectures.  AUan  llams'iys  W  iks, 
iiiitrited  me  in  that  delicious  p:s-i,)ii,  which,  in  j  Tui/I  r's  Scrijture  ZJoi trine  if  Oiii/i^a/  Sm, 
spite  of  acid  disajipointment,  gm-hor.-e  prudence,  x-1  Uttict  LUtUctinn  vf  l£n<jlisU  Shikjs,  una 
and  book-worm  philosophy,  I  hold  to  he  i\\e  .Hcrrcy's  Medituti'.ns,  \vm\  fuimcd  the  whole 
irst  of  human  joys,  our  de.ire-it    blessmg   here  ,  of  my  reading.     The  c(dlection  of  songs  w.is  my 


below  !  How  she  c.iught  the  contagion.  I  can- 
not tell  :  you  meihcal  peo|de  talk  much  of  in- 
fection fro.n  l)reathiog  the  same  air.  the  touch, 
&c.  ;  hut  I  never  exjuessly  slid  I  lovcd  her. 
Indeeil.  I  d.d  not  know  my.-elf  woy  I  liked  so 
muidi  to  loiter  behind  witn  her.  wh.ii  return- 
ing in  the  evening  from  our  labours  ;   why  the 


v>tile  nucuiii.  1  pored  over  them,  driving  my 
cart,  or  wa'kin,'  to  lalxnir,  song  by  s.ing,  versa 
by  ver-e  ;  careful  y  mitiog  th.c  true  tender,  or 
suilime,  from  alVectation  anil  fns:iiu.  I  am 
convinced  I  owe  to  tli;s  practice  much  of  my  cri- 
tic cr.ift,  such  as  it  is. 

Ill  my  -eventeeiith  year,  to  give  my  manners 


tones  of  her  voice  made  my  heart-string-  thrill  a  brush.  I  went  to  a  country  daucing-schoo; — . 
like  an  i1*;ulian  harp  ;  and  particol.ir  y  why  my  Aly  father  h.id  an  uiucctmntablc  antipathy 
pulse  beat  such  a  turious  ratan  wlien  1  looked  ,  ag.iinst  these  meetings;  and  my  giung  wa.s, 
»nd  fiugered  over  her  little  li.iiid  to  |iick  out  the  i  wh,:t  to  this  inoment  1  ripent,  in  0|ipos  tion  to 
cruel  nettle-stings  and  thi-tles.  Among  her  his  wishes.  My  father,  as  1  said  before,  was 
r)thei  l.ive  iiispinog  qualltie-,  she  sung  .-weetly  ;  .subject  to  >troug  pa->ions  ;  fioin  that  iii^t.iiics 
tvd  it  was  her  tavourite  reel,  to  which  I  at- j  of  (l:sol>edicnce  in  me,  he  look  a  soit  of  dislike 
tempted  givin.;  an  embodied  vehicle  in  rhyme. ;  to  me,  which  I  believe  was  ime  cause  of  the  di» 
I  Was  oi't  so  presumptuous  as  to  imagine  that  I  ^  >ipat.ou  which  marked  my  — — v^-d'ng  years 


284 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


»ay  Hissipitinn,  coTn,)aiati,rcIy  with  the  stiipt- 
ness,  aim  M)l)iitty,  and  rtijulaiity  of  I'lt-.-byte- 
rlaii  cDuntiy  life  ;  fur  though  the  Will-o'-Wisp 
motivjis  of  thoughtless  whim  were  almost  the 
sole  li_i;lits  of  my  p.ifh,  yet  early  ingrained  piety 
and  virtue  kept  me  for  several  years  afterwards 
wltliin  the  liiie  of  innocence.  The  great  inis- 
f.irtune  of  my  life  was  to  want  an  aim.  I  had 
felt  early  some  stirrings  of  amhition,  hut  they 
were  the  btinil  po|)ings  of  Homer's  Cyclops 
roiinti  tnt  walls  of  his  cave.  I  sitw  my  lather's 
situation  entr.i'.ed  on  me  perpetual  labour.  The 
onlv  two  openings  hy  which  I  crould  enter  the 
teniple  of  Fortune,  was  the  irate  of  niggarilly 
economy,  or  the  path  of  1  .tie  chicaning  haigain- 
niaking.  The  first  is  so  contracted  an  aperture, 
I  never  could  squeeze  myself  into  it  ; — the  last 
I  always  hited  —  there  was  contamination  in  the 
very  entrance  !  Tims  abandoned  of  aim  or  view 
in  life,  with  a  strong  a  petite  for  sociability,  as 
well  from  native  hiliiriry,  as  from  a  priile  of  ob- 
servation anil  rem  Ilk  ;  a  constitution  il  melan- 
choly or  hypiichondriasm  that  made  me  fly  so- 
litude ;  add  to  these  incentives  to  social  life,  my 
repiitali(m  for  bocdvish  knowledge,  a  certain 
wild  logical  talent,  and  a  strength  of  thought, 
someljiiiig  like  the  rudiments  of  gooil  sense; 
and  it  will  not  seem  surprising  that  I  was  ge- 
nerally a  welcome  guest  where  I  visited,  or  any 
great  wonder  that,  always  where  two  or  three 
nut  together,  there  was  I  among  them.  Hut, 
far  bevond  all  other  impulses  of  my  heart,  w.is 
itn  pcnc/iiint  ii  I'ailnrable  mnitie  <Ju  gviire  hu- 
main.  My  lieart  was  completely  tiniler,  ancl 
was  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess  or 
other  ;  and  as  in  every  other  warfare  in  this 
uoiid  my  furtuiie  was  various,  sometimes  I  wis 
received  with  favour,  and  sometimes  I  was  nior- 
tilijd  with  ■•  icpii'se.  At  the  plough,  scythe, 
or  reap-lio(d<,  I  feareil  no  competitor,  anil  thus 
I  set  absolute  want  at  detiance  ;  and  as  !  never 
c.ired  flit  her  for  my  labours  than  while  I  was 
in  actual  exercise.  I  s|)ent  the  evenings  in  the 
way  after  my  own  heart.  A  cointry  lad  sel- 
dom carries  on  a  iove  adventure  without  an  as- 
sisting coiilidaiit  I  possfssed  a  curiosity,  zeal, 
and  intrepid  ilexferity,  that  recommended  me  as 
a  proper  secoiul  on  these  occasions  ;  and  I  d.ire 
say,  I  felt  as  much  pleasure  in  being  in  the  se- 
■^ri.'t  of  ha'f  the  l.ves  of  the  parish  of  Tarbolton, 
ts  ever  d  d  st.itesmen  in  knowing  the  intrigues 
of  liilf  the  courts  of  Europe  — The  very  goose- 
fciitlier  in  my  hind  seems  to  know  instinctively 
the  Well  worn  |ia'h  of  my  iui.iginution,  the  fa- 
vourite theme  of  mv  song;  and  is  wiih  dithrul- 
tv  restrained  from  giving  you  a  couple  nt  p  ira- 
gtipls  on  the  love  adveiitures  of  my  compeeis, 
tlie  humble  'Tiriates  of  the  f.irin-house  and  cot- 
tage ;  but  the  grave  sons  of  science,  ambition, 
nr  av.irice,  baptize  tlie^e  tilings  by  the  iiime  of 
folli,'-.  To  tlie  sons  and  diughters  of  labour 
liid  poviiry,  ihcy  are  ni.itter>  of  the  "W-t  seri- 
ous iiitiiie;  to  them,  the  .iidelit  Impe,  the  sto- 
en  inteivie\»',  the  tnd'.  r  I  ire'vejl,  arc  tliegreat- 
•lat  uiid  most  di:licioiis  partk  uf  theii'  etiiovmentb. 


Anot.ier  cinnmstance  in  my  iife  wn^ii 
made  some  alteration  in  my  mind  and  inanners, 
was,  that  I  spent  my  nineteenth  siunnier  on  a 
smuggling  coast,  a  good  distance  f--' tii  home,  at 
a  noted  school,  to  learn  mensuration,  surveying, 
dialling,  &c.  in  which  I  made  a  prettv  good 
progress.  But  I  made  a  greater  progress  in  the 
knowledge  of  mankind.  The  contraband  trade 
was  at  that  time  very  successful,  and  it  some- 
times happened  to  me  to  fall  in  with  those  who 
carried  it  on.  Scenes  of  swaggering  riot  and 
roaring  dissipation  were  till  this  time  new  to 
me  ;  but  I  was  no  en -my  to  social  life.  Her» 
though  I  learnt  to  fill  my  glass,  and  to  mix 
without  fear  in  a  drunken  si)uabble,  yet  1  went 
on  with  a  high  hand  with  my  geometry,  till  the 
sun  entered  Virgo,  a  month  which  is  always  a 
carnival  in  my  bosom,  when  a  charming  yi/e^/e, 
who  lived  next  door  to  the  school,  overset  n>y 
trigonometry,  and  set  me  off  at  a  tangent  from 
the  sphere  of  my  studies.  1,  liowever,  striigglej 
on  with  my  sines,  and  cosines,  for  a  few  ihiys 
more  ;  but  stepping  into  the  garden  one  charm- 
ing noon  to  take  the  sun's  altitude,  there  I  met 
ray  angel, 

"  Like  Proserpine,  gathering  flowers. 
Herself  a  fairer  tlower. " 

It  was  in  vain  to  think  of  doing  any  more 
good  at  school.  The  rem  lining  week  I  staid, 
I  did  nothing  but  craze  the  faculties  of  my  soul 
about  her,  or  steal  out  to  meet  her  ;  and  tlie 
two  last  nights  of  my  stay  in  the  country,  had 
sleep  been  a  mortal  sin,  the  image  of  this  mo- 
dest and  innocent  girl  had  kept  me  guiltless. 

1  returned  home  very  considerably  iiiipiov- 
ed.  Mv  reading  was  enlarged  with  the  very 
important  addition  of  Thomson's  and  Shen- 
stone's  Works  ;  I  had  seen  human  nature  in  a 
new  pliasis  ;  and  I  engaged  several  of  my 
school-fellows  to  keep  up  a  literary  corresjjon- 
dence  with  me.  This  improved  me  in  compo. 
sition.  I  had  met  with  a  collection  of  letters 
by  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  and  1  poied 
over  them  most  devoutly  :  I  kept  copies  of  any 
of  my  own  letters  that  pleased  nie  ;  and  a  com- 
parison betvveen  them  and  the  composilion  ol 
most  uf  my  corres|)onilents  flattered  my  vanity. 
1  carried  this  whir.i  so  far,  that  though  1  had 
not  three  farthings  worth  of  business  in  the 
world,  yet  almost  every  post  brought  me  as 
many  letters  as  if  I  hid  been  a  biojd  plodding 
son  of  dav-book  and  ledger. 

My  life  flowed  on  much  in  the  same  course 
till  my  twenty-third  year.  Vn-e  ruiiidur,  H 
V  ve  la  biiyiiiille,  were  iiiv  so)e  piinci|des  I'f  ac- 
tion. The  addition  of  two  nii.re  autbois  to  my 
library  j;ave  ire  great  pleasure  ;  S/cine  and 
AI'  herizie —  Tristniin  H/ui/kIij  and  J  In:  Mint 
'if  I-'edin  i — were  my  bosom  favourites.  I'uesy 
w,is  still  a  darling  walk  for  :i  v  mind  ;  !iut  it 
was  only  indulged  in  accoidng  to  the  liiimoui 
id'  the  hour.  I  lud  iisu.illy  hall  a  dozen  or  iiiort 
piecen  on  baud  ;    I  took  u^'  one  oi    otber,    ih  p 


CORRESPONDENCE 


2c»o 


jirtivl  ttip  momptitary  tone  of  the  mind,  an.l 
fli<iiussi.'(l  the  work  as  it  hordored  dii  fatii^iic. 
My  ]).issii)iis,  wlit'ii  once  li,;;hteJ  up,  raiji'd  like 
so  niiir.y  devils,  till  they  got  vent  in  ihvine  ;  and 
then  t!ie  conninj^  over  my  verses,  like  a  sj)i.'ll, 
snotlied  all  into  rjuiet  !  None  of  the  rhymes  of 
tlitwe  i\d\<  are  in  print,  exeept  Winter,  a  Uirijv, 
the  elile^t  of  my  printeil  pieces  ;  Tlie  Diuitli  (if 
Poor  Mui''e,  Jiilin  Jiarlei/cnrn,  and  Son.;s, 
Cist,  seeont  ,  and  third.  Son;^  second  was  the 
ehullition  of  that  passion  which  ended  the  fore- 
montioned  schoul  husiness. 

My  twentN-thinl  year  w;is  to  me  an  import- 
ant era.  I'artly  throuj^li  whim,  and  partly 
that  I  wislu'il  to  set  ahout  doing  something  in 
life,  I  joined  a  flaxdresser  in  a  neighhonring 
town  (Irvine)  to  learn  liis  trade.  This  Wis 
an    unlucky   affair.       My  ;    and,   to 

finisli  the  whole,  as  we  were  giving  a  welcome 
carini--il  to  the  new  year,  the  shop  took  fire, 
and  iinriit  to  ashes  ;  and  I  was  left,  like  a  true 
pot  t    li  t  worth  a  sixpence. 

1  V.MS  o')!igcd  to  give  up  this  scheme  :  the 
clouils  o;  iiii-lortune  wert  gathering  thick  round 
my  father's  head  ;  and,  what  was  worst  of  all, 
he  was  visihly  far  gone  in  a  consumption  ;  and, 
to  crown  my  distresses,  a  belle  Jllle,  whom  I 
adored,  and  who  had  pledged  her  soul  to  meet 
me  in  the  ficM  of  matrinaony,  jilted  me,  with 
peculiar  circumstances  of  nioitification.  The 
finishing  evil  that  brought  up  the  rear  of  this 
infernal  file,  was,  my  constitutional  melancholy 
being  increased  to  such  a  degree,  that  for  three 
months  I  Was  in  a  state  of  mind  scarcely  to  be 
envieil  by  the  hopeless  wretches  who  have  got 
their  iii;ttinius — Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed  ! 

Fiooi  this  adventure,  I  learned  something 
of  a  town  life;  but  the  principal  thing  which 
gave  my  mind  a  turn,  was  a  friendship  1  form- 
ed with  a  young  fellow,  a  very  noble  character, 
but  a  hapless  son  of  misfortune.  He  was  the 
son  of  I  simple  mechanic  ;  but  a  great  mm  in 
the  neighbourhood  taking  him  under  his  |)a- 
tronage,  gave  h:m  a  genteel  education,  with  a 
view  of  bettering  his  situation  in  life.  The 
patron  flying  ju>t  as  he  was  ready  to  launch  (>ut 
into  the  world,  the  poor  fellow  in  despiir  went 
to  sea  ;  where,  after  a  variety  of  good  and  ill 
foitiine,  a  little  liefore  1  was  acquainted  with 
bim,  he  hid  been  set  ashore  by  in  American 
privateer,  on  the  wild  coast  of  Connaught, 
strip])ed  of  every  thing.  1  cannot  quit  this  jioor 
fellow's  story,  without  adding,  that  he  is  at  this 
time  master  of  a  large  West  Indiaman  belonging 
U  the  Thames. 

His  mind  was  fraught  with  independence, 
m.ignaniuiity,  am  every  manly  virtue.  I  loved 
and  admired  him  to  a  degree  of  enthusiasm, 
anil  of  couise  strove  to  imitate  him.  In  some 
measure,  I  succeeded  ;  I  had  pride  before,  but 
he  taught  it  to  flow  in  prop«r  channels.  His 
knowledge  of  the  world  was  vastly  superior  to 
mine,  and  I  was  all  attention  to  learn.  He  was 
tUe  only  man  I  ever  saw  who  was  a  greiter 
fool  tliau  mystdf,  \vJ>ere  wom.ui  was  the  presid- 


ing star  ;  tint  V.e  s|)oke  (  illicit  fovi;  with  the 
levity  of  a  siilor,  which  hitherto  I  hid  rcgirdeij 
with  hiuror.  Here  his  friendship  did  me  a  mis- 
chief; and  the  consequence  was,  thiit  soon  after 
I  lesuiiied  the  plough,  I  wrote  the  fuel's  Wil- 
ciime.'  My  reailing  only  iiu  rea-^cd,  while  in 
this  town,  by  two  stray  volumes  of /•'./dic///,  and 
one  of  Fentiniut'l  Count  J'ulliom,  which  gave 
me  some  idea  of  novels.  Rhyme,  except  some 
religious  pieces  that  are  in  print,  I  had  given 
up  ;  but  meeting  with  Ferr/nsson's  Scottish 
I'oems,  I  struiig  anew  my  wililly-soutiding  lyre 
with  emulating  vigour.  When  my  fatl.er  died, 
his  all  Went  among  the  hell-hounds  that  jirowl 
in  the  kennel  of  justice  ;  but  we  made  a  shif" 
to  collect  a  little  money  in  the  family  amongst 
us,  with  which,  to  keep  .(s  together,  my  brother 
and  I  took  a  neighbouring  farm.  My  brother 
wanted  my  hair-brained  iina.;ination,  as  well  a? 
my  social  ar.d  amorous  madness;  but,  in  good 
sense,  and  every  sober  qualification,  Ijc  was  far 
my  superior. 

I  entered  on  this  farm  with  a  full  resolution, 
Cinie,  go  to,  I  ivill  be  wise.'  I  read  finning 
hooks;  I  calculated  crops  ;  I  attendi-d  markets  ; 
and,  in  short,  in  spite  of  tlic  devil,  and  ike 
world,  and  tlie  flesh,  I  believe  I  should  have 
been  a  wise  man  ;  but  the  fiist  year,  from  un- 
fortnn  itely  buying  bad  seed,  the  sfcmid,  from  a 
late  harvest,  we  lost  halt'o'ir  crops.  This  over- 
set all  my  wisdom,  and  I  returned,  lih  the  dog 
to  his  vomit,  and  the  sow  that  was  washed,  to 
her  wallowing  in  the  mire, 

I  now  began  to  be  known  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood as  a  maker  of  rhymes.  The  fir>t  of 
my  poetic  off-^priiiij  that  saw  the  light,  was  a 
burlesque  lamentation  on  a  quarrel  l)ciween  two 
reverend  Calvinists,  both  of  them  ilnimntis  per  ■ 
soncE  in  my  Hohj  Fnir.  I  had  a  imtion  my- 
self, that  the  piece  had  some  merit  ;  but  to  pre- 
vent the  worst,  I  gave  a  co|)y  of  it  to  a  friend 
who  was  very  fond  of  such  things,  and  tolil  him 
that  I  could  nut  guess  who  was  the  author  of 
it,  but  that  I  thought  it  pretty  clever.  With 
a  certain  description  of  the  clergy,  as  well  as 
laitv,  it  met  with  a  roar  of  ajiplau'e.  I^'l;/ 
Willie's  Player  next  made  its  appearance,  and 
alarmed  the  kiik-se.ssion  so  much,  that  they 
held  several  meetings  to  look  over  their  spiiitual 
artillery,  if  haply  any  of  itmi:lit  be  pointed 
against  jjrofane  rhymers.  Unluckily  for  me, 
my  wanderings  led  me  on  ancither  side,  witliin 
point  blank  shot  of  their  heaviest  iiu  tal.  This 
is  the  unfortunate  story  that  gave  rise  to  my 
printed  poem,  Tlie  Lament.  This  was  a  ni(i>t 
mclanchiily  affiir,  which  I  cannot  yet  be.ir  to 
rcfl.ct  on,  and  had  very  neatly  givm  me  one  or 
two  of  the  principal  qn  ilificatioiis  for  a  place 
among  those  who  h.ive  lost  the  chart,  and  nns- 
taken  the  reckoning  of  Rationality.  I  gave  up 
my  part  of  the  farm  to  my  brotlier  ;  in  truth  it 
was  only  nominally  mine  ;  atid  n'ade  what  little 

•  Ilob  the    Rhymer's  Welcome    to    his    Uagtarc 
CiiiM. 


28G 


BURN5'  WORKS. 


preparation  was  in  my  power  for  Jim.iica.  But, 
bef,)re  leaviaj;  my  native  country  fur  evjr,  I  re- 
»o!v(.'(l  to  publish  my  poems.  I  weighed  my 
proiluctions  as  impartially  as  was  in  my  power  : 
I  tliou;:;ht  they  had  merit ;  and  it  was  a  deli- 
cious idea  that  1  should  bo  called  a  clever  fel- 
low, even  thoUijh  it  should  never  reach  my 
»ais — a  poor  negro-driver, — or  perhaps  a  vie- 
.iui  to  that  inhospitable  clime,  and  gone  to  tlic 
world  of  spirits !  I  can  truly  say,  that  panvre 
iacoiinu  as  I  then  was,  I  had  pretty  nearly  as 
high  an  idea  of  myself  and  of  my  works  as  1 
have  at  this  moment,  when  the  public  has  de- 
cided in  their  favour.  It  ever  was  my  opini- 
on, that  the  mistakes  and  blunders,  both  in  a 
rational  and  religious  point  of  view,  of  which 
we  see  thousands  daily  guilty,  are  owing  to 
their  ignorance  of  themselves. — To  know  jny- 
self,  had  been  all  along  ray  constant  study.  I 
weighed  myself  alone  ;  I  balanced  myself  with 
others  ;  I  watched  every  means  of  information, 
to  see  how  much  ground  I  occupied  as  a  man 
and  as  a  poet :  I  studied  assiduously  nature's 
design  in  my  formation — where  the  lights  and 
shades  in  my  character  were  intended.  I  was 
pretty  confident  my  poems  would  meet  with 
some  applause  ;  but,  at  the  %vorst,  the  roar  of 
the  Atlantic  would  deafen  the  voice  of  censure, 
and  the  novelty  of  West  Indian  scenes  make  me 
forgot  neglect.  I  threw  off  six  hundred  copies, 
of  which  I  h  1(1  got  subscriptions  for  about  three 
hundred  and  fifty. — ^ily  vanity  was  higlily  gra- 
tified by  the  reception  I  met  with  from  the 
pubiic  ;  and  besides  I  pocketed,  all  expenses 
deducted,  nearly  twenty  pounds.  This  sum 
caine  very  seasonably,  as  I  was  thinking  of  in- 
denting niy?elf,  for  want  of  money  to  procure 
mv  passage.  As  soon  as  I  was  master  of  nine 
guineas,  tlie  price  of  wafting  me  to  the  torrid 
zone,  I  took  a  steerage  passage  in  the  iirst  ship 
that  was  to  sail  from  tlie  Clyde  ;  for 

"  Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind." 

I  had  been  for  some  days  skulking  from 
covert  to  covert,  under  all  the  terrors  of  a  jail  ; 
as  some  ill-advised  people  had  uncoupled  the 
Kierci'ess  pack  of  tlie  law  at  iny  heels.  I  had 
taken  the  last  farewell  of  my  few  friends  ;  my 
chest  was  on  the  road  to  Greenock  ;  I  h  id  com- 
posed the  last  song  I  should  ever  mea^ure  in 
Caledonia,  The  (jlomny  Jiirj/U  is  gatherhig  fast, 
when  a  letter  from  Dr.  Blackiock,  to  a  friend 
of  mine,  overthrew  all  my  schemes,  by  opening 
new  prospects  to  my  poetic  ambition,  'i'lie 
D.ictor  belonged  to  a  set  of  critics,  for  whose 
applause  1  had  not  dared  to  lio])e.  His  opi- 
Dum  that  I  woulil  meet  with  encouracri'meut  in 
Edinburgh  for  a  second  edition,  fired  me  sc 
much,  that  away  1  posted  for  that  city,  with- 
out a  fiiigle  acquaintance,  or  a  single  letter  of 
Jntrodujtion.  The  baneful  star,  that  lud  so 
••jiig  shed  its  blasting  influence  in  my  zenith, 
f  T  iiiice  made  a  rcvoluticvn  to  the  nadir  ;  and 
a  kind   I'rovidence  jilaced  ;ne  undei  the  patron- 


age of  one  of  the  noblest  of  rnek,  the  Earl  o( 
Glencairn.  Oiblie  moi.  Grand  Dleu,  si  jo 
mtiis  je  I'otiblie  ! 

I  need  relate  no  farther.  ,\t  Edinburgh  1 
was  in  a  nev/  world  ;  I  mingled  among  many 
classes  of  men,  but  all  of  them  new  to  me,  and 
I  was  all  attention  to  calch  the  characters  and 
the  manners  liv'uig  as  they  rise.  Wliether  I 
have  profitedi  time  will  sbow. 


My  most  respectful  compliments  to  Miss  W. 
Her  very  elegant  and  friendly  letter  I  cannot  an- 
swer at  present,  as  my  presence  is  requisite  ic 
Edinburgh,  and  I  set  out  to-morrow.* 


No.  LXVI. 
FROM  GILBERT  BURNS. 

A  RUN'NI.NG  COMMENTARY  ON  THE  FORK- 
GOING. 

The  farm  was  upwards  of  seventy  acres -f 
(between  eighty  and  ninety  English  statute 
measure),  the  rent  of  which  was  to  be  forty 
pounds  annually  for  the  first  six  years,  ancl  af- 
terwards forty-five  p  lunds.  My  father  endea- 
voured to  sell  his  leasehold  property,  for  the 
purpose  of  stocking  tliis  farm,  but  at  that  time 
was  unable,  and  !\Ir.  Fo!gns>)n  lent  him  i.  hun- 
dred pounds  for  that  )nirpose.  He  removed  to 
his  new  situation  at  Whitsuntiile,  ITOCJ.  It  was, 
I  thiidv,  nut  above  two  years  after  this,  that 
Murdoch,  our  tutor  and  friend,  left  this  part  of 
the  country  ;  and  there  being  no  school  near  us, 
and  our  little  services  being  useful  on  tlie  farm, 
my  fither  undertook  to  teach  us  arithmetic  in 
the  winter  evenings,  by  cai^dle-light;  and  in  this 
way  my  two  eldest  sisters  got  all  the  education 
they  received.  I  remember  a  circuinst.ciice  ttiat 
happened  at  thi«i  time,  which,  thou','h  trifling 
in  itself,  is  fresh  in  my  memory,  and  may  serve 
to  illustrate  the  early  character  of  my  brother. 
Murdoch  came  to  spend  a  night  with  us,  and  to 
take  his  leave  when  he  was  about  to  go  intc 
Carrick.  He  brought  us,  as  a  present  and  me- 
morial of  him,  a  small  compendium  of  English 
Grammar,  and  the  tragedy  of  Titus  Amtroiii- 
ciis ;  and  by  way  of  passing  the  evening,  he  be- 
gan to  read  the  play  aloud.  We  were  all  atten  • 
tiou  for  some  time,  till  presently  the  wh.ole  pn'- 
ty  was  dissolved  in  tears.  A  female  in  the  play 
(I  have  but  a  confused  remembraiice  of  it)  had 


•  There  are  various  copies  of  this  letter,  in  the  3ii> 
thor's  ti.Mulwritiiij; ;  ami  one  of  lliese,  e\  iilciniy  cor- 
reetej,  is  in  the  book  in  which  he  hail  eopiiMi  ^everaJ 
of  liis  letters.  This  has  been  useil  for  the  press,  with 
some  <)inis>ii)iis,  snd  one  sliglit  allenilioii  suggested  by 
(Jilbert  liurns. 

t  Letter  of  Gilbert  Rums  to  Mrs.  Diiulop.  'Ilu 
name  of  llii.  faiin  is  Mount  Ohph.iut,  in  A>r  paiisii. 


CORRESPONDEXCE. 


281 


htr  hinds  chopt  off,  and  her  tring'.ie  cut  out, 
jnd  tliin  was  insultingly  dusiieii  to  call  for  wa- 
ter to  wash  lier  lumds.  At  this,  in  an  agnny  of 
distro-s,  we  wiili  one  voice  desired  he  w<iuld 
read  no  more.  My  father  ohserved,  that  if  we 
would  not  hear  it  out,  it  would  be  needless  to 
leave  the  play  with  us.  Robert  replied,  that  if 
it  was  loft  he  would  burn  it.  l\ly  father  v/as 
^olug  to  chide  hiui  for  this  ungriteful  return  to 
his  tutor's  kindness ;  but  Murdoch  interfered,  de- 
claring that  he  liked  tf)  see  so  much  sensibility  ; 
and  he  left  T!te  School  for  Love,  a  comedy 
(translated,  I  think,  from  tlie  French),  in  its 
place. 

Nothing  could  be  more  retired  than  our  ge- 
neral manner  of  living  at  Mount  Ollphant ; 
we  rarely  siw  any  body  but  the  members  of 
our  own  family.  There  were  no  boys  of  our 
own  age,  or  near  it,  in  the  neighbourhood. 
I/idcrd  the  greatest  part  of  the  land  in  the 
vicinity  was  at  that  time  possessed  by  shop- 
keepers, and  people  of  that  stamp,  who  had 
retirsd  from  business,  or  who  kept  their  farm 
in  the  country,  at  the  same  time  that  they  f\)l- 
lowed  business  in  town.  My  father  was  for 
•ome  time  almost  the  only  companion  we  had. 
lie  conversed  familiarly  on  all  subjects  with  us, 
as  if  we  had  been  men  ;  and  was  at  great  pains, 
wlale  we  accompanied  him  in  the  labours  of  the 
farm,  to  lead  the  conversation  to  such  subjects 
as  mi;;ht  tend  to  increase  our  knowledge,  or 
confirm  us  in  virtuous  habits.  He  borrowed 
Sulmon's  GLor/rajihicdl  Grammar  fur  os,  and 
endeavoured  to  make  us  acquainted  with  the 
»ituarion  ami  history  of  the  ditferent  countries 
in  the  world  ;  while,  from  a  book-society  ia 
Ayr,  he  procured  fur  us  the  reading  of  Der- 
Ar/m'i  P/ii/sico  and  Astro  -  TIieoIo(iy,  and 
Roy^s  Wisdnm  of  God  in  the  Creation,  to 
give  us  some  idea  of  astronomy  and  natural  his- 
tory. Robert  read  all  tiiesc  boidis  with  an  avi- 
dity and  industry  scarcely  to  be  equalleil.  I\Iv 
father  had  been  a  subscribtr  to  Stuckhozise's 
liistorr/  of  the  Bible,  then  lately  published  by 
James  Menros  in  Kilmarnock  :  from  this 
Robert  collected  a  competent  knowledge  of  an- 
cient history  ;  for  no  book  was  so  voluminous 
as  to  slacken  his  industry,  or  so  antiijuitated  as 
to  (lamp  his  researches.  A  brother  of  my  mo- 
ther, who  had  lived  with  us  some  time,  and 
had  learnt  some  arithmetic  by  our  winter  even- 
ing's candle,  went  into  a  bookseller's  shop  in 
Ayr,  to  purchase  The  Ready  Reckoner,  or 
Tradesman's  sure  Guide,  and  a  book  to  teach 
him  to  write  letters.  Luckily,  in  place  of  The 
Com/j/ete  Letter-  Writer,  he  got,  by  mistake, 
&  small  collection  of  letters  by  the  most  emi- 
nent writers,  with  a  few  sensible  directions  for 
tttaining  an  easy  epistolary  style.  This  book 
Was  to  Robert  of  the  greatest  consequence.  It 
inspired  him  v/ith  a  strong  desire  to  excel  in 
letter-writing,  while  it  furnished  him  with  mo- 
dels  by  some  of  the   first   writers  in   our  lao- 

My  brother  was  about  thirteen  or  fourteen,  ] 


when  my  father,  regretting  that  we  wtvite  M 
ill,  sent  us  week  about,  ilui  ini(  a  summer  cjuar- 
ter,  to  the  parish  sclioo  of  Daliymple,  which, 
though  between  two  and  three  miles  distant, 
was  the  nearest  to  us,  that  we  might  have  an 
opportunity  of  remedying  this  defect.  Abcmt 
this  time  a  bookish  acquaintance  of  my  father's 
procured  us  a  reading  of  two  volumes  of  Rich- 
ardson's Pamela,  which  w:fs  the  first  novel  we 
read,  and  the  only  part  of  Richardson's  works 
my  brother  was  acquainted  with  till  towards 
the  peiiod  of  his  commencing  author.  Till  that 
time  too  he  remained  unaciiuainted  with  Field- 
ing, with  Smollet,  (two  volumes  of  Ferdinand 
Count  Fathom,  and  two  volumes  of  Ptrec/rint 
Pickle  excepted),  with  Hume,  with  Rubeitscm, 
and  almost  all  our  authors  of  eminence  of  the 
later  times.  I  recollect  indeed  my  father  bor- 
rowed a  .volume  of  English  history  fnini  Mr. 
Hamilton  of  Bourtree-hill's  gardener.  It  treat- 
ed of  the  reign  of  James  the  First,  and  his  un- 
fortunate son  Charles,  bat  I  do  not  know  who 
was  the  author  ;  all  that  I  remember  of  it  is 
something  of  Charles's  conversation  with  his 
children.  About  this  time  Muidoch,  our  for- 
mer teacher,  after  having  been  in  dillerent 
places  in  the  countiy,  and  having  taught  a 
school  some  time  in  Dumfrlts,  came  to  be  the 
established  teacher  of  the  English  language  in 
Ayr,  a  circumstance  of  considerable  consequence 
to  us.  The  remembrance  of  my  father's  former 
friendship,  and  his  attachment  to  my  brother, 
made  him  do  every  thing  ia  his  power  fur  our 
improvement.  He  sent  us  Piij)e's  woi  ks,  and 
some  other  poetry,  the  first  that  we  bad  an  op- 
portunity of  reading,  exce])ting  what  is  cou 
taiiied  in  The  Lnytish  Collection,  and  in  the 
volume  of  The  Ldinburr/h  3Iai;azine  (or  1772  ; 
excepting  also  th  jSe  excellent  new  so7i(/s  that 
are  hau  kcd  about  the  country  in  baskets,  or 
exposed  on  stalls  in  the  streets. 

The  sumnu-r  after  we  h  id  been  at  Dalrym 
j)!e  school,  my  father  sent  Robert  to  Ayr,  to 
revise  his  English  graiumar,  with  his  former 
teacher.  He  had  been  there  only  one  week, 
when  he  was  obliged  to  return,  to  assist  at  the 
harvest.  When  the  harvest  was  over,  he  went 
back  to  school,  where  he  remained  two  wee'tvs  ; 
and  this  completes  the  account  of  his  school 
education,  excepting  one  sunuuer  quarter,  some 
time  afterwards,  that  he  attended  the  parish 
school  of  Kiik-O.swald  (where  he  lived  v. ilh  a 
brother  of  my  mother's)  to  learn  surveyicg. 

During  the  two  last  weeks  that  he  was  with 
^Murdoch,  he  himself  was  engaged  in  learning 
French,  and  he  communicated  the  instructions 
he  received  to  my  brother,  who,  when  he  retur  n- 
ed,  bri  uglit  home  with  Iiim  a  French  dictlouirv 
and  grammar,  and  the  A.dientures  of  TeleW'i- 
chus  in  the  original.  In  a  little  while,  by  the 
assistance  of  these  books,  he  had  acquiieil  such  a 
knowledge  of  the  language,  as  to  read  and  un- 
derst.'nd  nny  French  author  in  prose.  Thil 
.vas  cons:(iered  as  a  sort  of  pnidii'y,  and,  through 
the  medium  of  iMurdnch,  procuied  him  the  iC' 


^88 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


^uiintance  of  several  krls  in  Ayr,  who  were  at  1  IMmint  Ollpliant,  the  farm  my  fatTier  possessed 
thit   tune  giibblin;^   French,   ami   the  notice   of   in  the  pari^h  of  Ayr,   i*  alnio-t  the  very  poorest 


some  families,  [)articul  irly  that  of  Dr.  Malcolm 
where  a  knowledjje  of  FieQ.;h  was  a  recommen- 
dation. 

Observing  the  facility  with  which  he  had 
acquired  the  French  language,  IMr.  Robinson, 
the  established  writing-master  in  Ayr,  and  Mr. 
Murdoch's  particular  friend,  having  himself  ac- 
quired a  considerable  knowledge  of  the  Latin 
language  by  his  own  industry,  witliout  ever  ha- 
vi:i"  learned  it  at  school,  advised  Robert  to  make 
the  same  attem|jt,  promising  him  every  assist- 
ance in  his  power.  A.greeably  to  this  advice,  he 
purchased  T/ie  Rudinieiits  of  the  Lntin  Tongue, 
but  finding  this  j-tuiiy  dry  and  uninteresting,  it 
was  quickly  laid  a^ide.  He  frequently  returned 
to  liis  Riidimtnts  on  any  httle  chagrin  or  dis- 
appointment, paiticuhnly  in  his  love  affairs; 
but  the  Larin  sel(h)m  precKiminated  more  than  a 
day  or  two  at  a  time,  or  a  week  at  most.  Ob- 
serving himself  the  ridicule  that  would  attach  to 
this  sort  of  conduct  if  it  were  known,  he  made 
two  or  three  humorous  stanzas  on  the  subject, 
which  I  canuut  now  recollect,  but  they  all  ended, 

"  So  I'll  to  my  Latin  again.* 

Thus  vou  see  Jlr.  Murdoch  was  a  princi|)al 
means  of  my  brother's  improvement.  Worthy 
man  !  though  foreign  to  my  present  purpose,  I 
cannot  take  leavi-  of  him  without  tracing  his 
future  history.  He  continued  for  some  years  a 
respected  and  useful  teacher  at  Ayr,  till  one 
evening  that  he  liati  been  overtaken  in  liquor, 
he  hap])ened  to  spe.ik  somewhat  disrespectfully 
of  Dr.  Dalrymple,  the  parish  minister,  who  had 
not  paid  him  that  attention  to  which  he  thought 
hiiiself  entitled.  In  Ayr  he  might  as  well  have 
spoken  blasphemy.  He  f  mnd  it  proper  to  give 
up  his  a|ipointnient.  He  went  to  London,  v.'here 
he  still  lives,  a  private  teacher  of  French.  He 
has  been  a  considerable  time  married,  and  keejis 
a  sliop  of  stationery  wares. 

The  father  of  Dr.  Paterson,  now  physician  at 
Ayr,  was,  I  believe,  a  native  of  Aberdeenshire, 
and  was  one  of  the  established  teachers  in  Ayr 
when  my  father  settled  in  the  neighbouihood. 
He  early  recognised  my  fither  as  a  fellow  na- 
tive of  tlic  noith  of  Scotland,  and  a  certain  de- 
rce  of  intimacy  sulisisted  between  them  during 
Mr  Paterson's  life.  After  his  death,  his  wiilow, 
who  is  a  very  genteel  woman,  and  of  great 
worth,  delighted  in  doing  what  she  thought  her 
huslwud  would  have  wished  to  have  done,  and 
assiduously  kept  up  her  attentions  to  all  his  ac- 
quaintance. She  ke|)t  alive  the  intimacy  with 
cur  fimily,  by  ficqueiitly  inviting  my  father  and 
n, other  to  her  house  on  Sundays,  whco  she  nut 
tlicni  at  churcii. 

When  she  came  tn  know  my  brother's  passion 
fiir  bonks,  she  kindly  offered  us  the  use  of  her 
husband's    library,    and   from   her  we    got   the 


soil  I  know  of  in  a  state  of  cultivation.  A 
stronger  proof  of  this  I  cannot  give,  than  that, 
notwithstanding  the  extraordinary  rise  in  the 
va'ue  of  lands  in  Scotland,  it  was,  after  a  con- 
siderable sum  laid  out  in  improving  it  by  the 
prnpiietor,  let,  a  few  years  ago,  five  poiii.ds  per 
annum  lower  than  the  rent  paid  for  it  liy  my 
father  thirty  years  ago.  My  father,  in  conse- 
quence of  this,  soon  came  into  difficulties,  which 
were  increased  by  the  loss  of  several  ol  Ins  cattle 
by  accidents  and  disease. — To  the  biifFetings  of 
misfortune  we  could  only  oppose  hard  l.dxmr  and 
the  most  rigid  economy.  We  lived  very  spa- 
ringlv.  For  several  j'ears  butcher's  meat  was  a 
stranger  in  the  house,  while  all  the  members  of 
the  family  exerted  themselves  to  the  utmost  of 
their  strength,  and  rather  beyond  it,  in  the  la- 
bours of  the  farm.  My  brother,  at  the  age  of 
thirteen,  assisted  in  thrashing  the  crop  of  corn, 
and  at  fifteen  was  the  principal  labourer  on  the 
farm,  for  we  had  uo  hired  servant,  male  or  fe- 
male.  The  anguish  of  minil  we  felt  at  our  ten- 
der years,  under  these  straits  and  difficulties, 
was  verv  great.  To  think  of  our  father  grow- 
ing old,  (for  he  was  now  above  ii'ty),  bioke.i 
down  with  the  long  contimrd  fitigues  of  his 
life,  with  a  wife  and  five  other  children,  and  in 
a  declining  state  of  circumstances,  these  reflec- 
tions produced  in  my  brotlier's  mind  and  nine 
sensations  of  the  deepest  distiess.  1  doubt  not 
but  tlie  hard  labour  and  sorrow  of  this  pe- 
riod of  his  life,  was  in  a  great  measure  the  cause 
of  tliat  depression  of  sjiirlts  with  w.liH-h  Robert 
was  so  often  afflicted  through  his  whole  li/e  af- 
terwards. At  this  time  he  was  almost  con- 
stantly afflicted  in  the  evenings  with  a  dull 
headache,  which,  at  a  future  ))eriod  of  his  life, 
was  exchanged  for  a  palpitation  of  the  heart, 
and  a  threatening  of  fiintiug  and  sufTucation  in 
his  bed,  in  the  night-time. 

By  a  stipulation  in  my  fither's  lease,  lie  had 
a  right  to  throw  it  up,  if  he  thought  |ifoper,  at 
the  end  of  every  sixth  year.  He  atvempted  to 
fix  himself  in  a  better  *arm  at  the  end  of  the 
first  six  years,  but  failing  in  that  attempt,  he 
continued  where  he  was  for  six  yean,  nuire.  He 
then  toidi  the  farm  of  Lochica,  of  130  acres,  at 
the  lent  of  twenty  shillings  an  acre,    in  the  ))a- 

rish  of  Tarboltoni  of  IMr. ,  then 

a  merchant  in  Ayr,  and  now  (1797)  a  merchant 
in  Liverpool.  He  removed  to  this  farm  at 
Whitsunday,  1777,  and  possessed  it  only  seven 
years.  No  writing  had  ever  been  ntade  out  of 
the  conditions  of  the  lease  ,  a  misunderstanding 
took  Jilace  respecting  them  ;  the  subjects  in  dis- 
|)ute  were  submitted  to  arbitration,  and  the  de- 
cision involved  my  father's  alTaiis  in  ruin.  He 
lived  to  know  of  this  decision,  but  not  to  see  any 
execution  in  consequence  of  it.     He  died  on  the 


13th  of  February,  1784, 
_  ^  The  seven  years  we  lived  in  Tarbol ton  parish 

Sprciiilor,  Pope's  Triinsliitiiin  of  llnZr,   and    (extending  from  the  seventewith  to  the  twei.ty. 
*i;veral  other  books    that   were   of   use    to   us.  |  fourth  of  my  brother's  age),    were  not  mat  ied 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


289 


br  iniirn  iitcrarv  improvement  ;  Imt  ilurlna; 
tnis  tiiiK'  tlio  fiHHid.itidn  was  1  liil  of  crrtain  lia- 
bitu  in  iiiv  bintlii-r's  flianicter,  which  afterwards 
beeame  Imt  too  |)roiiiinent,  ami  whicli  malice 
and  envy  have  taken  delii^iit  to  enlarge  on. 
T!'.oui;h,  when  young,  he  was  hashfiil  and  awk- 
»-;rd  in  his  intercourse  with  women,  vf  t  when 
he  approacneil  maniiooii,  his  attachment  to  their  I 
eocitty  liecame  very  strong,  and  he  was  con- 
stantly t  le  victim  iif  some  fair  enslaver.  The 
symptoms  of  his  passion  were  often  such  as 
nearly  to  cipial  those  of  the  celehrateil  Sapjiho. 
I  never  indeed  knew  that  hv  fainted,  iunk,  and 
died  away  ;  Iiut  the  agitations  of  his  minil  and 
body  exceeded  any  thitig  of  the  kind  I  ever 
knew  in  real  life.  He  had  always  aparticular 
jealousy  of  people  who  were  richer  than  him- 
self, or  who  had  nrore  consequence  in  life.  His 
love,  therefore,  rarely  settled  on  persons  of  this 
description.  When  he  selected  any  one,  out  of 
the  sovereignty  of  his  good  p.tasure,  to  whom 
he  should  piy  his  particular  attentiim,  she  was 
instantly  invested  with  a  sufficient  stock  of 
charms,  out  of  the  ])lentiful  stores  of  his  own 
imagination  ;  and  there  was  often  a  great  dis- 
similitude hetween  his  fiir  captivator,  as  she 
S[ipeired  to  others,  and  as  she  seemed  when  in- 
vested with  the  attributes  he  gave  her.  One 
generally  reigned  paramount  in  his  affections  ; 
but   as    Yorick's   affections  flowed   out   toward 

Madime   de   L at  the  remise  door,   while 

the  eternal  vows  of  Eliza  were  upon  him,  so 
Robert  was  frequently  encountering  other  at- 
tractions, which  formed  so  many  under  plots  in 
the  drama  of  his  love.  As  these  connections 
were  governed  by  the  strictest  rules  of  virtue 
jnd  modesty  (from  which  he  never  deviated  till 
he  reached  his  23d  year),  he  became  anxious  to 
be  in  a  situation  to  marry.  This  was  not  likely 
to  be  soon  the  case  while  he  remained  a  farmer, 
as  the  stocking  of  a  farm  required  a  sum  of 
money  he  had  no  probability  of  being  master  of 
for  a  great  while.  He  began,  therefore,  to  think 
of  trying  some  other  line  of  life.  He  and  I  had 
fcr  several  years  taken  land  of  my  father  for  the 
purpose  of  raising  flax  on  our  own  account.  In 
the  course  of  selling  it,  Robert  began  to  think 
of  turning  flix-dresser,  both  a-*  being  suitable  to 
his  grand  view  of  settling  in  life,  and  as  sub- 
lervient  to  the  flax  raising.  He  accordingly 
wrought  at  the  business  of  a  flax-dresaer  iu 
Irvine  for  six  months,  but  abandoned  it  at  that 
period,  as  neither  agreeing  with  bis  health  nor 
inclination.  In  Irvine  he  had  contracted  some 
acquaintance  of  a  fieei  manner  of  thinking  and 
living  than  he  ha<l  been  used  to,  who>c  society 
prepared  him  for  overleaping  the  bounds  of  rigid 
virtue  which  bad  hitherto  restrained  him.  To- 
wards the  end  of  the  period  under  review  (in 
his  24th  year),  and  soon  after  his  father's  deith, 
he  Was  furnislied  with  the  sulijeit  of  bis  epistle 
to  John  Ratikin.  During  this  period  also  he 
became  a  freemason,  which  was  his  first  intro- 
duction to  the  life  of  a  boon  companion.  Yet, 
Botwith&tanding   these  circumstance!,   and   the 


praise  he  has  bc*tow"d  on  Scofch  drink  (which 
seems  to  have  misled  his  hi>toriaris),  I  do  nol 
recollect,  (luring  these  seven  >i'ars,  nor  till  to- 
wards the  end  of  his  comniencir.g  author  {  whea 
his  growing  celebrity  occasioned  his  being  oftea 
in  coin])any),  to  have  ever  seen  him  intoxicated, 
nor  was  be  at  all  given  to  drinking.  A  stronger 
proof  of  the  general  sobriety  of  his  conduct  netd 
not  be  required  tli  in  wh  it  I  am  about  to  give. 
During  the  wliole  of  the  time  we  liveii  in  tiie 
firm  of  Lochlea  with  my  fither,  he  allowed  my 
brother  and  me  such  wages  for  our  labour  as  he 
gave  to  Other  labourers,  as  a  jiart  of  which, 
every  article  of  our  clothing  manufactured  in 
the  fimily  was  regularly  accounted  for.  When 
my  fither's  affairs  drew  near  a  crisis,  Robert 
and  I  took  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  consisting  of 
1  18  acres,  at  the  lent  of  »£9()  jier  annuiii  (the 
farm  on  which  I  live  at  jiresimt)  from  Mr.  Ga- 
vin Hamilton,  as  an  asylum  for  the  family  in 
case  of  the  worst.  It  was  stocked  by  tlie  pro- 
perty and  individual  savings  of  the  whole  family, 
and  was  a  joint  concern  among  us.  Every  mem- 
ber of  the  family  was  allowed  ordinary  wai.;<'» 
for  the  laliour  he  pL-rfirmed  on  the  farm.  .N'y 
brother's  allow.mce  and  mine  was  seven  pociidi 
])er  annum  each.  And  during  the  whole  tune 
thisfdiiiily  concern  lasted,  wliich  was  four  J'imih, 
as  well  as  during  the  preceding  period  at  L»n,h- 
lea,  his  exjienses  never  in  one  yeir  exceeded  his 
slender  income.  As  I  was  intrusted  with  the 
keeping  of  the  f.imily  accounts,  it  is  not  possi- 
ble that  tlieie  can  be  any  fillacy  in  this  state- 
ment in  my  brother's  fivour.  His  teniperance 
and  frugality  Avcre  every  thing  that  could  be 
wished. 

The  farm  of  Mossgiel  lies  very  high,  ami 
mostly  on  a  cold  wet  bottom.  'I'he  first  iV-iir 
jear's  that  v.e  were  on  the  firm  were  very  froity, 
and  the  spring  was  very  late.  Our  crops  in 
consequence  were  very  unprofitable  ;  and,  not- 
withstanding our  utmost  (liiigence  and  econoinv, 
we  found  ourselves  obliged  to  give  \x\)  our  Lir- 
gain,  with  the  loss  of  a  consideralile  part  of  our 
original  stock.  It  was  during  these  four  years 
that  Robert  formed  his  connection  with  Jeau 
Armour,  afterwards  .Mis,  Burns.  This  connec- 
t on  could  no  loilffcr  be  caucealed,  about  the 
time  we  came  to  a  final  determin.ition  to  quit 
the  firm.  Robert  durst  not  engage  with  a 
family  in  his  |)oor  unsettk'd  state,  but  was  an- 
xious to  shield  his  partner  by  every  means  in 
his  power  from  tlw  consequences  of  their  im- 
lirudence.  It  was  agreeil  therefore  betweeo 
them,  that  they  shoulil  make  a  legal  acknow- 
ledgment of  an  irregular  and  private  marriage  ; 
that  he  should  go  to  Jamaica,  to  jnah  Ais  'i-r- 
tiuie  ;  and  tint  she  shoiiUi  remain  wjtii  ]\tt 
fither  till  it  might  ]ilease  Providence  to  put  th» 
means  of  supporting  a  family  in  his  power. 

Mrs.  Rums  wa^  a  great  favourite  of  her  fa- 
ther's. The  intimation  of  a  private  niarriapj 
was  the  first  suggestion  he  received  of  her  ri.-a 
situation.  He  was  in  the  greatest  distress,  ao<l 
fainted^  away.     The  marriage  did  not  aujiea/  tu 


290 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


fcim  to  make  the  matter  any  better.  A  hus- 
band in  Jamaica  appeared  to  him  anil  to  his  wife 
little  better  than  none,  and  an  efTectual  bar  to 
any  other  prospects  of  a  settlement  in  life  that 
their  daughter  might  have.  They  therefore  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  her,  that  the  written  papers 
which  rc-pectcd  the  marriage  should  be  cancel- 
led, and  thus  the  marriage  rendeied  void.  In 
her  moitfacholy  state  she  felt  the  deepest  remorse 
at  having  brought  such  heavy  affliction  on  pa- 
rents that  loved  her  so  tenderly,  and  submitted 
to  their  entreaties.  Their  wish  was  mentioned 
to  Robert.  He  felt  the  deepest  anguish  of 
mind.  He  offered  to  stay  at  home  and  provide 
for  his  wife  and  family  in  the  best  manner  that 
ills  daily  labours  could  provide  for  them  ;  that 
being  the  only  means  in  his  power.  Even  this 
oiler  they  did  not  approve  of;  for,  hund)le  as 
Miss  Armour's  station  was,  and  great  though 
her  imprudence  had  been,  she  still,  in  the  eyes 
of  her  partial  parents,  might  look  to  a  better 
connexion  than  that  with  my  friendless  and  un- 
hippy  brother,  at  that  time  without  house  or 
hiding-place.  Robert  at  length  consented  to 
their  wishes  ;  but  his  feelings  on  this  occasion 
were  of  the  most  distracting  nature  ;  and  the 
impression  of  sorrow  was  not  effaced,  till  by  a 
regular  marriage  they  were  indissolubly  united. 
In  the  state  of  mind  which  this  separation  pro- 
duced, he  wished  to  leave  the  country  as  soon 
as  possllde,  and  agreed  with  Dr.  Douglas  to  go 
out  to  Jamaica  as  an  assistant  overseer,  or,  as  I 
believe  it  is  called,  a  book-keeper,  on  his  estate. 
As  he  had  not  sufficient  money  to  pay  his  pas- 
sage, and  the  vessel  in  which  Dr.  Douglas  was 
to  procure  a  passage  for  him  was  not  expected 
to  sail  for  some  time,  Mr.  Hamilton  advised  him 
to  publish  his  poems  in  the  meantime  by  sub- 
scription, as  a  likely  way  of  getting  a  little  mo- 
ney to  provide  him  moie  liberally  in  necessaries 
for  Jamaica.  Agreeably  to  this  advic",  sub- 
scripti(m  bills  were  piinted  immediately,  and 
the  printing  was  commenced  at  Kilmarnock, 
his  preparations  going  on  at  the  same  time  for 
his  voyage.  The  reception,  however,  which 
his  poems  metvv'ith  in  the  world,  and  the  friends 
they  procureii  him,  made  him  change  his  reso- 
lution of  going  to  Jamaica,  and  he  was  advised 
to  go  to  Eilinburgh  to  publish  a  second  edition. 
On  bis  return,  in  happier  circumstances,  he  re- 
newed his  connexion  with  Mrs.  Burns,  and  ren- 
dered It  permanent  by  a  union  for  life. 

Thus,  .Madam,  have  I  endeavoured  to  give 
you  a  sim[)le  narrative  of  the  leading  circum- 
stances in  my  brotlier's  early  life.  The  remain- 
ing part  he  spent  in  Edinburgh  or  in  Dumfries- 
shire, and  its  incidents  are  as  well  kiu)wn  to 
you  as  to  me.  Ills  gi'nius  having  procured  him 
your  patronage  and  fjiend>hip,  this  gave  rise  to 
the  correspondencp  between  you,  in  which,  I 
believe,  his  «entimcnts  were  rleliveied  with  the 
most  respectful,  but  most  unreserved  confidence, 
and  which  oulv  tcruiinotcd  with  the  list  days  of 
iis  life. 


No.  Lxvn. 

FROM  MR.  MURDOCa 

TO 

DR.  MOORE, 

AS  TO  THE   poet's  EARLY  TUI7I0K. 

SIR, 

I  WAS  lately  favoured  with  a  letter  from  onf 
worthy  friend,  the  Rev.  William  Adair,  in  which 
he  requested  me  to  communicate  to  you  what 
ever  particulars  I  could  recollect  j'oncerning 
Robert  Burns,  the  Ayrshire  piK't.  JMy  business 
being  at  present  multifarious  and  harassing,  my 
attention  is  consequently  so  much  divided,  and  1 
am  so  little  in  the  habit  of  expressing  my  thoughts 
on  paper,  that  at  this  distance  of  time  I  can  give 
but  a  verv  imperfect  sketch  of  the  early  part  of 
the  life  of  that  extraordinary  genius  with  which 
alone  I  am  acquainted. 

William  Burnes,  the  father  of  the  poet,  was 
born  in  the  shire  of  Kincardine,  an<l  bred  a 
gardener.  He  had  been  settled  in  Ayrshire  ten 
or  twelve  years  before  I  knew  him,  and  had 
l>een  in  the  service  of  I\Ir.  Crawford  of  Dooa- 
side.  He  was  afterwards  employed  as  a  gar- 
dener and  overseer  by  Provost  Ferguson  of 
Doonholm,  in  the  parish  of  AUoway,  which  is 
now  united  with  that  of  Ayr.  In  this  parish, 
on  the  road  side,  a  Scotch  mile  and  a  hilt  from 
the  town  of  Ayr,  and  half  a  mile  from  the 
bridge  of  Doon,  William  Burnes  took  a  puce 
of  land,  consisting  ot  about  seven  acres,  part  of 
which  he  laid  out  in  garden  ground,  and  ])art 
of  which  he  kept  to  graze  a  cow,  &c.  still  con- 
tinuing in  the  employ  of  Provost  Ferguson. 
Upon  this  little  farm  was  erected  a  humble 
dwelling,  of  which  William  Burnes  was  the  ar- 
chitect. It  was,  with  the  exception  of  a  little 
straw,  literally  a  tabernacle  of  clay.  In  this 
mean  cottage,  of  which  I  myself  was  at  times 
an  inhabitant,  I  really  believe  there  dwelt  a 
larger  portion  of  content  than  in  any  palace  in 
Europe.  The  Cotter  s  Saturday  Niyht,  will 
give  some  idea  of  the  temper  and  manners  that 
pievailed  there. 

In  17G5,  about  the  middle  of  March,  .Mr. 
W.  Burnes  came  to  Ayr,  and  sent  to  the  school 
where  I  was  improving  ia  writing  under  my 
L'Ood  friend  Mr.  Robinson,  desiring  that  I  would 
come  and  speak  to  him  at  a  certain  inn,  and 
bring  my  writing  jook  with  me.  This  was 
immediately  complied  with.  Having  ex.imined 
my  writing,  he  was  pleased  with  it — (you  will 
readily  allow  he  was  not  difficult),  and  told  me 
that  he  h id  received  very  satisfactory  itiforni a- 
tion  of  Mr.  Tennant,  the  master  of  the  Eng- 
lish school,  concerning  my  impi-ovement  in 
English,  and  in  his  method  of  teaching.  Ia 
the  mouth  of  JLiy  following,  I  was  engaged  by 
Mr.  Burnes,  and  four  of  his  neighbours,  to  teach, 
and  accordingly  began  to  teach  the  little  school 
;.••     'VUoway,    whicb    was  situated  a  fevy  yard* 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


291 


from  tlie  arajillaceoiis  fihric  above  mcntioni'd. 
Mv  five  ctiiployers  iiiulortnok  to  lioanl  lue  l)y 
tiiiTis,  and  to  make  up  a  certain  salary,  at  tlie 
end  of  the  year,  provided  my  quarterly  piy- 
meuts  from  the  different  pupils  did  not  amount 
to  til  it  sum. 

My  pupil,  Robert  Burns,  was  then  between 
six  and  seven  years  of  asfe  ;  his  preceptor  about 
eii^hteen.  Robert  and  his  younsjer  brother  (lil- 
bei't,  had  been  sjrounded  a  little  in  Eriijlish  be- 
fore they  were  put  under  my  care.  They  both 
inade  a  rapid  procjress  in  reading,  and  a  tolerable 
pni'jjrcss  in  writing.  In  reading,  dividing  words 
into  sylLibles  by  rule,  spelling  without  book, 
parsing  sentences,  &c.,  Robert  and  Gilbert  were 
generally  at  the  upper  end  of  the  class,  even 
when  ranged  with  boys  by  far  their  seniors. 
The  books  most  commonly  used  in  the  school 
were,  the  S])dltn(}  Ilooft,  the  iVcw  Testament, 
the  Sible,  Muson's  Collection  of  Prose  and 
Verse,  and  Fisher's  Eiinlish  Grammar.  They 
com  nitted  to  ir  .-mory  the  'jymns,  and  other 
poems  of  that  collection,  with  uncommon  facili- 
tv.  This  facility  was  partly  owing  to  the  me- 
thod pursued  by  their  father  and  me  in  instruct- 
ing them,  which  was,  to  m  ike  them  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  meaning  of  every  word  in 
each  sentence  that  was  to  be  committed  to  me- 
mo'v.  By  the  bye,  this  may  be  easier  done,  and 
at  an  earlier  period,  than  is  generally  thought. 
As  soon  as  they  were  capable  of  it,  I  taught  them 
to  turn  verse  into  its  natural  prose  order  ;  some- 
times to  substitute  synonymous  expressions  for 
poetical  words,  and  to  supply  all  the  ellipses. 
These,  you  know,  are  the  means  of  knowing  thut 
the  pupil  understands  his  author.  These  are 
Excellent  helps  to  the  arrangement  of  words  in 
sentences,  as  well  as  to  a  variety  of  expression. 

Gilbert  always  appeared  to  me  to  possess  a 
n'ore  livelv  imagination,  and  to  be  more  of  the 
wit,  than  Robert.  I  attempted  to  teach  them  a 
little  chiHch  music.  Here  they  were  left  far  be- 
hind bv  all  the  rest  of  the  school.  Robert's  ear, 
in  particular,  was  remarkably  dull,  and  bis  voice 
untunable.  It  was  long  before  I  could  get  them 
to  distinguish  one  tune  from  another.  Robert's 
countenance  was  generally  grave,  and  expressive 
of  a  serious,  contem[ilative,  and  thoughtful  mind. 
Gilbert's  face  said.  Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to 
live  ;  and  certainly,  if  any  person  who  knew  the 
two  boys,  had  been  asked  which  of  them  was 
the  most  likely  to  court  the  muses,  he  would 
surely  never  have  guessed  that  Robert  ha<l  a 
propensity  of  that  kind. 

In  the  year  1767,  INIr.  Burnes  quitted  his 
mud  e<iifice,  and  took  possession  of  a  farm 
(Mount  Oliphant)  of  his  own  improving,  while 
in  the  service  of  Provost  Ferguson.  This  farm 
being  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the  school, 
the  boys  could  not  attend  regularly  ;  ami  some 
changes  taking  place  among  the  other  sup- 
porters of  the  school,  I  left  it,  having  conti.med 
to  conduct  it  for  nearly  two  years  and  a  half. 

In  the  year  1772,  I  was  appointed  (being  one 
of  five  candidates  who  were  examined)  to  teach 


the  English  school  at  A\t  ;  and  in  177."?,  Robert 
Hums  came  to  board  and  hdge  with  nw,  f(U' the 
purpose  of  revising  English  grammar,  &c.  that 
he  might  be  better  qualified  to  instruct  Uiu  \iro- 
thers  and  sisters  at  home.  He  was  now  with 
me  day  and  ni',dit,  in  school;  at  me  ils.  and  in  all 
lily  walks.  At  tlu-  end  of  one  week,  I  told  him, 
that,  as  he  was  now  pretty  much  master  of  the 
parts  of  s])eech,  fee,  I  should  like  to  teach  hiiu 
something  of  French  |ironnni;iation,  that  when 
he  should  meet  with  the  name  of  a  Fiench  town, 
ship,  officer,  or  t.he  like,  in  the  newspapers,  he 
might  be  able  to  pronounce  it  something  like  a 
French  word.  Robert  was  glad  to  hear  this  pro- 
posal, and  immeiliately  we  attacked  the  French 
with  great  courage. 

Now  there  was  little  else  to  be  he;ird  but  the 
declension  of  nouns,  the  conjugation  of  verbs, 
&c.  When  walking  together,  and  even  at  meals, 
I  was  constantly  telling  him  the  name?  of  differ- 
ent objects,  as  they  ])resented  themselves,  in 
French  ;  s',  that '.le  was  hourl/ laying  in  a  stock 
of  words,  and  sometimes  little  phrases.  In  short, 
he  took  such  jileasure  in  learning,  and  I  in  teach- 
ing, that  it  was  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two 
was  most  zealous  in  the  business  ;  and  about  the 
end  of  the  second  week  of  our  study  of  the 
French,  we  began  to  read  a  little  of  the  Adven- 
tures of  Telem-nclttts,  in  Fewelim's  own  wonls. 

But  now  the  plains  of  Tiiount  Oliphant  began 
to  whiten,  and  Robert  was  summoned  to  relin- 
quish th.e  |)leasing  scenes  that  surrounded  the 
grotto  of  Calypso,  and,  armed  with  a  sickle,  to 
seek  glory  by  signalizing  himself  in  the  fields  of 
Ceres — and  so  he  did  ;  for  although  but  about 
fifteen,  I  was  told  that  he  performed  the  work 
of  a  man. 

Thus  was  I  deprived  of  my  very  apt  pupil, 
and  consequently  agreeable  companion,  at  the 
end  of  thiee  week-',  tjne  of  which  was  spent  en- 
tirely in  the  study  of  English,  and  the  other  two 
chiefly  in  that  of  French.  I  did  not,  however, 
lose  sight  of  him  ;  but  was  a  frequent  visitant 
at  his  father's  house,  when  1  had  my  half-holi- 
day, and  very  often  went  accompanied  with  one 
or  two  persons  more  intelligent  than  mv-e!f,  that 
good  William  Burnes  might  enjoy  a  mental  feast. 
—  Then  the  labouring  oar  was  shifted  to  some 
other  hand.  The  fither  and  the  son  sat  down 
with  us,  when  we  enjoyed  a  conversation,  v.-hcre- 
in  solid  reasoning,  sensible  remark,  and  a  mo- 
derate seasoning  of  jocularity,  were  so  nicely 
blended  as  to  render  it  palatable  to  all  parties. 
Robert  liad  a  hundred  questions  to  a-k  me  about 
tlie  French,  &c.  ;  and  the  f.itber  who  had  al- 
ways rational  information  in  view,  had  still 
some  question  to  propose  to  iny  more  learned 
friends,  ujion  moral  or  natural  philosophy,  or 
some  such  interesting  subject.  Mrs.  Burnes 
too  was  of  the  party  as  much  as  possible  ; 

"  But  still  the  Louse  affairs  would  draw  her  thenca. 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch. 
She'd  come  again,  and,  with  a  greedy  car 
Devour  up  their  discourse." 


292 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


tr.d  pai  ticularly  that  of  her  husband.  At  all 
times,  and  in  all  companies,  she  listened  to  him 
with  a  mm  e  maiked  atteutioi  than  to  any  body  else. 
When  under  the  necessity  of  being  absent  while 
lie  was  speaking,  she  seemed  to  regret,  as  a  real 
loss,  thit  she  had  missed  wliat  the  good  raiin 
had  said.  This  worthy  woman,  Agnes  Brown, 
had  the  most  thorough  esteem  for  her  husband 
jf  any  woman  I  ever  knew.  I  can  by  no  means 
wonder  that  she  highly  esteemed  him  ;  for  I 
mysrlf  have  always  considered  William  Burnes 
as  by  far  the  best  of  the  human  race  that  ever 
had  the  pleasure  of  being  acquainted  with — 
and  many  a  worthy  character  I  have  known. 
1  can  cheerfully  join  with  Robert  in  the  la^t  line 
of  his  epitaph  (borrowed  from  Goldsmith), 

*  And  even  his  failings  leau'd  to  virtue's  side." 

He  was  an  excellent  husband,  if  I  may  judge 


and  perpetuate  the  memory  of  those  who  excei 
in  moral  rectitude,  as  it  is  to  extol  what  an 
called  heroic  actions  :  then  would  the  mausoltv 
ura  of  the  friend  of  my  youth  overtop  and  sur- 
pass most  of  the  monuments  I  see  in  Vy'estmia- 
ster  Al)bey. 

Although  I  cannot  do  ju-^tice  to  the  charac- 
ter of  this  worthy  man,  yet  you  will  perceive, 
from  these  few  particulars,  whiit  kind  of  person 
had  the  principal  hand  in  the  education  of  our 
poet.  He  spoKe  the  English  language  with 
more  propriety  (both  with  respect  to  diction 
and  pronunciation),  than  any  man  I  ever  knew, 
with  no  greater  advantages.  This  had  a  very 
good  effect  on  the  boys,  who  began  to  talk,  and 
reason  like  men,  much  sooner  than  their  neigh- 
bours I  do  not  recollect  any  of  their  coteinpo- 
raries,  at  my  little  seminary,  who  afterwaids 
made  any  great  figure  as  literary  ch.iracters,  ex- 
cept Dr.  Tenant,  who  was  chaplain  to  Colonel 
from  his  assiduous  attention  to  the  ease  and  !  Fullarton's  regiment,  and  who  is  now  in  the 
comfort  of  his  a^orthy  partner,  and  from  Vier  i  East  Indies.  He  is  a  man  of  genius  and  learn- 
affectionate  behaviour  to  him,  as  well  as  her  ling;  yet  affib'e,  and  free  from  pedantry, 
unwearied  attention  to  the  duties  of  a  mother.  Mr.  Burnes,  in  a  short  time,   found  that  he 

He  was  h  tender  and  affectionate  father  ;  he  had  overrated  Mount  Ollphant,  anil  that  he 
took  pleasure  in  leading  his  children  in  the  path  could  not  rear  his  numerous  family  ujjon  it.^ 
of  virtue  ;  not  in  driving  them,  as  some  parents  After  being  there  some  years,  he  removed  to 
do,  to  the  performance  of  duties  to  whicn  they  Lochlea,  in  the  parish  of  Tarbolton,  where,  1 
themselves  are  averse.  He  took  care  to  iihd  believe,  Robert  wrote  most  of  his  poems, 
fault  but  very  seldom  ;  and  therefore,  when  he  i  But  here,  Sir,  you  will  permit  me  to  pause, 
did  rebuke,  he  was  listened  to  with  a  kind  of  I  can  tell  you  but  little  nure  relative  to  our 
reverential  awe.  A  look  of  disapj)rol)ation  was  poet.  I  shall,  however,  in  my  next,  send  you 
felt  ;  a  reproof  was   severely   so  ;   and   a  stripe  ;  a  copy  of  one  of  his    letters  to    me,    about  the 


with  the  tau'f,  even  on  the  sklit  of  the  coat, 
gave  heart-felt  pain,  produced  a  loud  lamenta- 
tion, and  brought  forth  a  Hood  of  tears. 

He  had  the  art  of  gaining  the  esteem  and 
good-will  of  those  that  were  labourers  under 
him.  I  think  I  never  saw  him  an'^ry  but 
twice  .  the  one  time  it  wa-  with  the  foreman  of 
the  band,  for  not  reaping  the  field  as  he  was  de- 
sired ;  and  the  other  time,  it  was  with  an  old 
man,  for  using  smutty  iiuiindoes  and  double  en- 
tentirts.  Were  eveiy  foul-mouthed  old  man  to 
receive  a  seasonable  check  in  this  way,  it  would 
be  to  the  advantage  of  the  rising  generation. 
As  he  was  at  no  time  overbeaiing  to  inferiors, 
he  was  equally  inca])able  of  that  ])assive,  ])itifu!, 
paltry  spirit,  that  induces  some  people  to  kttp 
booing  iind  booing  in  the  presence  of  a  great 
man.  He  always  treattd  superiors  with  a  be- 
coming resj)ect  ;  but  he  nevjrgave  tlie  smallest 
encouragement  to  aristocratical  arrogance.  But 
I  must  nut  pretend  to  give  you  a  description  of 
all  the  manly  qualities,  the  rational  and  Chris- 
tian virtues  of   the   venerable  William    Burnes. 


year  1783.  I  received  oue  since,  but  it  is  mis- 
laid. Please  remember  me,  in  the  best  man- 
ner, to  niy  worthy  friend  Mr.  Adair,  when  you 
see  him  or  write  to  him. 

Hart  Street,  Bloom--burv  SqiiarCj 
Loudon,  Feb.  22,  1 799. 


No.  Lxvni. 

FROM  PROFESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART 

TO 

DR.  MOORE, 

CONTAINING   HIS  SKETCHES  OF  THE  POET. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Robert  Burns  was  on 
the  2'id  of  October,  1786,  when  he  dined  at  my 
house  in  Ayi shire,  together  with  our  commoQ 
fiienrl  Mr.  John  Mackenzie,  surgeon  in  Mauch- 


Time  would  fail  me.  I  shall  oidy  add,  that  he]  line,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  pleasure  ol 
tarefuUy  piactised  every  known  duty,  and  avoid-  I  his  acquaintance.  I  am  enabled  to  nientiiui  the 
fd  every  thing  that  was  criu'inal  ;  or,  in  the 'date  particularly,  by  some  verses  which  Burtis 
»I)ostle*s  words,  Herein  did  lie  exercise  A/hi- !  wrote  after  he  returned  home,  and  in  which  the 
telf,  in  livinr;  a  life  void  of  iff  nee  lownrds  ^t]iiy  of  our  tneeting  is  recorded.  My  cxcellLiit 
Gild  and  towards  men.  O  for  a  world  of  men  |  and  much  lamented  friend,  the  late  Basil,  Lord 
of  sudi  dispositions  !  Vfe  should  then  have  no  Daer,  hap))ened  to  arrive  at  Catrine  the  same 
Wars.  1  liive  often  wished,  for  the  good  of  day,  and  by  the  kindness  and  frankness  of  hit 
tnankind,.  that  it  were   as  customary  to   honour  J  manners,   left  an  imjiression  on  the  mind  of  th» 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


293 


nooti  whic  ni /er  w.is  cffdccd.  The  verses  I 
ailiiJe  lo  aie  among  the  ino^t  imperfect  of  his 
pier«?s  ,  but  ;i  few  stanzas  may  pel  haps  he  an 
ohiect  of  curiosity  to  you,  botli  on  acoMint  of 
the  character  to  which  they  relate,  and  of  the 
!ii(l'.t  whii'h  they  throw  on  the  situation  and 
feeliiifjs  of  tlie  writer,  before  his  name  was 
kniiwri  to  the  puhl  c.  * 

I  cannot  positively  say,  at  this  distance  of 
time,  wlutlier,  at  the  period  of  our  first  ac- 
quaintance, the  Kilmarnock  edition  of  his  poems 
h.id  been  just  published,  or  was  yet  in  the  press. 
I  suspect  that  the  latter  was  the  case,  as  I  have 
ttill  in  my  possession  copies  in  liis  own  hand- 
wrino!;,  or  some  of  his  favourite  performances  ; 
particularly  of  his  verses  "  on  turnini^  up  a 
Mouse  with  his  pIouq;h  ;" — "  oa  the  Mountiin 
D.iisy  ;"  and  "  the  Lament."  C)n  my  retutn  to 
Edinburi^h.  I  showed  the  volume,  and  mention- 
ed what  I  knew  of  the  author's  history,  to  se- 
veral of  my  friends,  and  aniorig  others,  to  Mr. 
Henry  Mackenzie,  who  first  recommended  him 
to  pulilic  uotice  in  the  97th  number  of  The 
Louiii/cr. 

At  this  time  Buins's  prospects  in  life  were  so 
extremely  ploomy,  that  he  had  seriou>ly  forined 
(I  plan  of  going  out  to  Jamaica  in  a  very  humble 
situ  ition,  not,  however,  without  lamenting,  that 
liis  want  of  patronage  should  force  him  to  think 
of  a  project  so  repugnant  to  li's  feelmgs,  when 
his  ambition  aimed  at  no  higher  an  object  than 
the  station  of  an  e.xciseman  or  ganger  in  his  own 
country. 

His  manners  were  then,  as  they  continued 
ever  afterwards,  simple,  manly,  and  indepen- 
dent ;  stiongly  expressive  of  conscious  genius 
and  worth  ;  but  without  any  thing  that  indica- 
ted forwardness,  airogance,  or  vanity.  He  took 
his  >liare  in  conversation,  but  not  mere  than 
belonged  to  him  ;  aiui  listened  with  apparent 
attention  and  defeience,  on  subjects  where  his 
Want  of  ediicatiiui  depiiveii  him  of  the  means  of 
information.  If  there  bail  been  a  little  more  of 
gentleness  and  accommodation  in  bis  temper,  he 
would,  I  think,  hive  been  still  more  interest- 
ing ;  but  he  h  id  been  accustomed  to  give  law 
in  the  circle  of  his  ordinary  acquaint  .nee  ;  arid 
his  dread  of  any  thing  aiiproacbing  to  meanness 
or  servility,  leiideied  his /iianncr  somewhat  de- 
cided aiid  hard.  Nothing,  perhaps,  was  more 
remarkable  among  his  various  attainments,  than 
the  fluency,  and  precisiim,  and  originality  of 
his  language,  when  he  spoke  in  company  ;  more 
paiticulaily  as  lie  aimed  at  purity  in  his  turn  of, 
e\pres>iou,  and  avoided  more  succe-sfuily  than 
most  Scotchmen,  the  peculiarities  of  Scottish  ■ 
phraseology.  I 

He  '-ame  to   Eilinburgh  early  in   the  winter' 
following,  and  remained  there  for  several  montli». 
By  vchose  advice  he  took  this  step,  I  am  unable! 
.o  sav.      Peihajis  it  was  suggested   only  by  bis 
^Wll  curiosity  to  see  a  little  more  of  the  world  ; 
Dut.  I  confess,  I  dreaded  the  conseijuentes  from 


•  See  sonj;s,  [>.  210. 


the  first,  and  aiways  wi-hed  that  his  pursiii»y 
and  h  ibils  should  confimie  the  same  as  in  thi? 
former  part  of  life;  with  the  addition  of,  what 
I  considered  as  then  completely  within  his  reach, 
a  good  farm  on  inoderate  terms,  in  a  part  of  the 
country  agreeable  to  his  taste. 

The  attentions  he  nceived  during  his  stay  ic 
town  from  a'l  r.inks  aii<l  descriptions  of  persons, 
were  such  as  would  have  turned  anv  head  but 
his  own.  I  cannot  sav  that  I  ccuild  perceive 
any  unfavourable  effect  which  they  left  on  his 
mind.  He  retained  the  same  simplicity  of  man- 
ners ar.;  appearance  which  had  struck  me  so 
forcibly  when  I  first  saw  him  in  tlie  country  ; 
nor  dl<l  he  seem  to  feel  any  additional  self-im- 
portance from  the  niiaiber  and  rank  of  his  new 
acijiiaintance.  His  dress  was  pcrfectiv  suited  to 
his  station,  plain  and  unprettiiding,  with  a  suf- 
ficient attention  to  neatness  If  I  recollect  right 
he  always  wore  boots  ;  and,  when  on  more  that: 
usual  ceremony,  buck-skin  breeches. 

The  variety  of  his  engagements,  while  in 
Edinburgh,  [irevented  me  from  seeing  him  so 
often  as  I  could  have  wi-hed.  In  the  course  of 
the  sjiring  he  called  on  me  once  or  twice,  at 
my  reiinest,  early  in  the  morning,  and  w.ilked 
with  me  to  Braid-Hills,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  town,  when  he  charmed  me  still  more  by 
his  private  conversation,  than  he  had  ever  done 
in  comp  inv.  He  was  passionately  fimd  of  the 
beauties  of  nature  ;  and  I  recollect  once  he  told 
me,  when  I  was  admiring  a  distant  prospect  in 
one  of  our  morning  walks,  that  the  sight  of  so 
many  smoking  cottages  gave  a  pleasure  to  his 
mind,  which  none  could  understand  who  had 
not  witnessi-d,  like  himself,  the  happiness  and 
the  woith  which  tliev  contained. 

In  his  political  priucijiV's  he  was  then  a  Ja- 
cobite ;  which  was  perhips  owing  partly  to 
this,  that  his  father  was  originally  fioni  the  es- 
tate of  L<'rd  Mansih.ill.  Indeed  he  <liil  not 
appear  to  have  thought  much  on  such  subjects, 
nor  very  consistently.  He  had  a  very  strong 
sense  of  religion,  and  expressed  deep  regret  at 
the  levity  with  which  he  had  heard  it  treated 
ociasionarv  in  some  conviv  al  meetings  which 
he  frcijuentcd.  I  speak  of  him  as  I.e  wa.s  in 
the  winter  of  I7S()-7;  f.ir  afterwards  we  met 
but  se'dom,  and  our  conversat.oas  turned  chief- 
ly on  his  literary  projects,  or  his  private?  affairs. 

I  do  not  recollect  whether  it  app^'ars  or  not 
from  any  of  your  letters  to  me,  that  you  had 
ever  seen  Burns.  If  you  have,  it  is  superfluous 
for  me  add,  tli.it  the  idea  wliich  his  conversa 
tion  conveyed  of  the  povvers  of  his  mind,  ex- 
ceeded, if  possible,  that  which  is  suggisred  by 
his  writings,  .\mong  the  p  ets  whom  I  have 
hapjiened  to  know,  I  have  been  struck,  in  more 
than  one  instance,  with  the  un,iccouiitable  dis- 
piritv  between  their  general  talents,  and  the  oc- 
casional inspir.itioiis  of  tlieir  more  favoured  mo^ 
ment-..  But  all  the  facultiLS  of  Burn^'s  mind 
were,  as  far  as  I  could  judg-,  equ  illy  vigorous; 
and  his  piedllectioii  tor  poetry  was  r.itber  the 
result  of  his  own  enthumastic  and   impassioned 


294 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


temper,  than  of  a  jreiiius  exclusively  adapted  to  defjree  of  true  crenius.  tTie  extreme  facility  zni 
that  species  of  composition.  From  liis  couver-  good  nature  of  liis  taste,  in  judging  of  the  com- 
eation  I  should  have  pronounced  him  to  he  fit-  positions  of  otheis,  where  there  was  any  rea. 
ted  to  excel  in  whatever  walk  of  ambition  he  ground  for  praise.  1  repeated  to  him  many 
had  chosen  to  exert  liis  abilities.  { i)assages  of  English  poetry  with  which  he  was 

Anion?  the  sulijects  on  whidi  he  was  accus- ,  unacquainted,  and  hive  more  than  once  wit- 
tomed  to'^dwell,  the  characters  of  the  iiidividu-  nessed  the  tears  of  admiration  and  rapture  with 
als  with  whom  he  happened  to  meet,  was  plain-  wliich  he  heard  them.  The  collection  of  songs 
ly  a  favouiite  one.  Tlie  remarks  he  made  on  jby  Dr.  Aiken,  which  I  first  put  into  his  hands, 
them  were  always  shrewil  and  jiointed,  though  ihe  read  with  unmixed  delight,  notwithstanding 
frequently  inclining  too  much  to  sarcasm.      His   his  former   efforts  in   that  very  difficult  species 


praise  of  those  he  loved  was  sometimes  indiscri- 
minate and  extravagant ;  but  this,  I  suspect, 
proceeded  rather  from  the  caprice  and  humour 
of  the  moment,  than  from  the  effects  of  attach- 
ment in  blin<iing  his  judgment.  Ills  wit  was 
ready,  and  always  impiessed  with  the  marks  of 
a  vigorous  understanding  ;  but,  to  my  taste, 
not  often  pleasing  or  happy.  His  attempts  at 
epigram,  in  his  printed  works,  are  the  only  per- 
formances, perhaps,  that  he  has  produced,  to- 
tally unworthy  of  his  genius. 

In  summer,  1787,  I  passed  some  weeks  in 
Ayrshire,  and  saw  Hums  occasionally.  I  think 
that  he  made  a  pretty  long  excursion  that  sea- 
son to  the  Highlands,  and  that  he  also  visited 
what  Beattie  calls  the  Arcadian  ground  of  .Scot- 
land, upon  the  baidcs  of  the  Teviot  and  the 
Tweed. 

I  should  have  mentioned  before,  that  not- 
withstanding various  re|)orts  I  heard  during  the 
preceding  winter,  of  Burns's  ])redilection  for 
convivial,  and  not  very  select  society,  I  should 
have  concluded  in  fivour  of  his  habits  of  so- 
briety, from  all  of  him  that  ever  fell  under  my 
own  observation.  He  told  me  indeed  himself, 
that  the  weakness  of  his  stomach  wis  such  as 
to  deprive  him  entirely  of  any  merit  in  his  tem- 
perance. I  "vas  however  somewhat  alarmed 
about  the  effect  of  his  now  comparatively  seden- 
tary and  luxurious  life,  when  he  confessed  to 
ine,  the  first  night  he  spent  in  my  house  after 
his  winter's  campaign  in  town,  that  he  had  been 
muidi  disturbed  «  hen  in  bed,  by  a  palpitation 
at  his  heart,  which,  he  said,  was  a  complaint 
to  whi(di  he  had  of  late  become  subject. 

In  the  course  of  the  same  season,  I  was  led 
bv  curicsitv  to  attend  fiir  an  hour  or  two  a  Ma- 
son-Lodge in  Mauchliue,  where  Buins  presided. 
He  had  occasion  to  make  some  short  unpre- 
meditated ciimiilimeuts  to  ditferent  individuals 
from  whom  he  ha  I  no  reason  to  exjjcct  a  visit, 
anil  every  thing  he  said  was  ha|>pily  conceiveil, 
and  forcibly  as  well  as  fluently  expressed.  If 
]  am  not  mistaken,  he  to'd  me,  that  if  *bat 
village,  l)efore  going  to  Eiliid)urgb,  he  had  be- 
longed to  a  small  club  of  such  of  the  inhabi- 
tants ,-is  had  a  taste  fiir  books,  when  they  uM-d 
to  conver-e  and  debate  on  any  interesting  ques- 
tions that  occurred  to  them  in  the  course  of 
vheir  reading.  His  manner  of  sjieaking  in  |Mib- 
lic  had  t  viilently  the  marks  of  some  practice  in 
extenip'iie  elocution. 

I  must  not  omit  to  nu-ntion,  whit  I  have  al- 
wuis  considereil    as   characteristical    in   a   high. 


of  writing  ;  and  I  have  little  doubt  that  it  had 
some  effect  in  polishing  his  subsequent  compo- 
sitions. 

In  judiing  of  prose,  I  do  not  think  his  taste 
was  equally  sound.  I  once  read  to  him  a  pas- 
sage or  two  in  Franklin's  Works,  whidi  I 
thought  very  happily  executed,  upon  the  modeJ 
of  Addison  ;  but  he  did  not  appear  to  relish,  or 
to  perceive  the  beauty  which  they  derived  from 
their  exquisite  simplicity,  and  spoke  of  them 
with  indifference,  when  compared  with  the 
point,  and  antithesis,  and  quaintness  of  Junius. 
The  influence  of  this  taste  is  very  perceptible 
in  his  own  prose  compositions,  although  the.r 
great  and  various  excellencies  render  some  of 
them  scarcely  less  objects  of  wonder  thi^n  his 
poetical  performances.  The  late  Dr.  Robertson 
used  to  say,  that,  considering  his  education,  the 
former  seemed  to  him  the  more  extraordinary  of 
the  two. 

His  inemory  was  uncommonly  retentive,  at 
least  for  [loetry,  of  which  he  recited  to  me  fre- 
quently long  compositions  with  the  most  mi- 
nute accuracy.  They  were  chiefly  balh'.d-^,  and 
other  pieces  in  our  Scottish  dialect ;  great  part 
of  them  (he  told  me)  he  had  learned  in  his 
childliood,  from  his  mother,  who  delighteil  in 
such  recitations,   and  whose  poetical  taste,   rude 


it  prcibably  was,  gave,  it  is  presumable,  the 
first  direction  to  her  son's  genius. 

Of  the  more  polished  verses  which  acciden- 
tally fell  into  his  hands  in  his  early  yeais,  he 
nu-ntioned  particularly  the  recommendatory 
poems,  by  different  authors,  prefixed  to  Ilirvir/s 
Mcdital'ions.  ;  a  book  which  has  always  had  a 
very  wide  circulation  among  such  of  the  coun- 
try people  of  Scotland,  as  affect  to  unite  so>— 
degree  of  taste  with  their  religious  studies.  And 
these  poems  (altJioug^  they  are  certainly  below 
medioi-iity)  he  continued  to  read  with  a  degree 
of  lapture  beyond  expression..  He  took  notice 
(if  this  fact  himself,  as  a  proof  how  much  the 
taste  is  liable  to  be  influenced  by  accidental  cir- 
cumstances. 

His  father  appeared  to  me,  from  the  account 
be  gave  of  him,  to  have  been  a  respectable  and 
worthy  character,  possessed  of  a  mind  superior 
ro  what  mii,'bt  have  been  expected  from  his 
station  in  life.  He  ascribed  much  of  his  own 
priiu-ipl.'s  and  feelings  to  the  early  imines-lons 
lie  had  received  from  his  instructions  and  evim- 
]i!e.  I  recollect  that  lie  once  applied  to  him 
(and  he  added,  that  the  passi'ie  wa«  a  litera. 
statement  of  fact, )  the  two  last  lines  of  the  fol 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


•295 


iowing  passap;e  in  il>e  Minstrel ;   the  whole  of 
wliitl:  be  rcpcati'il  witb  great  uiithusiiism  : 

"  Shall  I  lie  left  foigo'ten  in  the  dust, 

When  fate,  rcieiitin!,',  I"ts  the  flower  revive  ; 
Shall  i.atiire's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust, 

Bid  him,    though  dooni'd  to  perish,   hojjc  to 
live  ?" 
Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 

With  (lisa]i|)oiiitnieat,  pcnuiy,  and  pain? 
No  !    Heaven's  ininiortal  spi  in^  shall  yet  arrive  ; 

And  man's  maje-tic  beauty  bloom  aijain, 
Bfiglit  *hrmigh  th'  eternal  year  of  love's  trium- 
phant reigu. 

This  tndli  sublime,  Ills  simple  sire  had  tauyht  : 
In  south,  'tii-as  utnwst  all  the  shtjiherd  knew. 

With  respect  to  Buins's  early  ediicat'on,  I 
cannot  say  any  thing  with  ceitainty.  He  al- 
ways spoke  with  respect  and  gratitude  of  the 
school-master  who  h  id  taught  him  to  read  Eng- 
lish ;  and  u  ho,  finding  in  his  scholar  a  moie 
than  ordinary  ardour  for  knowledge,  h  id  b-,en 
at  pai;is  to  instruct  him  in  the  graiiimati'.\il 
principles  of  the  language.  He  began  the  study 
}{  Latin,  but  drop;  ed  it  before  he  hid  fiuislud 
the  verbs.  I  have  sometimes  heaid  him  quote 
u  few  Latin  words,  such  as  omnia  vincit  umor, 
fifc,  but  they  seemed  to  be  such  as  he  had 
caught  from  conversation,  and  which  he  re- 
])eateil  by  rule.  I  think  he  hail  a  project,  after 
he  came  to  Ediidjurgh,  of  pnisi  ciiting  the  study 
under  his  intintate  friend,  the  late  JMr.  Nicoll, 
one  of  the  master>  of  the  grainniar-school  here  ; 
but  I  do  not  know  that  he  ever  proceeded  so 
far  as  to  make  the  attempt. 

He  certainly  possessed  a  smattering  of  French ; 
and,  if  he  had  an  affectation  in  any  thing, 
it  was  iu  introducing  occasionally  a  woid  or 
phrase  from  that  language.  It  is  possible  that 
his  knowledge  in  this  respect  might  be  more 
extensive  than  I  suppose  it  to  be*  '"ut  this  yon 
cia  learn  from  his  moie  intimate  acquaintance. 
It  would  be  worth  while  to  inquire,  whether 
he  was  able  to  read  tiie  French  authors  with 
such  facility  as  to  receive  from  them  any  im- 
piovt-meiit  to  his  taste.  For  my  own  part,  I 
doubt  it  iiiiicli — nor  would  1  believe  it,  but  on 
very  strong  and  pointed  evideme. 

If  my  memory  does  not  fail  me,  he  was  well 
instructed  in  arithmetic,  and  kiiew  something 
of  practical  geometry,  particularly  of  smveying. 
— All  his  other  attainments  were  entirely  his 
Dw  a. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  during  the  win- 
ter, J7S&-S9;  when  he  jiasstd  an  evening  with 
ni>'  at  Drumshtu_v;h,  in  the  neighbourhood  ot 
Edini)iiri;h,  where  I  was  then  living.  My  friend 
l\lv.  .•Vhsoii  was  the  only  other  person  in  com- 
pany. I  never  saw  him  more  agieeable  or  in- 
teresting, A  present  which  Mr.  Alison  sent 
him  afurwaiu^  if  his  Kssuys  on  .  uste,  drew 
Irom  Burns  i  letter  of  aiknowledgmeut,  which 
1  reuiim'",r  to   I'dve  read  »vilh  some    legree  of 


surprise  at  the  distinct  c(>nieptioc  he  nppeired 
from  it  to  have  formed,  of  the  general  princi- 
ples of  the  doctrine  of  ussociutinn.  When  I 
eaw  Mr.  Alixn  in  .Shropslnre  last  autumn,  I 
forgot  to  inquire  if  the  letter  be  still  in  exist- 
ence. If  it  is,  you  m.iy  easily  procuie  it,  b> 
means  of  our  friend  Mr.  llouiurooke. 


No.  LXIX. 
FROJI  GILBERT  BURNS 

TO 

DR.  CURRIE. 

GIVING    THE   IlISTOKY   OF     THE    OillGIN   OF  TJH 
I'KlNCirAL   rOEMS. 

It  may  gratify  curiosity  to  know  some  partu-u- 
lars  ot  the  history  of  the  preceding  Poems, 
on  which  t!ie  celebrity  (;f  our  Baril  has  been 
hitlurto  founded  ;  and  with  this  view  the 
fcillowiiig  extract  is  made  from  a  letter  of 
Gilbert  Burns,  the  brother  of  our  Poet,  and 
his  fiieiid  and  confidant  from'  his  earliest 
yeais. 

DEAR  SIR,  Mossfiid,  2'/  yljiril.  1793. 

Youii  letter  of  the  14th  of  March  I  leceiveil 
in  due  course,  but,  fioiii  the  hmry  of  the  sea- 
son, have  been  hitheito  hindeied  ficiii  answer 
ing  it.  I  will  now  tiy  to  give  you  what  satis- 
faction I  can  iu  regard  to  the  particulais  you 
mention.  I  cannot  pretend  to  be  very  accurate 
in  respect  to  the  dates  of  the  poems,  but  none 
of  them,  e.\cept  Winter,  a  DIrrje,  (whicli  was 
a  juvenile  production),  the  JJmth  innl  Di/uifj 
W(,nls  if  your  Jiluilie,  and  some  of  the  songs, 
weie  composed  before  the  year  ITS'i.  Tlie  cir- 
cumstances of  the  poor  sheep  were  pretty  much 
as  he  has  described  them.  He  had.  partly  by 
way  of  frolic,  bought  a  ewe  and  two  lambs  fnaa 
a  neighbojr,  and  she  was  tethered  m  a  lield  ad- 
joining the  house  at  Lochlie.  He  and  I  were 
going  out  with  our  teams,  and  our  two  younger 
lirotliers  to  drive  fiu-  us,  at  mid-d.iy,  when 
Hugh  Wilson,  a  curioys  looking  awkward  boy, 
clad  in  |dai'ling,  came  to  us  with  much  anxiety 
in  his  face,  with  the  information  that  the  cue 
had  entangled  heiself  in  the  tether,  and  was  ly- 
ing in  the  ditch.  Ilobert  was  ii.uch  tieLI"(l 
with  IJii(,h'ic's  appearance  and  postiues  on  the 
occasion.  P<K)r  Mailie  was  set  to  right',  and 
when  we  returned  troiii  the  p!(>ii'.;h  in  the  even- 
ing,  he  repeated  to  me  )ier  JJta  h  und  Uijiiiy 
Wards  pretty  much  in  the  way  they  now  staii.i. 

Among  the  earliest  of  his  poems  was  tbe 
7i;,/.>//e  to  Udvte.  Kobei  t  often  ci.mposi-d  wirli- 
out  any  regular  pi, in.  When  iuiy  It  iiig  i:iade  a 
strong  lUipr^vsiun  on  his  uuml.  so  a;    ai  rous*  il 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


w  poetiR  exertion,  he  woiiM  give  wiiy  to  tiie 
iiii|)iiNt>,  and  eiiilK)(ly  the  thought  in  rhyme. 
Il  lie  hit  on  two  or  tiiree  stanzas  to  please  him, 
lie  woulil  then  think  of  proper  introductory, 
connectinir,  and  concluding  .stanzas;  hence  the 
middle  of  a  poem  was  often  fir^t  pniduc-ed.  It 
was,  1  tliink,  in  suiiimer  17S+,  when  in  tlie 
'ntevvi!  of  harder  lahoiir,  he  and  I  were  weed- 
ing in  tlie  garden  (k.iilyard)  that  he  rejieited  to 
me  t!ie  principal  part  of  this  epistle.  I  helieve 
the  first  idea  of  liohert's  hecoiuiug  an  author 
was  started  on  this  occasion.  I  was  much 
pleased  with  the  epistle,  and  said  to  him  I  was 
of  opinion  it  would  hear  being  printed,  and 
that  it  would  he  well  received  by  people  of 
taste  ;  that  I  thought  it  at  least  equal,  if  not 
superior,  to  many  of  All  in  Ramsay's  ejiistles, 
and  that  the  merit  of  these,  and  much  other 
Scotch  poetry,  seemed  to  consist  principally  in 
the  knack  of  the  expression — hut  here,  there 
was  a  strain  of  interesting  sentiment,  and  the 
Scotticism  of  the  language  scarcely  seemed  af- 
fected, hut  ai)peared  to  be  the  natural  language 
of  the  poet  ;  that,  besides,  there  was  certainly 
some  novelty  in  a  pott  pointing  out  the  conso- 
lations that  were  in  store  for  him  when  he 
sliould  go  a-begging.  Robert  seemed  very  well 
pleased  with  iny  criticism  ;  and  we  talked  of 
smding  it  to  some  magazine,  but  ts  this  plan 
atToided  no  opjiortanity  of  knowing  how  it 
would  take,  the  idea  was  dropped. 

It  was,  1  think,  in  the  winter  folKtwIng,  as 
we  Were  going  together  with  carts  for  coal  to 
the  family  tiie  (and  I  could  yet  point  out  the 
particular  spot),  that  the  author  tirst  repeated 
to  nie  the  Aildress  to  the  Deil.  The  curious 
idea  of  such  an  address  was  suggested  to  him, 
Ijy  riiuning  over  in  his  mind  the  many  ludicrous 
accounts  anil  repiesentations  we  have,  from  va- 
rious (juaiters,  of  this  august  personage.  Death 
and  Dr.  llnriiliixik,  though  not  published  in 
the  Kilmarnock  edition,  was  produced  early  in 
the  vear  ITH.o.  The  schoolmaster  of  Tarbolton 
parish,  to  eke  up  the  scanty  subsistence  allowed 
to  that  u--eful  class  of  men,  had  set  up  a  shop 
of  grocery  goods.  Having  accidentally  fallen  in 
with  some  medical  books,  and  become  most 
holibv-horsically  attached  to  the  study  of  iiiedi- 
ciiK,  hi-  hid  aclded  the  sale  of  a  few  nieilicioes 
to  his  little  trade.  He  had  git  a  shop-bill 
printed,  at  the  bottom  of  which,  overlooking 
his  own  incapacity,  he  had  advertised,  that 
"  Advice  would  be  given  in  common  disorders 
at  the  shop,  gratis."  Robert  wis  at  a  mason- 
meeting,  in  Tarbolton,  when  the  "  Dominie" 
nnfortun  itely  made  too  ostentatious  a  disjilay  of 
his  ine>lical  .skill.  As  he  parted  in  the  evening 
from  this  mixture  of  pedantry  and  physical 
the  place  where  lie  describes  his  meeting  with 
Death,  one  of  those  floating  ideas  of  apparition, 
he  menticus  in  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore,  crossed 
fils  mind  ;  this  set  him  to  work  for  the  rest  of 
the  wav  home.  These  circuuistanc.es  he  relat- 
ed when  he  repeated  the  verses  to  me  next  af- 
Wriviuu,  -a*  1   was  holding   the  plough,  and  he 


was  lettiig  the  wate;  ofT  the  field  bwide  me 
The  Epistle  iiJiifin  Lapraih  w.is  prcdacfd 
exactly  on  the  occasion  described  bv  the  authoi. 
He  says  in  thit  poem.  On  fasten  e'vn  he  hail  a 
rcickin'.  I  believe  he  has  omitted  the  word 
ri>cking  in  the  glossary.  It  is  a  term  derived 
from  those  primitive  times,  when  the  country- 
women employed  their  spire  hours  in  spinning 
im  the  rock,  or  distaff.  This  simple  instrument 
is  a  very  portable  one,  and  w»li  fitted  to  the  so- 
cial inclination  of  meeting  in  a  neiijhhour's 
house  ;  hence  the  phrase  of  going  a-rockini;  or 
with  the  rock.  As  the  connection  the  phrase 
hid  with  the  implement  was  forgotten  whec 
the  rock  gave  way  to  the  spinning-wheel,  the 
phrase  came  to  be  iiseil  by  b  ith  sexes  on  socia. 
occasions,  and  men  talk  of  going  with  their 
rocks  as  well  as  women. 

It  was  at  one  of  these  rockings  at  our  house, 
when  we  had  twelve  or  fifteen  young  people  with 
their  rocks,  that  Lapraik's  song,  beginnings 
"  When  I  ujion  thy  bosom  lean,"  was  sung, 
and  we  are  informed  who  was  the  author. 
Upon  this  Robert  wrote  his  fir>t  epistle  to  Lap- 
raik  ;  and  his  second  in  reply  to  his  answer. 
The  verses  to  the  Afiuse  and  Mounttiin-Daisy 
were  composed  on  the  occasions  mL'ntioiied,  and 
while  the  author  was  holding  the  plough  ;  ' 
could  point  out  the  particular  spot  where  each 
was  composed.  HoMlog  the  plough  was  a  fa- 
vourite situation  with  Robert  for  poetic  compo- 
sitions, and  some  of  his  best  verses  were  pro- 
duced while  he  was  at  that  exercise.  Scveial 
of  the  poems  were  produced  tor  the  purpose  of 
bringing  forward  some  favourite  sentiment  of  the 
author.  He  used  to  remark  to  me,  that  he 
could  not  well  conceive  a  inor«  mortifying  pic- 
ture of  human  life  than  a  man  seeking  work. 
In  casting  about  in  his  mind  how  this  sentiiiietit 
might  be  brought  forward,  the  elegy  ?tlnn  was 
imide  to  Miiurn.  was  composed.  Robert  hid 
freijuently  remi  ked  to  me,  thit  he  thought 
theie  was  jo.^,'hing  peculiarly  veneiab'e  in  the 
phrase,  "  Let  us  worship  God,"  used  by  a  de- 
cent sober  head  of  a  family  introducing  f.imily 
worship.  To  this  sentiment  of  the  author  the 
world  is  indehti'd  for  the  Colter's  Sat;:rday 
A'ii/ht.  The  hint  of  the  plan,  and  the  title  of 
tiie  poem,  were  taken  from  Feigusson's  Fiinnera 
Inijle.  When  Itobert  had  not  some  plea-iire  iv 
view  in  which  I  was  not  thoiulit  tit  to  jiar'ici- 
pate,  we  used  frequently  to  w.ilk  toge'her  when 
the  weather  was  f.ivourable,  on  the  Sunday  af- 
ternoons, (those  jirecious  breathing-times  to  the 
labouring  part  of  the  commuuity),  and  enjoyed 
such  Sundays  as  would  make  one  regret  to  see 
their  number  abridged.  It  was  in  one  of  these 
walks  that  I  first  had  the  pl.M^ure  of  heiiiii;.' 
the  author  rejie.it  the  Cotter's  Sitnrdty  Nn/ht. 
I  do  not  recohect  to  have  read  or  he.ini  any 
thing  by  which  I  was  more  highly  electrified, 
The  fifth  and  sixth  stanzas,  and  the  eighteenth, 
thrilled  with  peculiar  ec>tasy  through  my  soul 
I  mention  tins  to  you,  thai  you  m  ly  see  wtiat 
hit  the  taste  of  v^Ieltcred  criticism.     I  should 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


297 


ke  C'*"'  •"  U.Ti"',  if  -lie  en.ightcneil  minil  ami 
rffirifii  ta-iti'  (if  .Mr.  Kiiscoe,  whit  h  is  liorm-  siu-li 
'n>':i'iuiMi):t;  tc^itiiiuitiy  to  tliis  poem,  usjiti's  ultli 
nil'  111  tin-  Micction.  I-Vrs;u«.s(>n,  in  his  llnlhiw 
J-cir  of  IvIiiiliiH  i;li,  I  lii'lii've,  likewise  fiiiiii«li- 
i"(i  :i  liiiit  of  tlu'  title  and  plan  of  tlie  //"///  Fuir. 
The  fiieieal  scene  tlie  jioet  there  fleseiihes 
wa>i  often  a  favoiiiite  field  of  his  observation, 
and  tl  e  most  of  the  incidents  he  mentions 
had  ai-tii.illy  passed  before  his  ejes.  It  is  searee- 
Iv  necess'ii  V  to  mention,  that  the  Lament  was 
compo-efl  <>ii  that  Uiifoi  tunate  p  issage  in  his  ma- 
trinioni.il  history,  whieh  I  have  mentioned  in 
my  leffir  to  Mrs.  Diiiilo]),  after  the  first  distrac- 
tion of  Ills  lielintjs  had  a  little  subsided.  The 
7' lie  of  Tint  D'li/s  was  composed  after  the  re- 
solution of  piiblishinc;  was  nearly  taken.  Robert 
h.id  had  a  doj,  whieh  lie  called  Luiitli.  that  was 
a  ijreat  favourite.  The  dog  had  been  killed  bv 
tl;e  wanton  enielty  of  some  person  the  night  be- 
fore my  fither's  death.  Robert  said  to  me,  that 
he  sluiiild  like  to  confer  such  immortality  as  he 
could  bestow  upon  his  old  friend  Luath,  and 
th.it  be  had  a  g;reat  n.ind  to  introduce  soniethinn; 
info  the  book  un<ler  the  title  of  Slunziis  ti>  the 
Jilmiiri/  of  a  qiitnhtipvd  Friend  ;  but  this  pl.in 
Wis  given  up  for  the  Title  as  it  now  staruls. 
Casitr  was  merely  the  creature  of  the  poet's 
imagination,  cieated  for  the  purpose  of  holding 
chat  with  his  favourite  Lmith.  The  first  time 
Roliert  heard  thespimu-t  plaved  upon,  was  at  the 
house  of  Dr.  l.awrie,  then  miuisier  of  the  |)arish 
of  Loudon,  now  in  Glasgow,  having  given  up 
the  |i.iiisli  in  fivour  of  his  son.  Dr.  Lawne 
lias  several  d  iii'^hters  ;  one  of  them  ])la\ed  ;  the 
f.itlur  ami  mother  led  down  the  dance  ;  the  rrst 
of  the  sisters,  the  brother,  the  poet,  ai;il  the 
other  guest,  mi.\ed  in  it.  It  was  a  deiiglittiil 
family  scene  for  our  poet,  then  lately  introilueed 
to  the  world.  His  mitiil  was  roused  to  a  pnetic 
enthusiasm,  and  the  st.mzas,  p.  AG,  were  left  in 
the  room  where  he  slept.  It  was  to  Dr.  Law- 
rie  that  Dr.  Blaekhick's  letter  was  addressed, 
which  my  buother,  in  his  letter  to  Dr.  Moore, 
mentions  as  the  re.ison  of  his  going  to  Edinburgh. 
When  my  inthw  fetieil  his  little  projierty  near 
\lloway  Kirk,  the  wall  of  the  ihurehyard  had 
gone  to  ruin,  and  cattle  had  free  liberty  of  pas- 
turing in  it.  My  father,  with  two  or  three  other 
neighbours,  i:nnL(l  in  an  application  to  the  town 
council  of  A\r,  who  were  superiors  of  the  ad- 
joining laud,  lor  liberty  to  rebudil  it,  and  raised 
by  sub-cription  a  sum  for  enclosing  this  ancient 
cemetery  with  a  wall  ;  hence  he  came  to  con- 
sider it  as  his  burial-place,  and  we  learned  that 
reverence  for  it,  people  generally  have  fur  the 
buri.d-pi.'ice  of  their  ancestors.  My  brother  was 
living  ill  Kllislaiid,  when  C.iptain  Grose,  or.  his 
peregrin  itious  through  Scotland,  s.aid  some  time 
St  Curse-house,  in  the  neighbuiirhood,  with 
Captain  Holiert  Riddel,  of  Glen-Uiddell,  a  parti- 
tul.ir  friend  of  my  brother's.  The  Antiquarian 
ind  the  Poet  were  "  U:icj  pack  and  'hick  the- 
jiiher.  ■*  Robert  r-iju'isreil  I'f  Cajitaiu  Grose, 
ivhea  he  sbuald  couih  cu  Ayrihir-:,  lodt  he  would 


make  a  drawing  of  Alloway  Kiik,  as  it  was  the 
burial-place  of  his  fitlier,  ami  where  he  liimsell 
had  a  sort  ol  claim  to  lay  down  his  bones  when 
tluy  slioiil,!  he  no  longer  serviceable  to  hiin  ; 
and  added,  by  way  of  eiK'onr  igcment,  that  it 
was  the  scene  of  many  a  good  story  of  witches 
and  ajiparitious,  of  which  he  knew  the  Captair 
was  very  fond.  The  Oiptain  agreed  to  the  re- 
quest, provided  the  Poet  would  furnish  a  witch- 
story,  to  be  printed  along  with  it.  Tmn  i>' 
Sliunlir  was  ])ro(liiced  on  this  occasion,  and  was 
first  ])ublished  in  Grose's  Antiquities  of  Scot- 
land. 

This  poem  is  founded  on  a  traditional  story. 
The  leading  circumstances  of  a  man  riding  home 
very  late  from  Ayr,  in  a  stormy  night,  his  seeing 
1  light  in  Alloway  Kirk,  his  having  the  curiosity 
to  look  in,  his  seeing  a  d.iiice  of  witches,  with 
the  devil  playing  on  the  bag-pipe  to  them,  the 
scanty  covering  of  one  of  the  witches,  which 
made  him  so  far  forget  himself  a.5  to  cry — "  Weel 
loupeu,  short  saik  !" — with  the  melancholy  ca- 
tastrophe of  the  piece  ;  is  all  a  true  story,  that 
can  be  well  attested  by  many  respectable  old 
people  in  that  neighhom  hood. 

I  do  not  at  present  recollect  any  circnmsi.tncei 
respectig  the  other  poem",  that  coiiM  be  at  all 
interesting  ;  even  some  of  tliose  I  have  mentioa- 
ed,  I  am  afraid,  may  appear  tiillmg  enough,  but 
you  will  only  make  use  of  what  appears  to  you 
of  cimsequence. 

The  following  Poems  in  the  first  Edinliurgii 
edition,   were   not  in  that  published  in  Kilmar 
nock.      Dentil  and  Dr.  /lornbou/t  ;     The  Jirii/i 
of  Ai/r ;     The   Cnlf ;    (the   pott   had  been  with 
Mr.  Gavin  Hiniilton   in  the  morning,  who  said 
jocul.irly  to  him  when  he  was  going  to  church, 
in  allusion  to  the  injunction  of  some  parents  to 
their  children,   that   he  must  be  sure   to  bring 
him  a  note  of  the  sermon  at   mi(l-il,iy  ;   this  ad- 
dress  to   the   Revere-jd    Geutlemaii   on    his   t«.\t 
was  accordingly  produced ).       The  Ordination; 
The  Address  to  the   Unco   Gnid ;    'J'uni    Sam- 
son's Ele[iy  ;    A     Winter  Niylit  ;    tstanzu.i   on 
the  same  occasion  as    the   jircceiliiig   prayer ; 
Verses  left  at  a  Jieverend  Friend's  house. ;     J'ht 
frsl  I'sulin  i    I'rai/er  under  the  jiressure  of  vio- 
lent anii'iisli  ;    The  fir>t  sij.  verses  (f  tlie  nine- 
teiiith   Ps'ilin  ;      Verses  to  Miss  Luyan,   with 
JJmttie's  J'oems  ;    To  a  ilaayis ;    Address  to 
Edinburyh  ;    John   Jjarleycorn  ;     W/ien   (iiiil. 
fird  Guifl  ;  Jiehind  yon  /(.//<  ichire    Stinchar 
flows ,    Green  grow   the    Rushes  ;   Ayam    re- 
jiilciny  Nature  sees  ;    The  yluomy  Niyht ;    Nt 
Churchman  am  I. 


No.  LXX. 
FROM  GILIiEUT  BURNS 

TO 

DR.  CURRIE. 
Di-nniny,  Dumfriesshire,  2  K/J  Oct.  IBOO. 

UEA  a   SIR, 

Yoi'iis  of  the  ITtii  iustant  came  to  tny  haiul 
T2 


298 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


yesterilay,  antl  I  sit  down  this  affernnon  to  write 
you  in  return;  hut  when  I  shiill  he  al)!e  to 
tiiil-h  ill!  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  I  canniit  tell.  I 
am  sorry  ynur  i-onvictiou  is  not  cO!ii|jK'te  re- 
SjU'cting  fmh.  Tliure  is  no  douht  tliat  if  you 
Take  two  English  words  whicli  appear  synuuy- 
ni'ius  to  in>inij  feck,  and  jiidxe  by  tlie  rules  of 
English  constiui  tion,  it  \v;ll  appear  a  barbarism. 
I  btlieve  if  you  take  this  mode  of  translating 
from  any  language,  the  effect  will  frequently  be 
the  same.  But  if  you  take  the  expres^ion  moi.y 
feck  to  have,  as  I  li.ive  stated  it,  the  same  mean- 
ing with  the  Engli-h  expression  very  muni/, 
(and  sueli  license  every  translator  must  be  al- 
lowed, especially  when  he  translates  from  a 
simple  dialect  which  has  never  been  subjected 
to  rule,  and  wheie  the  precise  meaning  of  words 
is  of  conseijuence  not  niinutelv  attended  to),  it 
will  be  well  enough.  One  thing  I  am  certain 
of,  that  ours  is  the  sense  universally  understood 
in  this  country  ;  and  I  believe  no  Scotsman  who 
has  lived  contented  at  home,  pleased  with  the 
simple  maniiers,  the  simple  melodies,  and  the 
simple  dialect  of  his  native  country,  unvitiated 
by  foreign  intercourse,  "  whose  soul  pioud 
science  never  taught  to  stray,"  ever  discovered 
barbarism  in  the  sotig  of  Etrick  Banks. 

The  story  you  have  heard  of  the  gable  of  my 
fjthei's  house  fallin;^  down,  is  simply  as  fol- 
lows . — When  mv  father  built  his  "  clav  bi"^- 
gin,"  he  put  in  two  stone-jambs,  as  they  are 
called,  and  a  lintel,  carrying  up  a  chimney  in 
bis  cl  ly- gable.  The  conseipience  was,  that  as 
the  gable  subsided,  the  jambs,  remaining  firm, 
threw  it  off  its  centre  ;  and,  one  very  stormy 
morning,  when  my  brother  was  nine  or  ten 
divs  old,  a  little  before  diy-light,  a  part  of  the 
gable  lell  imt,  and  the  rest  appeared  so  shatter- 
ed, that  my  mother,  with  the  young  poet,  hid 
ti)  be  carried  through  the  stonn  to  a  neighbour's 
house,  where  they  remained  a  week  til  their 
own  dwelling  was  adjusted.  That  you  may  not 
think  too  meanly  of  this  house,  or  of  n:y  fa- 
ther's taste  in  building,  liy  supposing  the  jmet's 
description  in  the  Vision  (winch  is  ei.tlrely  a 
fancy  picture)  applicable  to  it,  allow  me  to  take 
notice  to  you,  that  the  house  consisted  of  a 
kitchen  in  one  end,  and  a  room  in  the  other, 
with  a  fire-place  and  chimney  ;  that  my  father 
Lad  constructed  a  concealed  bed  in  the  kitchen, 
with  a  small  closet  at  the  end,  of  the  same  ma- 
tciials  with  the  house,  anil,  when  altogetiier  cast 
over,  uutsule  and  in,  with  lime,  it  had  a  neat, 
c.'imfortable  ajipeirance,  such  as  no  family  of  the 
same  rank,  in  the  piesent  impioveil  style  of 
living,  would  think  themselves  ill-lodged  in.  I 
wish  likewise  to  tike  notice  in  |iassiiig,  that  al- 
thojgh  the  "  Cotter,"  in  the  Saturday  Night, 
is  un  exact  cojn'  of  my  father  in  Jii^  manners, 
his  tiuiily  devi.tion,  and  exhoita  ions,  yet  the 
other  parts  of  the  description  do  not  apply  to 
our  family.  Nnue  of  us  were  ever  "  at  service 
out  iniang  the  iieehors  rouii."  IiiBfead  of  our 
de,  (isitiiig  our  "  sair  won  peniiv-fee"  with  our 
y^rents,  my  fallier  laboured  liaid,  and  lived  with 


the  most  rigid  economy,  that  he  might  be  sbU 
to  keep  his  children  at  home,  thereby  having  an 
opportunity  of  watching  the  progress  of  our 
young  minds,  and  forming  in  them  early  habit* 
of  piety  and  virtue  ;  and  from  this  motive  alone 
did  he  engage  in  farming,  the  source  of  all  his 
difficulties  and  distresses. 

When  I  threatened  you  in  my  last  with  a 
long  letter  on  the  subject  of  the  books  I  recom- 
mended to  the  Mauchline  club,  and  the  effects 
of  refinement  of  taste  on  the  laliouring  classes 
of  men,  I  meant  merely  that  1  wished  to  write 
you  on  that  subject,  with  the  view  thit,  in  some 
future  communication  to  the  public,  you  might 
take  up  the  subject  more  at  large,  that,  by  means 
of  your  happy  manner  of  writing,  th.e  attention 
of  people  of  power  and  influence  might  be  fixed 
on.it.  I  had  little  expectation,  however,  that 
I  should  overcome  my  indolence,  and  the  diffi- 
culty of  arranging  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  put 
my  threat  in  execution,  till  some  time  ago,  be- 
fore I  had  finished  my  harvest,  having  a  call 
from  i\Ir.  Ewart,  with  a  message  from  yttu, 
pressing  me  to  the  performance  o.  this  ta^k,  1 
thought  myself  no  longer  at  liberty  to  decline 
it,  and  re^olved  to  set  about  it  with  my  first 
leisure.  I  will  now  therefore  endeavour  to  lay 
before  you  what  has  occurred  to  my  mind  on  a 
subject  where  people  capable  of  observation,  and 
of  placing  their  remarks  in  a  proper  point  of 
view,  have  seldom  an  opportunity  of  making 
their  remarks  on  real  life.  In  doing  this  I  may 
pel  haps  be  led  sometimes  to  write  mine  in  the 
manner  of  a  person  communicating  information 
to  you  which  you  did  not  know  l/efore,  and  at 
other  times  more  in  the  style  of  egotism  than  I 
would  chouse  to  do  to  any  person  in  whose  can- 
dour, and  even  personal  good-will,  1  had  less 
confidence. 

There  are  two  several  lines  of  study  that  ojien 
to  every  man  as  he  enters  life :  the  one,  the  ge- 
neral science  of  life,  of  duty,  and  ot  happiness  ^ 
the  other,  the  paiticular  arts  of  his  euiplnviiiep? 
or  situation  in  society,  and  the  several  br.inclies 
of  knowledge  therewith  connected.  This  last  is 
c>rtaioly  indispensable,  as  nothing  can  be  more 
disgraceful  than  ignorance  in  the  w  ly  of  oui-'o 
own  profession  ;  and  whatever  a  ni.in's  specula- 
tive knowledge  m  ly  be,  if  he  is  ill  inforiiied 
there,  he  can  neither  be  a  useful  nor  a  respect- 
aide  member  if  society.  It  Is  nevertheless  true, 
that  "  the  proper  study  of  mankind  is  mm  ;" 
to  consider  what  duties  are  encuiiibeiit  on  him 
as  a  rational  creatuie,  and  a  member  of  society  ; 
how  he  may  increase  or  secure  his  h.ippioess  ; 
and  how  he  may  prevent  or  soften  the  many 
miseries  incident  to  human  life.  1  think  the 
pursuit  of  happiness  is  too  frequently  confined 
to  the  endeavour  after  the  acipii.>itlon  of  wealth. 
I  do  not  wi'h  to  be  considered  as  an  idle  de- 
claimer  against  riches,  which,  after  all  that  can 
be  said  against  them,  will  still  be  consldiied  by 
men  of  common  sense  as  objects  of  iniportioce  ; 
and  |)overty  will  be  felt  as  a  sore  evil,  alter  ali 
the  tine  tliingii  that  can  be  said  of  its  advaa 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


29S 


tages  ;  on  the  contrary  I  am  of  opinion,  that  a 
grcMt  proportion  of  the  niiseriL-s  ol'  life  arise  from 
the  want  of  economy,  and  a  prudent  attention 
to  money,  or  the  ill-directed  or  intemperate  pur- 
suit of  it.  But  however  valuable  riches  may  be 
as  the  means  of  comfort,  indejiendence,  ami  the 
pleasure  of  doing  good  to  others,  yet  I  am  of 
opinion,  that  they  may  be,  and  frequently  are, 
purchased  at  too  great  a  cost,  and  that  sacrifices 
are  made  in  the  pursuit  which  the  acquisition 
cannot  compensate.  I  -emember  iK-anflg  iily 
Worthy  teacher,  Mr.  IMiird.icli,  relate  an  anec- 
dote to  my  father,  which  I  think  sets  this  mat- 
ter in  a  strong  light,  and  perhaps  was  the  ori- 
gin, or  at  least  tended  to  promote  this  way  of 
thinking  in  me.  When  Mr.  Murdoch  left  Al- 
loway,  he  went  to  teach  and  reside  in  the  fimily 
of  an  opulent  farmer  who  had  a  nuniber  of  sons. 
A  neighbour  coming  on  a  visit,  in  the  course  of 
conversaticm  asked  the  father  how  he  meant  to 
dispose  of  his  suns.  The  father  replied,  that  he 
hid  not  determined.  The  visitor  sairl,  that  were 
he  in  his  place  he  would  give  them  all  good 
education  and  send  them  abioad,  without  (per- 
hapsj  having  a  precise  idea  where.  The  fatlier 
objected,  that  many  young  nien  lost  their  health 
in  foreign  countries,  and  many  their  lives.  Tiue, 
replied  the  vi^itor,  but  as  you  have  a  number  of 
sons,  it  will  be  strange  if  some  one  of  them  does 
not  live  and  make  a  fortune. 

Let  any  person  who  has  the  feelings  of  a  fa- 
ther  comment  on  this  story  :  but  though  few 
will  avow,  even  to  themselves,  that  such  views 
govern  their  conduct,  yet  do  we  not  daily  see  , 
people  shijiping  otf  their  sons,  (and  who  would  | 
do  so  by  their  (laughters  also,  if  there  were  any 
demand  fur  them),  that  they  may  be  rich  or 
peri>h  ? 

The  education  of  the  lower  classes  is  seldom 
considered  in  any  other  point  of  view  than  as 
tlie  means  of  raising  them  from  that  station  to 
which  they  were  born,  and  i  f  making  a  lortiine. 
1  am  ignorant  of  the  niystei  ies  of  the  art  of  ac- 
quiring a  fortune  without  any  tiling  to  begin  with, 
and  cannot  calculate,  with  any  degree  of  ex.ict- 
Dess,  the  d  fficulties  to  be  surmounted,  the  mor- 
tifications to  be  suffered,  and  the  degradation 
of  character  to  be  submitteil  to,  in  lending  one's 
Bclf  to  be  the  minister  of  other  |ieojile's  vices,  or 
in  the  practice  of  rapine,  fraud,  oppression,  or 
diss'.mul.itiun,  in  the  progress  ;  but  even  when 
the  wished  for  end  is  attained,  it  m  ly  be  ques- 
tioned whether  happiness  be  much  increased  by 
the  change  When  I  have  seen  a  fortunate  ad- 
venturer of  the  lower  rank-  of  life  returned  fiom 
the  Ei^l  or  West  Indies  with  all  the  h.iuteur  of 
a  vulgai  mind  aicusruined  to  be  xi veil  by  slaves, 
assuiiMiig  a  chiractiT,  which,  from  the  early  ha- 
bits of  life,  he  is  ill  fitted  to  support,  displaying 
magnificence  which  raises  the  envy  of  some,  and 
the  CO:. tempt  of  others  ;  claiming  an  equality 
with  the  great,  «  Inch  tln-y  are  unwilling  to  al- 
low ;  iiiiv  p  uing  at  the  pie^  edence  o  the  heie- 
ditjry  gentry  ;  maddened  by  the  pcdi>hed  inso- 
knce  of  kome  of   the  uiiwoi  thy  part  of  them; 


seeking  pleasure  in  the  society  of  men  who  cac 
condescend  to  flatter  him,  and  li>ten  to  his  ab- 
surdity for  the  s  ike  of  a  good  dinner  and  good 
wine;  I  cannot  avoid  concluding,  that  his  bro- 
ther, or  comiianion,  who,  by  a  diligent  a])plica- 
tioii  to  the  labours  of  agriculture,  or  some  use- 
ful mechanic  employment,  and  the  careful  lius- 
banding  of  his  gains,  has  acijuired  a  competence 
in  his  station,  is  a  much  happier,  and,  in  the 
eye  of  a  peison  who  can  take  an  enlarged  view 
of  mankind,  a  much  more  lesjiect  ible  in  in. 

But  the  votaries  of  wealth  may  be  considered 
as  a  great  number  of  candidates  striving  for  a 
few  piizes,  and  whatever  addition  the  successiul 
may  make  to  their  pleasure  or  happiness,  the 
disappointed  will  always  have  more  to  suffer,  I 
am  afraid,  th.in  those  who  abide  coiitented  in 
the  station  to  which  they  wcie  born.  1  wish, 
therefore,  the  education  of  the  lower  clavse*  to 
be  piomoted  and  directed  to  their  iin|)roveiiieiit 
as  men,  as  the  means  of  increasing  their  virtue, 
and  opening  to  them  new  and  dignified  sources 
of  pleasure  and  happiness.  I  iiave  heard  some 
Jicojile  object  to  the  educiUion  of  the  lower  cl.is- 
ses  of  men,  as  rendering  them  less  useful,  by 
abstracting  them  from  their  jiioper  buMiicss  ; 
otheis,  as  temliiig  to  make  them  saucy  to  their 
superiors,  impatient  of  their  condition,  and  tai- 
biilent  subjects;  wl.ile  yon,  with  more  iiuiiia- 
nity,  have  your  fe.irs  alarmed,  lest  the  delicacy 
of  mind,  indui'ed  by  that  sort  of  education  and 
reading  I  lecouimeiid,  should  render  the  eviU 
of  their  Mtuation  in  upportable  to  them.  1  wi.>h 
to  examine  the  Validity  of  each  of  these  o  jec- 
tions,  beginning  with  the  oijc  you  have  men- 
tioned. 

I  do  nut  mean  to  controvert  your  criticism  ol 
my  fivour  te  books,  the  Mirror  and  Lounger, 
although  I  understand  there  are  people  who 
think  themselves  judges,  who  do  nut  agree  with 
you.  The  acquisition  of  knowledge,  except 
what  is  connected  uitli  human  life  and  con- 
duct, or  the  particular  business  of  his  employ- 
ment, does  not  appear  to  me  to  be  the  fittest 
pursuit  for  a  peasant.  1  would  say  with  tlie 
poet, 

'*  How  empty  learning,  and  how  vain  is  xrj,, 
Save  where  it  guides  the  life,   or  meuJs  the 
heart  !" 

There  seems  to  he  a  considerable  latitude  in 
the  use  of  the  word  taste.  I  uiideistaiid  it  to 
be  the  perception  ami  lelish  of  I  eauty,  order, 
or  any  other  thing,  the  contemid.ition  of  v.- hi,  h 
gives  pleasure  ami  delight  to  the  eiiiid.  I  >iip- 
jio«e  it  is  in  this  sense  you  wish  it  t.i  be  uiid<  r- 
stood.  If  I  am  right,  the  taste  wiiich  the^e 
bonks  are  calcukited  to  cultivate,  (beside  the 
t.iste  for  fine  vvrit.ng,  wliich  niai.y  of  the  pajiers 
tend  to  improve  and  to  gratify),  i*  what  is  pro- 
per, consistent,  and  bi-coming  in  hiiuiin  ch.i- 
racter  and  couiluct,  as  almost  every  paper  relate* 
to  tlie>e  subjects. 

I   a.n  sorry  1  have  not   these   Looks  bj  me, 


800 


BliRNS'  WORKS. 


that  I  raiglt  point  out  some  instances.  I  re- 
mcr.  her  two  ;  one,  the  heautiful  story  of  La 
Rdcne,  where,  beside  the  pleasure  one  derives 
from  a  heautiful  simple  stury  tcild  in  M'Kenzie's 
happiest  iiicinner,  the  mind  is  led  to  taste,  with 
heartfelt  rapture,  the  consolation  to  be  derived 
in  deep  affliction,  from  habitual  devotion  and 
trust  in  Almighty  Gud.      The  other,  the  story 

of  General  \V ,  where  the  reader  is  led  to 

nave  a  high  relish  for  that  firmness  of  mind 
which  disregards  appearances,  the  common  forms 
and  vanities  of  life,  for  the  sake  of  doina:  justice 
in  a  case  which  was  out  of  the  reach  of  hura»n 
laws. 

Allow  me  then  to  remark,  that  if  the  mora- 
lity of  these  books  is  subordinate  to  the  cultiva- 
tion of  ta-te ;  that  taste,  that  refinement  of 
mind  and  delicacy  of  sentiment  which  they  are 
intended  to  give,  are  the  strona;est  guard  and 
surest  foundation  of  morality  and  virtue.  Other 
moralists  s^uard,  as  it  were,  the  overt  act ;  these 
pa|)ers,  by  exalrins^  duty  into  sentiment,  are  cal- 
cul  ited  to  make  every  deviation  from  rectituile 
and  propriety  of  conduct,  painful  to  the  mind, 

"  Whose  temper'd  powers, 
rtefine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
\  chaster,  uulder,  more  attractive  mien." 

I  readily  grant  you  that  the  refinement  of 
mind  which  I  ccintind  for,  increases  our  sensi- 
bility to  the  evils  of  life  ;  but  what  station  of 
life  is  without  its  evils  !  There  seems  to  be  no 
such  thing  as  perfect  happiness  inthiswdild, 
and  we  must  balance  the  plL'a>ure  and  the  pain 
which  we  derive  from  taste,  befiiie  we  ran  pro- 
perly appreciate  :t  in  the  ca^  before  us.  I  ap- 
prehend that  on  a  minu'e  ex.iiriin.ition  it  will 
appear,  th  f»  "he  evils  peculiar  to  the  lower  rauk> 
of  life,  derive  their  power  to  wound  us,  more 
frcim  the  sugcesrions  of  false  pride,  and  the 
"  c(>ntagiiin  of  luxury  weak  and  vile."  than  the 
refinement  of  our  taste.  It  was  a  favourite  re- 
iriark  of  my  brother's,  that  there  was  no  part 
of  the  constitutiun  of  our  n.Jture,  to  which  we 
were  more  indebted,  than  that  by  which  "  c«a'- 
l,iin  iiii/kes  tliiiiiiK  familinr  iinil  ensij,"  (a  copy 
Ml-.  i\Jurdi)ch  usi-d  to  set  us  to  write),  and  there 
is  little  labour  which  custom  will  not  make  easy 
to  a  man  in  health,  if  he  is  not  ashamed  of  his 
empli'vinrnt,  or  floes  not  begm  to  compare  his 
situation  with  those  he  may  see  going  about  at 
their  ease. 

Hut  the  man  of  eid  irgcd  mind  fi'cls  tlie  re- 
cpoct  due  to  him  is  i  man  ;  he  has  learned  that 
no  employment  is  dishonourable  in  itself;  that 
while  be  performs  aiiglit  the  duties  of  that  sta- 
tion in  whith  Gt'il  has  placttd  him,  He  i*  as 
f leat  "IS  a  king  in  the  eyes  of  Him  whom  he  is 
piiucipdly  disirous  to  pleise;  for  the  man  of 
t.i>te,  who  in  con^t.intly  obliged  to  labour,  must 
of  nece-sity  be  religi'ius.  II  voii  teach  h:ni  only 
to  reaMiii,  you  may  ii.akehim  tii  atheist,  a  ilcma- 
gofjui',  or  any  vile  thiu'.;  ;  but  if  you  teach  him 
*o  Ital,   hut  feeliiii^s  can  only  find  tlieir  proper] 


and  natural  relief  in  devotioa  iXA  religinas  n, 
signation.  He  knows  that  those  people  wiio  art 
to  appearance  at  ease,  are  not  without  theii 
share  of  evils,  and  that  even  toil  itself  is  not 
destitute  of  advantages.  He  listens  to  the  wordj 
of  his  favourite  poet : 

"  O  mortal  man,  that  livest  here  by  toil, 

Cease  to  repine  and  grudge  thy  hard  estate ; 
That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil, 

Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date  ; 
And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great ; 

Although  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and 
wail, 
.■\nd  curse  thy  stars,  and  early  drudge  and  late; 

Withouten  that  would  come  a  heavier  bale. 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale  ! " 

And,  while  he  repeats  the  words,  the  grateful 
recollection  comes  across  his  mind,  how  often  he 
has  del  ive<l  ineffable  pleasure  from  the  sweet 
song  of  "  Nature's  dailing  child."  I  can  say, 
from  my  own  experience,  that  there  is  no  sort 
of  farm  labour  inconsistent  with  the  most  re- 
fined and  pleasurable  state  of  the  mind  that  I 
am  acquainted  with,  thrashing  alone  excepted. 
That,  indeed,  I  have  always  considered  as  in- 
supportable drudgery,  and  think  the  ingenious 
mechanic  who  invented  the  thrashing  madiine, 
ought  to  have  a  statue  among  the  benefactors  of 
his  country,  and  should  be  placed  in  the  niche 
next  to  the  person  who  introduced  the  culture 
of  potatoes  into  this  island. 

Perh.ips  the  thing  of  most  importance  in  the 
education  of  the  coninion  people  is,  to  prevent 
the  intrusi(m  of  artificial  wants.  I  bliss  the 
memory  of  my  worthy  father  for  almost  every 
thing  in  the  dispositio.'is  of  my  mind,  and  my 
habits  of  life  which  I  can  approve  of;  and  for 
none  more  than  tlie  pains  he  took  to  impress  my 
miiid  with  the  sentiment,  that  nothing  was  more 
unwortiiy  the  character  of  a  man,  than  that  his 
hajipiness  should  ir.  the  least  depend  on  what  he 
should  eat  or  drink.  So  early  did  he  impress 
my  mind  with  this,  that  although  I  was  as  fond 
of  sweetmeats  as  chiMren  generally  are,  yet  I  sel- 
dom laid  out  any  of  the  half-pence  which  rela- 
tions or  neighbours  g.ive  me  at  fairs,  in  the  pur- 
chase of  them  ;  and  if  1  did,  every  mouthful  I 
swallowed  was  accompanieil  with  shame  and  re- 
morse ;  and  to  this  hour  I  never  indulge  in  the 
use  of  any  delicacy,  but  I  feel  a  considfi  able  de- 
gree of  self-reproach  and  alarm  for  the  degrada- 
tion of  the  human  character,  .^uch  a  habit  oi 
thinking  I  consider  as  of  great  conseijiii  nee, 
both  to  the  virtue  and  happiness  of  men  iu  the 
lower  ranks  of  life.  And  thus,  Sir,  I  am  of 
opinion,  that  if  their  miods  are  eai  ly  and  deeply 
imprest  with  a  sense  of  the  dignity  of  man,  as 
such  ;  with  the  love  of  independence  and  of  iu- 
dustry,  economy  and  tempei auce,  as  the  most 
ol.yio'.is  means  of  making  themselves  indepen- 
dent, and  the  virtues  most  l)ec(uning  their  situr 
ation,  and  necessary  to  their  liapj;  iiess  ;  men  ir 
the  lower  ranks  of  life  may  partake  of  the  plea 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


30 


»ure«  tn  be  deiivcd  from  the  perusal  of  books 
calculated  to  iiii|H(iVL'  the  iiiiini  and  refine  the 
taste,  witliout  any  d,iii;;er  of  bi'^oiniiig  more  un- 
h,il)[)v  in  tlieir  situation,  or  discontented  with  it. 
Nor  do  I  thiidc  tlieie  is  any  danger  of  their  l)e- 
roniing  less  useful.  There  are  some  hours  every 
day  that  the  most  constant  labourer  is  neithi'r 
St  work  nor  asleep.  These  hours  are  either  aj)- 
pro])riated  to  amusement  or  to  sloth.  If  a  taste 
for  employing  these  hours  in  reading  were  cul- 
tivated, I  do  not  sup])ose  that  the  return  to  la- 
bour wo\dd  be  more  difficult.  Every  one  will 
allow,  that  the  attachment  to  idle  amusements, 
or  even  to  sloth,  has  ,is  powerful  a  tendency  to 
abstract  men  fiom  their  proper  l.usiness,  as  the 
attaclmient  to  books  ;  while  the  one  dissipates 
the  mind,  and  the  otlier  tends  to  increase  its 
powers  of  self-government.  To  those  who  are 
afraid  that  the  inijirovement  of  the  minds  of  the 
common  ])eopIe  might  be  dangerous  to  the  state, 
or  the  established  order  of  society,  I  would  re- 
mark, tli.it  turbulence  and  commotion  are  cer- 
taiidv  very  inimical  to  the  feelings  of  a  refined 
mind.  Let  the  matter  be  brought  to  the  te.-t 
of  experience  and  ohservatlon.  Of  what  de- 
scription of  people  are  mobs  and  insurrections 
composed  ?  Are  they  not  universally  ow'ng  to 
the  want  of  enlargement  and  improvement  of 
mind  among  the  common  j)eople  ?  Nay,  let 
any  one  recollect  the  characters  of  those  who 
formed  the  calmer  and  more  deliberate  associa- 
tions, which  lately  gave  so  much  alarm  to  the 
government  of  this  country.  I  suppose  few  ot 
the  common  jjeojde  who  were  to  l,e  found  in 
such  societies,  had  the  education  and  turn  of 
mind  I  have  been  endeavouring  to  retommcnd 
Allow  me  to  suggest  (me  reason  for  endeavour- 
ing to  erdighten  the  minds  of  the  conmion  peo- 
ple. Their  morals  have  hitherto  been  guarded 
by  a  sort  of  dim  religious  aw",  which  from  a 
variety  of  causes  seems  wearing  off.  I  think  the 
alteration  in  this  respect  considerable,  in  the 
short  period  of  my  observation.  I  have  alreadv 
given  my  opinion  of  the  effects  of  refinement  of 
mind  on  mi;rals  and  virtue.  Wiienever  vilg  ir 
minds  begin  to  shake  ofi'  the  dogmas  of  the  le- 
ligion  in  which  they  have  been  educated,  the 
progress  is  (juick  and  immediate  to  downri;;ht 
infidelity  :  and  nothing  but  refinement  of  mind 
can  enahle  thi-m  to  distinguish  between  the  pure 
essence  of  religion,  and  the  gross  systems  which 
men  hnve  been  perpetually  connecting  it  with. 
In  addition  to  what  has  already  been  done  for 
the  education  of  the  common  people  of  this  coun- 
try, in  the  establishment  oi'  parish  schools,  I 
wi^h  to  see  the  salaries  augmented  in  some  pro- 
portion to  the  present  expense  of  living,  and  the 
earnings  of  peojile  of  similar  rank,  endowments 
and  usefulness,  in  society  ;  and  I  hope  that  the 
liberality  of  She  present  age  will  be  no  longer' 
disgraced  by  refusing,  to  so  useful  a  class  of  men, 
Buth  encouiuigement  as  may  make  parish  schools 
worth  the  attenti(m  of  men  fitted  for  the  imjior-  | 
tant  duties  of  that  office.  In  filling  up  the  va- j 
,ancies,  I  woiJd  have  more  attention  paid  to  the  j 


candidate's  cajiaci'y  of  ti'ading  .lif  English  Ian 
guage  with  grace  and  propriety  ;  to  his  under 
standing  thoroughly,  and  having  a  high  relisL 
for  the  heauties  of  English  authors,  both  in  poetry 
anil  prose  ;  to  that  good  sense  antl  knowledge 
of  human  nature  which  would  enable  him  to  ac- 
qvire  some  inlluence  on  the  minds  ami  atfctions 
of  his  scholars  ;  to  the  gener.il  worth  of  his  clia- 
racter,  and  the  love  of  liis  king  and  his  counti  v, 
than  to  his  proficiency  in  the  knowledge  of  Latin 
anil  Greek.  I  would  then  have  a  sort  of  high 
English  class  established,  not  only  for  the  pur- 
pose of  teaching  the  pupils  to  read  in  that  grace- 
ful and  agreeable  manner  that  might  make  them 
find  of  reading,  but  to  make  them  understand 
what  they  read,  and  discover  the  beauties  of  the 
author,  in  composition  and  sentiment.  I  would 
have  established  in  every  parish  a  small  ciicu- 
lating  library,  consisting  of  the  books  which  the 
young  people  had  read  extracts  from  in  the  c<d- 
lections  they  had  read  at  school,  and  any  other 
books  well  calculated  to  refine  the  mind,  improvo 
the  moral  feelings,  recommend  the  practice  ct 
virtue,  and  communicate  such  knowledge  as 
miirht  be  useful  and  suitable  to  the  IdioLrinz 
classes  of  men.  I  would  have  the  scliool master 
act  as  librarian,  and  in  recommending  Ijooks  to 
his  young  friends,  formerly  his  pupils,  and  let- 
ting in  the  light  of  them  upon  their  voung  minds, 
he  should  have  the  assistance  of  the  minister. 
If  once  such  education  were  become  general. 
tjie  low  delights  of  tlie  public-hou-e,  and  othet 
scenes  of  riot  and  depravity,  would  be  contemn- 
ed and  neglected,  while  indii>try,  ordei,  cleanli- 
ness, and  every  virtue  whiidi  taste  and  indepen- 
dence of  mind  could  recommend,  would  prevail 
and  flourish.  Thus  possessed  of  a  virtuous  and 
eidii;htened  popul.ice,  with  hi.;h  iieii'.;ht  I  ^hollld 
consider  my  native  country  as  at  the  iiead  of  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth,  ancient  or  inodern. 

Thus,  Sir,  have  I  execut.'d  my  threat  to  the 
fullest  extent,  in  regard  to  the  length  of  my  let- 
ter. If  1  had  not  presumed  on  doin^  it  more 
to  my  liking,  I  should  not  have  uudt-rtaken  it  ; 
but  I  have  not  time  to  attempt  it  anew  ;  nor,  if 
I  would,  am  I  certain  that  I  should  >ucceed  any 
better.  I  have  learned  to  have  less  confiilence 
in  my  capacity  of  writing  on  such  subjects. 

I  am  much  obliged  by  ymir  kind  iiujuirics 
about  my  situation  and  prospects.  I  am  miu-h 
pleised  with  the  soil  of  this  farm,  and  with  the 
terms  on  which  I  possess  it.  I  receive  great 
encouragement  likewise  in  building,  enclosing, 
and  other  conveniences,  from  my  lindloifl  Mr. 
G.  S.  Monteith,  whose  general  character  and 
conduct,  as  a  landlord  and  country  gentleuia. 
I  am  highly  pleased  with.  IJut  the  land  is  in 
such  a  state  as  to  require  a  considerable  imme- 
diate outlay  of  money  in  the  puicha'e  of  ma- 
nure, the  grubbing  of  brush-Wood,  removing  of 
stones,  &c.  which  twelve  years'  st.  uggle  with  a 
farm  of  a  cold  ungrateful  soil  has  hut  ill  prepar« 
ed  me  for.  If  I  can  gvt  these  things  done, 
however,  to  my  mind,  I  think  there  is  next  to 
a  certainty  tlvat  in  five  or  six  years  I  shall  be  if 


302 


BURMS'  WORKS. 


B  hopeful  way  of  attaining  a  situation  which  I 
think  is  eliijible  fur  happiuoa  as  any  one  I 
know  ;  fur  I  luve  always  been  of  opinion,  that 
if  a  man,  bred  to  the  habits  of  a  farming  hfs, 
who  possesses  a  farm  of  good  soil,  on  such  terms 
as  enables  him  easily  to  pay  all  demands,  is  not 
haDpy,  he  ought  to  look  somewhere  else  than  to 
nis  situation  fur  the  causes  of  his  uneasiness. 

1  beg  you  will  present  my  most  respectful 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Currie,  and  remember  me 
to  Mr.  and  Mis.  Roscoe,  and  Jlr.  Roscoe  jun. 
whose  kind  attentions  to  me,  when  in  Liverpool, 

I  shall  never  forget 1  am,  dear  Sir,  your  most 

obedient,  and  much  obliged   humble  servant, 

GILBERT  BURNS. 


DEATH  AND  CHARACTER  OF 
GILBERT  BUR. VS. 

This  most  worthy  and  ta'ented  individual 
fied  at  Grant's  Braes,  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
i-Lddington,  and  on  the  estate  of  Lady  Blan- 
-yre,  for  whom  he  was  long  factor,  on  Sund.iy 
3th  April  1827,  in  the  sixty-seventh  year  of  his 
age.*  He  had  no  fixed  or  formed  complaint, 
but  for  several  months  preceding  his  dissolution, 
there  was  a  gradual  decay  of  the  powers  of  na- 
ture ;  and  the  infirmities  of  age,  condjined  with 
severe  domestic  affliction,  hastened  the  release 
of  as  pure  a  spirit  as  ever  inhabited  a  boman 
bosom.  On  the  4th  of  January  be  lost  a  daugh- 
ter who  had  long  been  the  pride  of  the  family 
hearth  ;  and  on  the  26  th  of  Felnuary  fulluu  ing, 
his  youngest  son, — a  youth  of  great  piumise, 
died  in  Edinburgh  of  typhus  fever,  just  as  he 
was  about  being  licensed  for  the  ministry.  These 
repeated  trials  were  too  much  for  the  excellent 
old  man  ;  the  mind  which,  throughout  a  lung 
and  blameless  life,  had  pointed  unweariedly  to 
its  home  in  the  skies,  ceased  as  it  were,  to  hold 
coninjunion  with  things  earthly,  and  on  the  re- 
currence of  that  hallowed  morning,  which,  like 
his  sire  of  (dd,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  sanc- 
tify, be  ex[)ired  without  a  groan  or  struggle,  in 
peace,  and  even  love  with  all  mankind,  and  in 
liund)!e  confidence  of  a  blessed  immortality. — 
The  early  life  of  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns  is  inti- 
mately blended  with  that  of  the  poet.  He  was 
eighteen  months  younger  than  Robert — posses- 
sed the  same  ])enetrating  judgment,  and,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Blurdoch,  their  first  instructor,  sur- 
passed liim  in  vivacity  till  pretty  nearly  the  age 
of  manhood.  When  the  greatest  of  our  bards 
was  invited  by  Dr.  Blacklock  to  visit  Edinburgh, 
the  subject  of  the  present  imperfect  Memoir  was 
struggling  in  the  churlish  farm  of  Mossgiel,  and 
toiling  late  and  early  to  keep  a  house  over  bis 
aged  mother,  and  unprotected  sisters.  In  these  ' 
tircunistauces,  the  poe*.*s  success  was  the  first] 
thing  that  stemmed  the  ebbing  tide  of  the  for- 
luues  of  bis  ianiily.      In  settling  with  Mr.  Creech  ' 


in  February  1  'JSS,  hi  received,  as  the  profits  nf 
his  second  publication,  about  j£500,  and  with 
that  generosity,  which  formed  a  part  of  his  na- 
ture, he  immed  ately  presented  Gilbert  witn 
nearly  the  half  of  his  whole  wealth.  Thus  suc- 
coure<l,  the  deceased  married  aMissBreckenridge, 
and  removed  to  a  better  farm  (Dinning  in  Dum- 
friesshire ),  but  still  reserved  a  seat  at  the  fami- 
ly board  fur  his  truly  venerable  mother,  who  died 
a  few  yeai's  ago.  While  in  Dinning,  he  was  re- 
commended to  Lady  Blantyre ;  and  though  our 
memory  does  not  serve  us  precisely  as  to  date, 
he  mcst  have  been  an  inhabitant  of  East  Lothian, 
for  very  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century.  Her 
Ladyship's  affairs  were  managed  with  the  greatest 
fidelity  and  prudence  ;  the  factor  and  his  con- 
stituent were  worthy  of  each  other ;  and  in  a 
<listrict  distinguished  fur  *he  skill,  talents,  and 
o]!ulencc  of  its  farmers,  no  man  was  more  re- 
s|;ected  then  Mr.  Gilbert  Burns.  His  wife, 
\vho  still  survives,  bore  him  a  family  of  six  sons 
anr'  five  f'.aught.rs;  hat  of  Jiese,  one  Sjn,  anci 
four  daughters,  predeceased  their  father.  His 
means,  though  limited,  were  always  managed 
with  enviable  frugality,  as  a  proof  of  which  we 
may  state  that  every  one  of  his  boys  received 
what  is  called  a  classical  education. 


•  This  skctcli  is  bv  Mr.  Macriiarmid,  of  the  Dum- 
fries Courie.-,  -n  which  Journ-jl  it  fifif  appeared. 


No.  LXXL 

THE  POET'S  SCRAP-BOOK, 

The  Poet  kept  a  Scrap-Book,  which  was 
what  the  title  imports,  really  a  thing  of  shieds 
and  patches.  In  the  following  extracts,  v.e 
have  not  been  quite  so  sparing  as  Dr.  Currie, 
whose  extracts  are  above,  nor  so  very  jirotuse  an 
Mr.  Cromek,  who,  in  his  Reliques,  has  turned 
the  book  inside  out.  The  jirose  articles  are 
chiefly  in  the  way  of  maxims  or  observations 
th(!y  have  less  of  worldly  selfishness,  and  more 
of  the  religious  feeling,  than  those  of  Rochfou- 
caud  :  The  poetical  scraps  are  numerous — such 
of  them  as  are  worth  jireserving,  and  have  not 
already  appeared  amongst  the  poems,  will  be 
found  below. 

MV^  FATHER  WAS  A  FARMER. 

Tune—"  The  Weaver  and  his  Shuttle,  O." 

Mv  Father  wag  a  Farmer  upon  the  Carrick  bo'der,  O, 
Aiul  carefully  he  bred  n>e  in  deceiicv  ami  urder,  ()  ; 
He  bade  nie  act  a  manly  part,  tliouyli  1  liad  ne'er  a 

farlliing,  O, 
For  without  an  honest  manly  heart,  no  man  was  worth 

regarding,  O. 

Then  out  into  the  world  my  course  I  did  dctcrniine,  O, 
Tho'  to  be  rich  was  not  my  wish,  yet  to  be  great  wai 

charminj;,  O. 
My  taleiiti  they  were  not  the  wors'. ;  nor  yet  my  edu- 

eat'on,  O  : 
R(soIv'd  was  1,  at  least  to  try,  to  mend  my  r.'tuation,  O. 

In  many  a  way,  and  vain  essay,  I  courted  fortune's  fa- 
vour, () : 

Some  cau>ie  uu'^ccn,  still  stept  between,  to  frusirjte 
caci  eiido  ;vi)ur,  O  ; 

Scmelimcs  liy  foes  I  was  o'eipow'rd;  »)metimcs  by 
friends  forsaken,  O  j 

And  whiM  try  Impe  was  at  tlie  top,  I  s;ill  w.is  wor»> 
iniMtakei^  U. 


CORRESPONDENCE 


303 


Hien  sore  Iiirass'd,  and  tir'i  at  last,  with  fortune's 

v.iin  ilelusion,  O ; 
I  dropt  uiv  schemes,  like  idle  dreams,  and  came  to  this 

conclusion,  O ; 
riic  pa^t  was  bad.  and  the  future  hid  ;  its  good  or  ill 

iintrved,  O ; 
But  the  present  hour  was  in  my  pow'r,  and  so  I  would 

enjoy  it,  O. 

No  help,  nor  hone,  nor  view  had  I  ;  nor  person  to  be. 
friend  me,  O; 

So  must  toil,  and  sweat  and  broil,  and  labour  to  sus- 
tain me,  O, 

To  pl(iuc;h  and  sow,  to  reap  and  mow,  my  father  bred 
me  earlv,  O  ; 

For  one,  he  said,  to  labour  bred,  was  a  match  for  for- 
tune fairly,  O. 

Thus  all  obscure,  unknown,  and  poor,  thro"  life  I'm 
doimcd  to  wander,  O, 

Till  down  niv  weary  bones  1  lay  in  everlasting  slum- 
ber, O': 

No  view  nor  care,  but  shun  whate'er  might  breed  me 
pain  or  sorrow   O  ; 

I  live  to  day,  as  well's  I  may,  regardless  of  to-mor- 
row, 6. 

But  cheerful  still,  I  am  as  well,  as  a  monarch  in  a  pa. 

jncc,  o, 
Tho'  fortune's  frown  still  hunts  me  down,  with  all  her 

wonted  malice,  O ; 
I  make  indeed,  my  daily  bread,  Uut  ne'er  can  m.ike  it 

farther,  O;  ' 

But  as  (iailv  bread  is  all  I  need,  I  do  not  much  regard 

her,  O. 

Vhen  sometimes  by  my  labour  I  earn  a  little  inoney,0. 
Some  unforeseen  misfortune  comes  generally   upon 

me,  O; 
Mischance,  mistake,  or  by  neglect,  or  my  good-natur'd 

folly,  O; 
But  come  what  will,  I've  sworn  it  still,  I'll  ne'er  be 

melancholy,  O. 

All  you  who  fallow  wealth  and  power  with  unremit- 
ting ardiiur,  O, 

Then- ore  in  this  you  look  for  blUs,  you  leave  your 
view  the  farther,  O  ; 

Had  you  the  wialth  Potosi  boasts,  or  nations  to  adore 
you,  O, 

A  checVf  il  honest  hearted  clown  I  will  prefer  before 
you,  O. 

ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF 

ROBERT  RUISSEAUX.* 

Now  Robin  lies  in  his  last  lair. 

He'll  gabble  rhyme,  nor  sing  nae  mair, 

Caidd  poverty,  wi'  hungry  stare, 

Nae  mair  shall  ff.ir  him ; 
Nor  anxious  fear,  nor  cankcrt  care 

E'er  mair  come  near  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  thev  seldom  fash't  him. 
Except  the  moment  that  they  crush't  him; 
For  sune  as  ehaiieo  or  fate  had  husht  'em, 

Tho'  e'er  sae  short, 
riien  wi  a  rhyme  or  song  he  lasht  'em, 

And  thought  it  sport.— 

Tho'  he  was  bred  to  kintra  wark. 

Anil  cniinted  was  baiih  wight  and  stark. 

Vet  that  was  never  Robin's  mark 

To  mak  a  man  ; 
But  tell  hiin,  he  was  a  lenrn  d  dark, 

V'e  roos'd  him  then,  f 

Mehn>chrihj. — There  was  a  certain  period  of 
my  life  tli.it  my  spirit  was  broke  Iiy  rcpeateti  looses 
and  disasters.  wh:ch  threatened,  and  indeed  eflfcct- 
ed,  the  utter  ruin  of  my  fortune.  My  liody  too 
Was  attacked  by  that  most  dreadful  distemper, 
a  hypochondria,  or  confirmed  melancholy  :  In 
this   \v  I  etched   state,    the   recollection  of  which 


•  Ruls.'eaiiT — sfeains — ; 
.  Ve  roos'd—  ye  prais'd. 


play  on  his  own  nam*. 


makes  me  yet  s-hudder,  I  hiinp;  my  harp  on  tie 
willow  trees,  except  in  some  lucid  intervals,  ia 
one  of  which  I  composed  the  following.  (  Here 
t'olliiws  the  prayer  in  distress,  p.  73. ) — March 
"17S4.. 

Ildifjious  Sentiment. — What  ,a  creature  is 
man  !  A  little  alarm  last  night,  and  to-day,  thai 
I  am  mortal,  has  made  such  a.  revolution  on  my 
spirits !  There  is  no  philosophy,  no  divinity, 
that  comes  half  so  much  home  to  the  niinil.  I 
have  no  idea  of  courage  that  braves  Heaven  : 
'Tis  the  wild  ravings  of  an  iniagiii.iiy  hero  in 
Bedlam. 

]My  favourite  feature  in  Milton's  Satan  is  his 
manly  fortitude  in  supporting  what  cannot  be 
remedied — in  short,  the  wild,  broken  fragments 
of  a  noble,  exalted  mind  in  ruins.  1  meant  no 
mure  by  saying  he  was  a  favourite  hero  ol 
mine. 

I  hate  the  very  idea  of  a  controversial  divini- 
ty ;  as  I  firmly  believe  that  every  honest  upright 
man,  of  whatever  sect,  will  be  accepted  of  the 
deity.  I  despise  the  superstition  of  a  fanatic, 
but  I  love  the  religion  of  a  man. 

Nothing  astonisnes  nie  more,  when  a  little 
sickness  clogs  the  wheel  of  life,  than  the  thoiiaht- 
Icss  career  we  run  in  the  hour  of  health. 
"  IS'one  saith,  where  is  God,  my  raaktr,  that 
giveth  songs  in  the  night :  who  ttatheth  i<.g 
more  knowledge  than  the  beasts  of  the  field, 
and  more  uiideistandiug  than  the  fowls  of  the 
air." 

jMy  creed  is  pretty  nearly  expressed  in  the  last 
clause  of  Jamie  Deans  grace,  an  honest  weaver 
in  Ayrshire  ;  "  Lord  grant  that  we  may  lead  a 
gude  life  !  for  a  gude  life  maks  a  gude  end,  at 
least  it  helps  weel !" 

A  decent  means  of  livelihood  in  the  world,  an 
approving  God,  a  peaceful  conscience,  and  one 
firm  trusty  fiiend  ;  can  any  body  that  has  these, 
be  said  to  be  unhappy  ? 

The  d-ignified  and  dignifying  consciousness  of 
an  honest  m.an,  and  the  well  giounded  trust  in 
approving  heaven,  are  two  most  substantial 
sources  of  happiness. 

Give  me,  my  Maker,  to  remember  thee ! 
Give  me  to  feel  "  another's  woe  ;"  and  con- 
tinue  with  me  that  dcar-lov'd  fiiend  that  feels 
with  mine  ! 

In  proportion  as  we  are  wrung  with  gritf,  or 
distracted  with  anxiety,  the  ideas  of  a  compas- 
sionate Deity,  an  .\lmighty  Protector,  are  doubly 
dear. 

I  have  been,  this  morning,  taking  a  peep 
througli,  as  Young  finely  says,  "  the  dark  post- 
ern of  time  long  elapsed  ;"  'twas  a  rueful  i)ros- 
pect  !  Vi'hat  a  tissue  of  thoughtlessness,  weak- 
ness, and  fully  !  My  life  reminded  me  of  a  ruin- 
ed temjile.  What  strength,  what  proportion  ia 
some  parts  !  What  unsightly  gaps,  what  pros- 
trate ruins  in  others  !  I  kneeled  down  before 
the  Fatlier  of  IMercies,  and  said,  "  Father  I 
liave  si  ,ned  against  Heaven,  and  in  thy  sight 
and  am  no  morj  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son.' 
I  ro3»v  eased,  and  strengthened. 


S04 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


TTERS,  1788. 

No.  Lxxir. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Edinhvrph,  2 1  at  Jan.  1 7S8. 

After  six  weeks'  ronfinement,  I  am  be"-in- 
ising  to  walk  across  the  lodin.  They  have  been 
«ix  horrible  weeks;  ang:>iish  and  low  spirits 
made  me  unfit  to  read,  write,  or  think. 

I  have  a  hundred  times  wished  that  one 
could  resign  life  as  an  officer  lesigns  a  commis- 
sion  :  for  I  would  not  take  in  any  poor,  igno- 
rant wietch,  by  seUlnq  out.  Lately  I  was  a 
jixpenny  private  ;  and,  God  knows,  a  miserable 
wldier  enough  ;  now  I  march  to  the  campaign, 
a  starving  cadet:  a  little  more  conspicuously 
wretched. 

I  am  ashamed  of  all  this  ;  for  though  I  do 
want  bravery  for  the  warfare  of  life,  1  could 
wish,  like  some  other  soldiers,  to  have  as  much 
fortitude  or  cunning  as  to  dissemble  or  conceal 
my  cowardice. 

As  soon  as  I  can  bear  the  journev,  which 
will  I)e,  I  suppose,  about  the  middle  of  next 
week,  I  leave  Edinburgh,  ami  s.xm  after  I  shall 
pay  my  grateful  duty  at  Dunlop-house. 


but  ypu  are  sure  of  being  re»(«Li<»oit- — yon  ca» 

afford  to  pass  by  an  occasion  to  dispi.iy  you 
wit,  because  you  may  de])eiid  for  fame  on  your 
sense  ;  or  if  you  choose  to  be  silent,  you  know 
you  can  rely  on  the  gratitude  of  many  and  the 
esteem  of  all  ;  but  Goii  help  us  who  are  wits  ol 
witlings  by  pi-ofession,  if  we  stand  not  for  fame 
there,  we  sink  unsupported  ! 

1  am  highly  flattered  by  the  news  you  tell 
me  of  Coila.*  I  may  say  to  the  fair  painter 
who  does  me  so  much  honour,  as  Dr.  Beatlie 
says  to  Ross  the  poet,  of  his  .Muse  Scotia,  fioin 
which,  by  the  bye,  I  took  the  idea  of  Coila: 
('Tis  a  poem  of  Beattie's  in  the  Scots  dialect, 
which  j)erhaps  you  liave  uever  seen. ) 

"  Ye  sbak  your  bead,  but  o'  my  fegs, 
Ye've  set  auld  Scotia  on  her  legs  : 
Lang  had  slie  lien  wi'  huffe  jnd  flegs, 

Bombaz'd  and  d:zzie, 
Her  fiddle  wanted  strings  and  pegs, 

Waes  me,  jtoor  Lizzie.*' 


No.  LXXIIL 

EXTRACT  OF   A    LETTER 

TO  THE  SA.ME. 

Edhihiirgh,  \2ffi  Feb.  1788. 
So^iE  things,  in  your  late  letters,  hurt  me  : 
not  that  yiu  sat/  t/iein,  but  that  yiiu  mistake  me. 
Religion,  my  honoured  INIadam,  has  not  only 
been  all  my  life  my  chief  dependence,  but  my 
dearest  enjoyment.  1  have  indeed  been  the 
luckless  victim  of  wayward  follies;  but,  alas  i 
I  have  ever  been  "  more  fool  than  knave." 
A  mathematician  without  religion,  is  a  jjroba- 
ble  character  ;  an  irreligious  poet,  is  a  monster. 


No.  LXXIV. 

TO  A   LADY. 

MAPAM,  Mossf/iel,  Ith  March,  1788. 

TiiK  last  paragraph  in  yours  of  the  30th  Fe- 
bniirv  affi-rted  inc  most,  so  I  shall  begin  my 
answer  where  you  ended  your  letter.  That  I 
am  often  a  sinner  with  any  little  wit  I  have,  I 
do  confess  :  but  I  have  taxed  my  recollection  to 
ao  |)urpose,  to  find  out  when  it  was  employed 
Jijamst  ynu.  I  bate  an  (inginerous  sarcasm,  a 
treat  de.il  worse  than  I  do  the  devil  ;  at  least 
«.•<  IVinton  describes  liiin  ;  and  though  I  may  be 
r;u-ca»iy  euo'igh  to  be  sometimes  guilty  of  it  my- 
Belf,    I    cannot   endure  it   in  others.      You,   my 


No.  LXXV. 
TO  iMR.  ROBERT  CLEG  HORN. 

Mat/chline,  3\st  March,   178S. 

Yesterday,  my  dear  Sir,  as  1  was  riding 
through  a  track  of  melancholy  jovlcss  niuii-s, 
between  Galloway  and  Ayrshire,  it  lieiiig  Sun- 
day, I  turned  my  thoughts  to  psalms,  arid  ' 
hymns,  and  spiritual  songs  ;  and  your  favourite 
air,  Captain  O'Aean,  coming  at  length  in  mv 
head,  1  tried  these  words  to  it.  You  will  .see 
that  the  first  part  of  the  tune  must  be  repeated.f 

I  am  tolerably  pleased  with  tliese  verses,  but 
as  I  have  only  a  sketch  of  the  tune,  I  leave  it 
with  you  to  try  if  they  suit  the  measure  of  the 
music. 

I  am  ,so  harassed  with  care  and  anxiety,  about 
this  farming  project  of  mine,  that  my  muse  baa 
degenerated  into  the  veriest  prose-wench  that 
ever  picked  cinders,  or  followeil  a  tinker.  When 
I  am  tairly  got  into  the  routine  of  busiru'ss,  I 
shall  trouble  you  with  a  longer  epistle  ;  jierliips 
with  some  queries  respecting  firming  ;  at  pie- 
sent,  the  world  sits  such  a  load  on  my  mind, 
that  it  has  effaced  almost  every  trace  of  the 
in  me. 


Uly  very  best   coiiiplimeuts  and  good  wishes 
to  Airs.  Cleghorn. 


No.  LXXYL 
FROJI  MR.  ROBERT  CLEGHORN. 
Satipfitnn  Mills,  271/1  April,  1788. 

SIY  DEAR   BKOTIIER   FARMER, 

I  WAS  favoured  with  your  very  kind  letter  of 


•  A  laily  was  m.aking  a  picture  from  the  ilcscriptiot 
of  Coila  in  the  fision. 


,  I /■  •      1       1  ,•   ,  •  I      t   Merc  the  bard  gives  thp  flrst stanza  Of  the  C/fi^ 

bouuured  Irieud,  who  cannot  ajipear  in  any  light,  |  lUr't  Lament, 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


theSlst  n't.  and  co.;siiU'r  myself  p:rp;itly  ohlii;eil 
to  \iui,  fur  vdur  atfiMitiiiii  in  sftidiiis;  mo  the 
Bons^  to  mv  f'avuiiiite  air,  Ciiptuin  O' Keiin. 
1  lie  wiir.l-.  iloli>;lit  mo  muc!i  ;  tlioy  fit  tlie  tune 
to  a  liair.  I  wish  you  would  soml  mo  a  vorso 
or  two  more  ;  and  if  yon  have  no  olycction,  I 
winiUl  liave  it  in  tlie  Jacohite  style.  Suppose 
it  shoul.l  1)0  -^uns;  afcer  the  fatal  field  of  Cullu- 
don  hv  the  upfoituii  ite  Charles  :  Tondiicci  per- 
sonates the  lovely  M.iry  Stuart  in  the  soni; 
Qiieai  Marys  Luinentntion.  —  Why  may  not 
1  siii'jj  in  the  person  of  her  great-great-great 
grandson  ?* 

Any  skill  I  have  in  country  husiness  you  may 
truly  command.  Situation,  soil,  customs  of 
countries  may  vary  from  each  other,  hut  Fiir- 
mer  Attention  is  a  f^ood  firmer  in  every  place. 
I  he;^  to  hear  fioni  you  soon.  IMrs.  Cleghoru 
loins  me  \n  host  compliments. 

I  am,  in  the  uuxt  coiuprehensive  sense  of  the 
word,  yo'ir  very  siiucere  friend, 

UOBEUT  CLEGHORN. 


No.  LXXVlI. 
TO  MR.  JAMES  S.AITTH, 

AVO.V  PRINTFIEI.D,   LINLITHGOW. 

Manchllne,  April  2S,  ITS'?. 

Beware  of  your  Strashurgh,  my  good  Sir! 
Look  on  this  as  the  opening  of  a  correspondence 
like  the  opening  of  a  twenty-four  gun  l)attery  ! 

There  is  no  understanding  a  man  properly, 
without  knowing  something  of  his  previous  ideas 
(that  is  to  say,  if  the  man  has  any  ideas  ;  for  I 
know  many  who  in  the  animal-muster,  pass  for 
men,  that  are  the  scanty  m  isters  of  only  one 
idea  on  any  given  suljject,  and  hy  far  the  great- 
est <irt.  of  your  acquaintances  and  mine  can 
barely  hiiast  of  ideas,  1.25 — 1.5 — 1.75,  or  some 
such  fractional  matter),  so  to  let  you  a  little 
Vito  tlie  secrets  of  my  pericranium,  there  is,  you 
must  know,  a  certain  clean-limhe<l,  handsome, 
bewitching  voung  hussy  of  your  acijuaintance, 
to  whom  I  have  lately  and  privately  given  a  nia- 
trLaonial  title  to  my  corpus. 

"  Bode  a  robe  and  wear  it," 

S.'.y*  the  wise  old  Scots  adage  !  I  hate  to  pre- 
sige  ill-luck  ;  and  as  my  girl  lias  been  dimbly 
kinder  to  me  than  even  the  best  of  women 
usually  are  to  their  partners  of  our  sex,  in  simi- 
lar circumstances,  I  reckon  on  twelve  times  a 
brace  of  children  against  I  celebrate  my  twelfth 
wedding  day  :  these  twenty-four  will  give  me 
twenty- four  gossiiipings,  twenty-four  christen- 
ings, (I  mean  one  equal  to  two),  and  I  hope  by 
the  blessing  of  the  uod  of  my  fathers,   to  make 

•  Our  Poet  took  this  advicp.     See  iioctry  for  the 
vAole  ot  that  beautiful  song— ilie  CheTaiicr'i  (uwMit. 


tliem  .venty-fo'ir  dutiful  cliildren  tr>  tbeir  plfc- 
rent'*,  twenly-loiir  u-eful  iiuMiilpers  of  iiociet^, 
and  twenty-four  approven  servants  id' their  find  ' 

"  Lij;hl's  heart-ome,"  quo'  tht 

wife  when  she  was  stealing  sheep.  You  see 
whit  a  lamp  I  hive  hung  up  to  lighten  your 
paths,  when  you  are  iille  enough  to  exploie  tr.e 
combinations  and  relations  of  my  ideas  'Tis 
now  as  plain  as  a  pike-statf,  why  a  tuenfy-four 
gun  battery  was  a  metaphor  1  could  readily 
employ. 

Now  for  business. — 1  intend  to  present  Mrs. 
Burns  with  a  printed  shawl,  an  articU  ot  woicb 
I  dare  say  you  have  variety  :  'tis  my  first  pre- 
sent to  her  since  I  have  irrevocahly  calleii  ner 
mine,  and  I  have  a  kind  of  whimsical  wish  to 
get  her  the  said  first  present  from  an  old  and 
uiiu'h  valued  fjiend  of  hers  and  111100,  a  trusty 
Trojdii,  on  who^e  frieuilship  I  count  myself 
possessed  of  a  lile-reut  lease. 


Look  on  lliis  letter  as  a  "  beginning  cf  iior- 
rows  ;"  I'll  write  you  till  your  eyes  ache  with 
reailing  mmsense. 

Mrs.  Burns  ('tis  only  her  jirivate  designa- 
tion J,  begs  her  best  coiiiplimeuts  to  you. 


No.  LXXVIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

MADAM,  Mavchline,  28</t  Ajiril,  1 'SS 

Your  powers  of  reprehension  must  be  ereal 
indeed,  as  I  assure  yon  they  made  my  heart 
aclie  with  penitential  pangs,  even  t!iou'.;h  ii  was 
really  not  guilty.  As  I  ronimence  firmer  at 
Whitsunday,  you  will  easily  guess  I  must  be 
jiretty  I'Usy  ;  but  tliat  is  not  nil.  A^  1  got  the 
(lifer  of  the  excise  business  without  solicitation  ; 
and  as  it  cost.s  nie  only  six  months'  attendmce 
for  instructions,  to  entitle  me  to  a  commission  ; 
which  conimissiim  lies  by  me,  and  at  any  futuie 
period,  on  my  simple  petition,  can  he  resumed  ; 
1  thou<;lit  five  and  thiity  pouiuls  a-year  was  no 
bail  dernier  resort  for  a  pour  poet,  if  loi  tune  in 
her  jade  tricks  should  kick  him  down  from  the 
little  eminence  to  which  she  has  lately  helped 
him  up. 

For  this  reason,  I  am  at  present  attending 
these  instructions,  to  have  them  conviletcd  he- 
fore  Whitsumlay.  Stiil,  Madam,  I  |ircpared 
with  the  sincerest  jileasure  to  meet  yon  at  the 
Mount,  ami  came  to  my  brother's  on  Saturday 
nitjlit,  to  set  out  on  Suiid.iy  ;  but  fur  somj 
night.s  preceding  I  had  slept  in  an  apaitment, 
where  the  force  of  the  winds  and  rain  was  only 
mitigated  by  being  sifted  through  numher'es* 
ajiertiiies  in  the  windows,  walN,  Skc.  In  con- 
sequence I  was  on  Sunday,  Monday,  and  part 
'of  Tuesday  unable  to  stir  out  of  bed,  with  a)} 
;  the  niiserabls  eiluctii  of  a  violent  culci. 


S(G 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


You  see,  Midim,  the  trutn  of  the  French 
maxim,  L,e  vr.ji  ti'est  })as  toi/jimrs  le  vrai-sem- 
biuble  ;  yciiii-  1,1st  was  so  lull  of  expostulation, 
tntl  was  ^(>methinc;  so  like  the  languaete  of  an 
offeiirled  fiienil,  that  I  began  to  tremble  for  a 
corresponileiice,  which  I  had  with  grateful  plea- 
iure  set  down  as  ont  of  the  greatest  enjoyments 
of  my  future  life. 


Your  books  have  delighted  me  ;  Virgil,  Dry- 
den,  and  Tasso,  were  all  equal  strangers  to  me  ; 
but  of  this  more  at  large  in  my  next 


No.  LXXIX. 

FROM  THE  REV.  JOHN  SKINNER. 

BEAR  SIR,  Linshart,  aS'A  April,  1788. 

I  RECEIVED  your  last,  with  the  curious  pre- 
sent you  have  favoured  me  with,  and  would 
have  made  proper  acknowledgments  before  now, 
out  that  I  have  been  necessarily  engaged  in 
matters  of  a  different  complexion.  And  now 
that  I  have  got  a  little  respite,  I  make  use  of  it 
to  thank  you  for  this  valuable  instance  of  your 
good  will,  and  to  assure  you  that,  with  the  sin- 
cere heart  of  a  true  Scotsman,  I  highly  esteem 
both  the  gift  and  the  giver  :  as  a  small  testi- 
mony of  which  I  have  herewith  sent  you  for 
your  amusement  (and  in  a  form  which  I  hope 
you  will  excuse  for  saving  postage)  the  two 
songs  I  wrote  about  to  you  already.  Charming 
Nuncy  is  the  real  production  of  genius  in  a 
ploughman  of  twenty  years  of  age  at  the  time 
of  its  appearing,  with  no  more  education  than 
what  he  picked  up  at  an  old  farmer-grandfa- 
ther's fireside,  though  now,  by  the  strength  of 
natural  parts,  he  is  clerk  to  a  thriving  bleach- 
field  in  tlie  neighbourhood.  And  I  doubt  not 
but  you  xvill  find  in  it  a  simplicity  and  delicacy, 
with  some  turns  of  humour,  that  will  please 
one  of  your  taste  ;  at  least  it  pleased  me  when 
I  first  saw  it,  if  that  can  be  any  recommenda- 
tion to  it.  The  other  is  entirely  descriptive  of 
my  own  sentiments,  and  joii  may  make  use  of 
one  or  both  us  you  shall  see  good.* 


•  CHARMING  N.VN'CV. 


A  gONO,  BY  A  DUL'HAM  PLOUGHMAN. 

Tunc—"  Humours  of  Glen." 


/mil  MMMu  Hive*  n»  sriig  in  me  iiiinu>urs  or  (/icn. 
But  iny  (inly  t'iuicy,  is  my  pretty  N.inov, 

In  ventinj^  my  passion,  I'll  strive  to  lie  plain, 
I'll  isk  no  more  treasure,  I'll  seek  no  more  pli'asurc, 

Hut  thee,  my  dear  Nancy,  giu  thou  wert  my  aio. 


n  isK  no  more  treasure,  111  seek  no  more  pli'i 
But  thee,  my  dear  Nancy,  giu  thou  wert  my 

Her  be.Tf-ty  dilights  mc,  ncr  kindne.s  invites  me, 
Her  pleasant  bellaviour  is  fine  fioui  all  stain  : 


You  will  oblige  me  w  presenting  my  respects 
to  your  host,  Mr.  Cruikshank,  who  has  given 
such  high  approbation  to  my  poor  Latinity 
you  may  let  him  kuow,  that  as  I  have  likewise 
been  a  dabbler  in  Latin  poetry,  I  have  two 
things  that  I  would,  if  he  desire*  it,  submit  not 
to  his  judgment,  but  to  his  amusement  :  the 
one,  a  translation  of  Christ's  Kirk  0'  the  Green, 
printed  at  Aberdeen  some  years  ago  ;  the  other, 
Batriichnmyomachia  Homen  Latinis  versibut 
cum  additamentis,  given  in  litely  to  Chalmers, 
to  print  if  he  pleases.  JIi.  C.  will  know  Se- 
ria  non  semper  dekctant,  nnn  joca  semper. 
Semper  delectant  seria  mixta  jocis. 

I  have  just  room  to  repeat  compliments  and 
good  wishes  from. 

Sir,  your  humble  servant, 

JOHN  SKINNER. 


No.  LXXX. 
TO  PROFESSOR  DUGALD  STEWART. 

SIR,  MancMlne,  Sd  May,  1787. 

I  ENCLOSE  you  one  or  two  more  of  my  baga 
telles.  If  the  fervent  wishes  of  honest  grati- 
tude have  any  influence  with  that  great,  un- 
known Keing,  who  frames  the  chain  of  causes 
and  events  ;  prosperity  and  happiness  will  at- 
tend your  visit  to  the  Continent,  and  return  yoB 
safe  to  your  native  shore. 

VVherevei-  I  am,  allow  me.  Sir,  to  claim  it  as 
my  privilege,  to  acquaint  you  with  my  progress 
in  my  trade  of  rhymes;  as  I  am  sure  I  could 
say  it  with  truth,  that,  next  to  my  little  fame, 
and    the   having  it   in  my  power  to  make  life 


Therefore,  my  sweet  jewel,  O  do  not  prove  cruel. 
Consent,  my  dear  Na  ey,  and  eoine  be  my  ain  : 

Hor  carriai,'e  is  comely,  her  language  is  homely. 
Her  dress  is  quite  decent  when  ta'en  in  the  main  : ' 

She's  blooming  in  fiaturc,  she's  handsome  in  stature. 
My  charming,  dear  Nancy,  O  wert  thou  my  ain  ! 

Like  Phoebus  adorning  the  fair  ruddy  morning. 

Her  bright  eyes  are  sparkling,  lier  brows  are  serene, 
Her  yellow  locks  shining,  in  beauty  combining, 

My  cliarming,  sweet  Nancy,  wilt  thou  be  my  ain.' 
The  whole  of  her  face  is  with  maidenly  graces 

Array'd  like  the  gowans,  that  grow  in  yon  glen. 
She's  well  shaped  and  slender,  true  hearteil  and  teiukr. 

My  charming,  sweet  Nancy,  O  wert  thou  my  am  '. 

I'll  seek  through  the  nation  for  some  habitation. 

To  shelter  my  dear  from  the  cold,  snow,  and  rain. 
With  songs  to  my  deary,  I'll  keep  lier  aye  cheery, 

My  eharmin!;,  sweet  Nancy,  gni  thou'weit  my  air. 
I'll  work  at  my  calling,  to  furnish  lliy  dwelling, 

\\  ith  ev'ry  thing  needful  thy  life  tii  sustain ; 
Thou  slialt  not  sit  sniglc,  but  by  a  cK.ir  uigle, 

I'll  marrow  thee,  Nancy,  when  thou  art  my  am. 

I'll  rnake  true  affoction  the  constant  direction 

Of  loving  my  Nancy  while  life  doih  reii  ain  : 
Tho'  youth  will  be  wasting,  true  lo\  e  sli:ill  be  Listing 

My  charming,  sweet  Nancy,  gin  lliou  wert  my  ain. 
But  what  if  my  Nancy  should  alter  her  fancy, 

To  (avour  another  lie  forward  and  lain, 
I  will  not  coiiiiicl  her,  but  plainly  I'll  tell  licr, 

Ucgoiie  thou  falsi'  Nancy,  thou'sc  ne'er  be  rry  Bia« 

The  Old  Man's  Song,  (see  o.  13jJ 


CORRESPONDENX'E. 


307 


more  conifortaWe  to  tliose  whom  nature  has 
made  dear  to  me,  I  shall  ever  regard  your  eouu- 
tinance,  your  patronage,  your  frienilly  good  of- 
fiee<,  as  the  most  valued  consequence  of  my  late 
success  iu  life. 


No.  LXXXI. 

EXTRACT  OF  A   LETTER 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

MADAM,  Matichllne,  ith  May,  1788. 

DiivrEN's  Virgil  has  delighttd  me.  1  do 
not  know  whether  the  critics  will  agree  with 
me,  hut  the  Gtorgics  are  to  me  by  far  the  best 
of  Virgil,  li  -s  indeed  a  species  of  writing  en- 
tirely new  to  me;  and  has  filled  my  head  with 
a  thousand  fancies  of  enmlation  ;  but,  alas  1 
when  I  read  thi  Genrgics,  and  then  survey  mv 
own  powers,  'tis  like  the  idea  of  a  Sliethind 
poney,  drawn  up  by  tlie  side  of  a  thorough-bred 
hunter,  to  start  for  the  ])late.  I  own  I  am  dis- 
appointed in  the  ^neid.  Faultless  correct- 
ness may  please,  and  does  highly  please  the  let- 
tered critic  ;  but  to  that  awful  character  I  have 
not  the  most  distant  pretensions.  I  do  not 
know  whether  I  do  not  luizard  my  pretensions 
to  be  a  critic  of  any  kind,  when  I  say  that  I 
third;  \  irgil,  in  many  instances,  a  servile  copier 
of  Homer.  If  i  had  the  Othjssei/  by  me,  I 
could  parallel  many  passages  where  Virgil  has 
evidently  copied,  but  by  no  means  improved 
Homer.  Nor  can  1  think  there  is  any  thing  of 
this  owing  to  the  translators  ;  for,  from  every 
thing  I  have  seen  of  Dryden,  I  think  him,  in 
genius  and  fluency  of  language.  Pope's  master. 
I  have  not  perused  Tasso  enough  to  form  an 
opinion  :  in  some  future  letter,  you  shall  have 
my  ideas  of  him  ;  though  I  am  conscious  my 
criticisms  must  be  very  inaccurate  and  imper- 
fect, as  there  I  have  ever  felt  and  lamented  my 
want  of  learning  most. 


No.  LXXXII. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Mauchllne,  May  26,  17SS. 
Mt  hear  friend, 

I  AM  two  kind  letters  in  your  debt,  but  I 
have  been  from  home,  and  horridly  busy  Iruying 
and  prepaiing  for  my  farming  business;  over 
and  above  the  plague  of  my  Excise  instructions, 
which  this  week  will  finish. 

As  I  flitter  my  wishes  that  I  foresee  many 
ifuture  years"  correspondence  between  us,  'tis 
foolish  to  talk  of  excusing  dull  epistles  :  &  dull 
letter  may  be  a  very  kind  one.  I  have  the  plea- 
«uie  to  tell  jou  tin.  I  have  bsen  extremely  for- 


tunate in  all  my  liuyings  and  bargainings  hither, 
to  ;  Mrs.  Bums  not  excejited  ;  wliich  title  I 
now  avow  to  the  world.  I  am  trulv  p!ea<:cd 
with  this  last  affair  :  it  has  indeed  adil.-d  u>  nj 
anxieties  for  futurity,  but  it  hasg.'ven  :i  s'll  i^iiv 
to  my  mind  and  resolutions,  unknmvM  '  .■''  rt- 
and  the  |)oor  girl  has  the  most  sacred  .■lulm^i  .sm 
of  attachment  to  me,  and  has  not  a  wish  but  to 
gratify  my  every  idea  of  her  deportment. 
I  am  inteirujjted. 

Farewell  !   my  dear  Sir. 


Nr»    LXXXIII. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

MADAM,  27</t  May,  1788. 

I  HAVE  been  torturing  my  philosophy  to  no 
purpose,    to  account  for  tliat  kind  partiality  of 

yours,  which,  unlike 

,   has   followeil   me  in   my 

return  to  the  shade  of  life,  with  assiduous  be- 
nevolence. Often  did  I  regret  in  the  fleeting 
hours  (if  my  late  wilbo'-wisp  apjiearance,  that 
"  here  I  had  no  continuing  city  ;"  and  but  fi;r 
the  consolation  of  a  iew  solid  guineas,  could 
almost  lament  the  time  that  a  momentary  ac- 
quaintance with  wealth  and  s])lend.iur  put  me 
so  much  out  of  conceit  with  the  sworn  com- 
panions of  my  road  through  life,  insignificance, 
and  poverty. 


There  are  few  circumstances  relating  to  the 
unequal  distribution  of  the  good  things  of  this 
life,  that  give  me  more  vexation  (I  mean  in 
what  1  see  around  me)  than  the  importance  the 
opulent  bestow  on  their  trifling  faiiidy  affairs, 
compared  with  the  very  same  things  on  the  con- 
tracted scale  of  a  cottage.  Last  afternoon  I  had 
the  honour  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  at  a  good 
woman's  fireside,  where  the  jilaoks  that  com- 
posed the  floor  were  decorated  with  a  splendid 
carpet,  and-  the  gay  table  spirkle<l  with  silver 
and  china.  'Tis  now  about  term-day,  and  there 
has  been  a  revolution  among  those  creatures, 
who,  though  in  appearance  partakers,  and 
equally  noble  partakers  of  the  same  n.iture  with 
madame  ;  are  from  time  to  time,  their  nerves, 
their  sinews,  their  health,  strength,  wisdom, 
experience,  genius,  time,  nay,  a  good  part  oi 
their  very  thoughts,   sold  for  months  and  years, 


not  only  to  the  necessities,  the  conveniences,  but 
the  caprices  of  the  important  \\:\v.''  We  talked 
of  the  insignificant  creatures  ;  nay,  notwith- 
standing their  general  stupidity  and  rascality 
did  some  of  the  poor  devils  the  honour  to  com- 


»  Servants  in  Scotland  are  hired  from  term  to  jcrm. 
i.  e.  from  Whit^uuduv  to  Marliniiias,  ike. 


308 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


mend  them.  But  light  De  the  turf  upon  '  is 
breast,  who  taught  "  Reverence  thyself."  We 
>oi)l\e<]  down  on  the  u])()lisheii  wretches,  their 
inijiei tinint  wives  and  chiiiterly  lirats,  as  the 
loidly  hull  dues  on  the  little  dirty  ant-hill, 
whose  puny  iiihahitants  he  crushes  in  the  i-are- 
lessness  of  his  rainhle,  or  tosses  in  air  in  the 
wantonness  of  his  pride. 


No.  LXXXIV. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

(at  MR.  DUNLOP's,    KADDINGTON.) 

EUhland,  VMh  June,  1798. 
"  Wliere'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  I  see, 
Wy  lieart,  untr.ivell'd,  fondly  tuins  to  thee  ; 
Still  to  my  friend  it  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  eadi  remove  a  lengthen'd  chain." 

GOLDSMITH. 

This  is  the  second  day,  my  honoured  friend, 
that  I  have  heen  on  my  farm.  A  solitary  in- 
nute  of  an  old,  smoky  sj>tnce ;  far  from  every 
ohject  I  love,  or  liy  wliiim  I  am  loved  ;  nor  any 
acquaintance  older  than  yesterilay,  except  Jen- 
ny  (ieddes,  the  oM  mare  I  ride  on  ;  while  un- 
couth cares,  and  novel  plans,  hourly  insult  my 
awkward  ignorance  and  bashful  inexperience. 
Theie  is  a  toggy  atmosphere  native  to  my  soul 
lu  the  hour  of  care,  conseijueiitly  the  dreary  ob- 
jects seem  larger  than  the  life.  Extreme  sensi- 
bility, irritated  and  prejudiced  on  the  gloomy 
side  l)y  a  series  of  misfortunes  and  dis:i|i))()iot- 
ments,  at  tliat  period  of  my  existence  when  the 
soul  is  laying  in  her  cai  go  of  ideas  for  the  voyage 
of  life,  is,  1  believe,  the  principal  cause  of  this 
unhappy  frame  of  mind. 

"  Tlic  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer  ? 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  siiiyle  woes  ?"  8cc. 

Your  surmise,  Aludam,  is  just ;  I  am  i&deed 
a  husband. 


a  good  wife,  though  she  shou' !]  never  have  read 
a  pjge,  but  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and  Neui 
Tfstameitt,  nor  have  danced  in  a  brighter  a» 
sembly  than  a  penny  pay-wedding. 


I  found  a  once  inuch-Iovcd  and  still  much- 
loved  female,  literally  and  truly  cast  out  to  the 
mercy  of  the  naked  elements,  but  as  I  enabled 
her  to  piirchiise  a  shelter  ;  and  there  is  no 
sporting  with  a  fellnw-creature's  happiness  or 
misery. 

The  most  jdacid  good-uature  and  sweetness 
<f  disposition  .  a  warm  heart,  gratefullv  devoted 
with  all  its  powers  to  love  me  ;  vigorous  health 
and  spiightly  cheerfulness,  set  (iff  to  the  best 
advantage,  liy  a  nicne  than  common  h  indxune 
^j^ure  ;    iIksc.  1  think,    in  a  woman,    may  make 


No.  LXXXV. 
TO  MR.  P.  HILL. 

MY  DEAR   HIM., 

1  SHALL  suy  nothing  at  all  to  your  mad  pre- 
sent— you  have  so  long  and  otten  been  of  im- 
portant Service  to  me,  and  I  suppose  you  mean 
to  go  on  conferring  obligations  until  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  lift  up  my  face  before  you.  la  the 
meantime,  as  Sir  Roger  de  Coveiley,  because  it 
happened  to  be  a  cold  day  in  which  he  made 
his  will,  ordered  his  servants  great  coats  for 
mourning,  so,  because  I  have  been  this  week 
plagueil  with  an  indige>tion,  I  have  seut  you  by 
the  carrier  a  fine  old  ewe-milk  cheese. 

Indigestion  is  the  devil :  nay,  'tis  the  devil 
and  all.  It  besets  a  man  in  every  one  of  his 
senses.  I  lose  my  appetite  at  the  sight  of  suc- 
cosful  knavery  ;  and  sicken  to  loathing  at  the 
niiise  and  nonsense  of  self-important  folly. 
When  the  hollow-hearted  wretch  takes  me  by 
the  han<l,  the  feeling  spoils  my  dinner  ;  tlie 
proud  man's  wine  so  offends  my  palate,  that  it 
chokes  me  in  the  gullet ;  and  the  pulvilWd, 
feathered,  pert  coxcomb,  is  so  di?gustful  in  my 
nostril  that  my  stomach  turns. 

If  ever  you  have  any  of  these  disagreeable 
sensations,  let  me  pre-cribe  for  you  ])atitnce  and 
a  bit  of  my  cheese.  I  know  tliat  you  are  no 
niggard  of  your  good  things  among  your  friends, 
and  some  of  them  are  in  much  need  of  a  slice. 
There  in  my  eye  is  out  friend  SuuUie,  a  man  po- 
sitively of  the  first  abdities  and  greatest  strength 
of  mind,  as  well  as  (me  of  the  best  hearts  and 
keenest  wits  that  I  have  ever  met  with  :  when 
you  see  him,  as,  alas  !  he  too  is  .smarting  at  tl"« 
pinch    of  distressful    circumstances,    aggravate! 

liy  the  sneer  of  contumelious  greatnes a  bit  of 

my  cheese  aUme  will  not  cure  him,  but  if  you 
add  a  tankard  of  brown  stout,  and  superadd  a 
magnum  of  right  Op(uto,  you  will  see  his  sor- 
rows vanish  like  the  morning  mi^t  before  the 
summer  sun. 

C h,   the  earliest  friend,  except  my  only 

brother,  that  1  have  on  earth,  and  one  of  the 
worthiest  fellows  that  ever  any  man  called  by 
the  name  of  friend,  if  a  luncheim  of  my  cheese 
would  help  to  rid  him  of  some  of  hi.s  su|ier;»- 
buiidant  modesty,  you  would  do  well  to  gi'.e  it 
him. 

David  •  with  his  Courant  come«,  tr  »,  across 
my  recollection,    and    I  beg  you  will   nelp  him 

•  Printer  of  the  Eilniburgli  Kvcnnig  Coura»U 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


SOS 


An^ely  from  the  s.iiil  cu'e-tnilk  cTiee«e,  to  ena- 
ble him  to  diijest  tlio^e  hcilauliiiij;  paia- 

giapli-i  with  which  lie  is  eteinilly  I.iicliii;;  the 
l<Mii  i-h:irai'tcMS  of  certain  sj'"'-'-''  "'*'"  '"  ■^  certain 
^le.U  town.  I  grant  yon  tiie  iieriods  are  very 
well  turned  :  so,  a  fresh  es:'j;  is  a  very  j^ood 
inin;;  ;  hut  when  thrown  at  a  man  in  a  pillory 
\t  does  not  at  ail  improve  liis  figure,  not  to  nien- 
rion  the  irreparahle  loss  of  the  egg. 

Jly  facetious  friend,  D r,  I  would  wish  [ 

also  to  lie  a  partaker  ;  not  to  digest  his  spleen, 
for  that  he  laughs  o'T,  hut  to  digest  his  l.ist 
night's  wine  at  the  last  field-day  of  the  Croch- 
xHan  corps.  * 

Among  our  commim  friends  I  must  not  for- 
get one  of  the  dearest  of  them,  Cunningham. 
The  hrutahty,  iu<oIince,  and  selfishne-s  of  a 
world  unworthy  of  having  such  a  fellow  as  he 
is  m  it,  I  know  sticks  in  his  stomach,  and  if 
yon  can  help  him  to  any  thing  that  will  make 
liim  a  little  easier  on  that  score,  it  will  he  very 
obliging. 

As  to  honest  J S e,   he  is  such  a 

contented  happy  man  that  I  know  not  what  can 
annoy  him,  exce|)t  perhaps  he  may  not  have  got 
the  lietter  of  a  parcel  of  modest  anecdotes  which 
a  certain  poet  gave  him  one  night  at  sup[)er, 
the  1 1st  time  the  said  poet  w  is  in  town. 

Though  I  have  mentioned  so  many  men  of 
law,  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  pro- 
fessedly— the  Faculty  are  beyond  my  presc-rip- 
tion.  As  to  their  clienti,  that  is  another  thing ; 
God  knows  they  have  much  to  digest  ! 

The  di'rgy  I  p  iss  by;  their  profundity  of 
erudition,  and  their  lilierahty  of  sentiment  ; 
their  total  want  of  pride,  and  their  detestation 
of  hypociisy,  are  so  proverbially  notorious  as  to 
place  them  far,  far  aliove  either  my  praise  or 
censure. 

I  was  going  to  mention  a  man  of  worth, 
whiim  I  have  the  honour  to  call  friend,  the 
Laird  of  Craigdarroch  ;  but  I  have  spiiken  to 
the  landlord  of  the  King's  arms  inn  here,  to 
have,  at  the  next  county-meeting,  a  large  ewe- 
iiillk  cheese  on  the  table,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
Dunifriesshire  whigs,  to  enable  them  to  digest 
the  Duke  of  Queeusberry's  late  political  con- 
duct. 

I  have  just  this  moment  an  o|ipi)rtunity  of  a 
private  hand  to  Ed.nburgh,  as  perhaps  )ou  would 
out  digest  double  postage. 


No.  LXXXVI. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Eltisliind,  June  I  i.   ITH8. 
This  is  now  the  third   day,    my  dearest  Sir, 
that  1  have  sojourned  in  these  regioiiH  ;   and  (lu- 
ring  these   three  days   you    have  occiipi'-d  inoie 
ef  iiiv  thoughts  than  in  ihree  weeks  preceding  : 


•  A  club  o.  choice  si'irlts. 


In  Ayrshire  I  have  several  V'trinltans  of  friend- 
ship's compass,  here   it   points   invari.ibly  to  the 

pole My  firm  gives  n:e  a  good  many  uncouth 

cares  and  anxieties,  but  I  hate  the  language  o. 
complaint.  Jub,  or  sduie  one  of  bis  Iriends, 
says  well — "  Why  should  a  living  man  cma- 
jdain  ?" 

I  have  l.itely  been  njuch  mortified  with  ("on- 
temjdating  an  urducky  impel  fectiou  in  the  very 
framing  and  coiistructitm  of  my  sdiil  ;  namely, 
a  blundering  iiiaeciiraey  of  her  olfactory  lugana 
in  hitting  the  scent  <d"  cralt  or  design  in  my 
fullow  creatures.  I  do  not  mean  any  C(mi|ili- 
inent  to  my  ingenuousness,  or  to  liint  that  the 
defect  is  in  consequence  of  the  unsuspicious  sim- 
plicity of  conscious  truth  and  honour  :  I  take  it 
to  be,  in  some  way  or  other,  an  inip'Tf.'Ction  in 
the  mentd  sight  ;  or,  metaphor  apait,  some 
mo(lific«ri(in  of  dulness.  In  two  or  three  sinal 
instances  iatcly,  I  have  been  most  shamefully 
out. 

I  have  all  a'ong,  hitherto,  in  the  waifare  of 
life,  been  bred  to  arms  among  the  light-horse — 
the  piquet-guards  of  fancy  ;  a  kind  of  hussars 
and  higlilandcrs  td"  the  biniii ;  but  I  am  firmly 
resolved  to  .v<//  out  of  these  gidily  battalions,  who 
have  no  ideas  of  a  battle  but  fighting  the  foe,  oi 
of  a  siege  but  stoiniiiig  the  town.  Cost  wli.it  it 
will,  I  uin  determined  to  buy  in  among  the  grave 
sijuadrims  of  heavy-armed  thought,  or  the  artil- 
lery corps  of  plodding  coiiti  ivance. 

What  books  are  you  reading,  or  what  is  tha 
subject  of  your  thoughts,  bes;iles  the  great  stu- 
dies of  vour  [iro!e>sio:i  ?  Yon  said  something 
1  bout  religion  in  your  last.  1  don't  exi.ctly  le- 
ti. ember  what  it  was,  as  the  letter  is  in  Ayr- 
shire ;  but  I  thought  it  not  only  prettily  said, 
but  nobly  tbouiiht.  You  will  make  a  noble  fel- 
low if  once  you  were  married.  1  make  no  re- 
seivation  iif  your  being  (/■e//-marrieil  :  You  have 
so  much  se  se,  and  knowledge  of  human  nature, 
that  though  you  mviy  not  lealize  |ierhaps  the 
ideas  of  ruuiaiice,  yet  you  will  never  be  ill-mar- 
ned. 

Were  it  not  for  the  terrors  of  my  ticklish  si- 
tuation resjiecting  provisinn  for  a  family  ot  chil- 
dren, I  am  decidedly  of  opiiiion  that  the  step  I 
have  taken  is  vastly  for  my  happiness.  As  it  is, 
I  look  to  the  excise  scheme  as  a  certainty  ol 
maintenance  ;  a  maintenance,  luxury  tu  what 
either  Airs.  Iturus  or  I  were  born  tu. 

Adieu. 


No.  LXXXVII. 

TO  xMR.  MORISON,'  Wriaht, 
Maui.'iii.ine. 

EMslund,  June  22.  17S8. 

MV   DKAR  SIR, 

NtcESMtv   obliges  wi  to   go   into  my  new 


•  This  Idler   refers  to  ff.dirj    aiitl  other  articles  oi 
furaiiuie  wlueli  llie  i'uel  ti.iil<  rUeied. 


SIO 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


hnu^e,  even  before  it  \k  plistarpd.  I  will  inha- 
bit the  one  end  until  the  oti:er  is  finished.  About 
three  weeks  more,  I  think,  will  at  farthest,  be 
my  time,  beyond  which  I  cannot  stay  in  this 
present  bouse.  If  ever  you  wished  to  deserve 
the  blessing  of  him  that  was  rcaily  to  perish  ;  if 
ever  you  were  in  a  situation  that  a  little  kind- 
ness wnulil  have  rescued  you  from  many  evils  ; 
if  ever  you  hope  to  find  lest  in  future  states  of 
jntried  being  ; — get  these  matters  of  mine  rea- 
.  dv.  My  servant  will  be  out  in  the  beginning  of 
uext  week  for  the  clock.  RIy  compliments  to 
Mrs.  Morison. 

I  am,  after  all  my  tribulation, 

Dear  Sir,  yours. 


No.   LXXXVIII. 
TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Ellhland,  Jane  30,  1788. 

Mr   DEAR   SIR, 

I  JUST  now  received  your  brief  epistle  ;  and 
to  take  vengeance  on  your  laziness,  1  have,  you 
see,  taken  a  long  sheet  of  writing-paper,  and 
have  bi'gim  at  the  top  of  the  page,  intending  to 
Bcrilihle  on  to  the  very  la'^t  corner. 

I  am  vext  at  that  affair  of  the  .  .  .,  but 
dare  not  enlarge  on  the  subject  until  you  send  • 
me  your  direction,  as  I  sup|xi-ie  tiiat  will  he  al- 
tered on  your  late  master  and  friend's  death.  I 
am  concerned  for  the  old  fellow's  exit,  only  as  I 
fear  it  may  be  to  your  disadvantage  in  any  re- 
gjM^i-t — for  an  old  man's  dying,  except  be  have 
been  a  very  benevolent  character,  or  in  some 
particular  situation  of  life,    that  the  welfare  of 

t!ie    poor    t.T   the    helpless    depeniled   on   him,  I     ""S''"         •  ,      ,,    ,      r     ,      ,  ,         ..  .      , 

think  it  an  eve.,t  of  ti.e  most  trithng  moment  to  ,  ^^'^'■^^  '■    ""''  a"  ^l^)'  ^^"1^=*  ^  l''^'^  thee  entuely 
the  worl.l.     JIan  is  naturally  a  kitid  benevolent    "''''^^   "" 

animal,  but  he  is  dropt  into  such  a  needy  situa-  ,  ,  ^  c  ■      \ 

U.n  here  in  this  vexatious  world,  and  has  such  ;  ^^'i^  "  prostituted  business,  that  none,t  fnend 
a  whoreson,  lumgry.  growling,  multiplying  pack  !  ^'"l".  >«  l>^:r  sincere  way._  must  have  recourse  to 
(if  nece^s.t  es,  ap,  elites,  passions,  and  desires 
aoo^v  nim,  rea  ly  to  devour  him  for  want  of 
other  food  ;  that  in  fact  he  must  lay  aside  his 
cares  for  others,  that  be  may  loi  k  properly  to 
himself.      You  have  been  imposeil  upiui  in  pay- 

iiij;  Mr.  M for  the  profile  of  a  Mr.  H.      I 

uid  not  mention   it   in  my  letter  to  you,  nor  did 
I  ever  t:ive  .Mr.  M any  such  order.    I  have 


hours,  who  has  made  himself  absoluteTy  cor 
temptible  in  my  eyes,  by  his  silly,  garrulous 
pruriency.  I  know  it  has  been  a  fault  of  my 
own  too  ;  but  from  this  moment  I  abjure  it  as  1 
would  the  service  of  hell  !  Your  poets,  spend- 
thrifts, and  other  fools  of  that  kidney,  pietend, 
forsooth,  to  crack  their  jokes  on  prudence,  but 
'tis  a  squalid  vagabond  glorying  in  his  rags. 
Still,  iniprudence  respecting  money  matters,  is 
much  moie  pardonable  than  imprudence  respect- 
ing character.  1  have  no  objection  to  prefer 
prodigality  to  avarice,  in  some  few  instances  ; 
but  1  appeal  to  your  observation,  if  you  have 
not  met,  and  often  met,  with  the  same  littk  dis- 
ingenuousness,  the  same  hcdlow-heai  ted  insin- 
cerity, and  disintegritive  ilepravity  of  principle, 
in  the  hackney'd  victims  of  profusion,  as  in  the 
unfeeling  children  of  parsimony.  I  have  every 
possible  reverence  for  the  much-talked-of  woild 
beyond  the  grave,  and  I  wish  that  which  piety 
believes  and  virtue  deserves,  may  be  all  matter 
cf  fact — But  in  things  belonging  to  and  teinii- 
nating  in  this  present  scene  of  existence,  man 
has  serious  and  interesting  business  on  hind. 
Whether  a  man  shall  shake  hands  with  wel 
come  in  the  distinguished  elevation  of  respect, 
or  shrink  from  contempt  in  the  abject  corner  of 
insignificance  ;  whether  he  shall  wantim  under 
the  tro|iic  of  plenty,  at  least  enjoy  himself  in  the 
comfortable  latitudes  of  easy  convenience,  or 
starve  in  the  arctic  circle  of  dreary  poveity; 
whether  he  shall  rise  in  the  manly  consciousness 
of  a  self-a|)proving  mind,  or  sink  beneath  a  gall- 
ing load  of  regret  and  remorse — these  are  alter- 
natives of  the  last  moment. 

You  sec  how  1  preach.     You  u<ed  occasion- 
ally   to   sermonize    too  ;    I   wish    you    would    in 
charity,  favour  me  with  a  sheet  f^ll  in  your  own 
wav.      1  admire  the  close  of  a  letter  L  rd  Bo- 
loke  writes  to  Dean  Swift,  "  Adieu,   dear 


ffoit    to    love   me   with   all    iiiuiel' 
Humble  seivaiit,  and  all  that  trumpery,  is  now 


her  primitive,  simple, — farewell ! 


No.  LXXXIX. 

TO  MR.  GEORGE  LOCKIIART, 
Merchant,  Glasgow. 


no  objictinii   to  lose   the   iiioricy,  but  I  will  nut 
have  any  such  profile  in  my  possession. 

1  desired  the  carrier  to  piy  you,  but  an  I 
mentioned  only  15s.  to  him,  I  will  latlier  in- 
close you  a  guinea  note.  I  have  it  not  indeed 
to  »|iare  here,  us  lain  only  a  ..ojcuirner  in  a  thing's  lor  you. 
itrange  land  in  this  place  ;  liut  in  a  day  or  two  in  Ediiiburgb.  "  Fair  and  Kively  are  thy  woi  ks, 
1  leturn  to  Mauchiine,  and  there  1  have  the  Lord  God  Almighty!  Who  would  not  piaisa 
bank  notes  through  the  house,  like  silt  permits.  ,  Thee  for  these  Thy  gifts  in  Thy  goodness  to  the 

There  is  a  i;ieit  d.'uiee  of  folly  in  ta  king  un-  sons  of  men  !"  It  neerhd  not  your  fine  taste  to 
neceftsanly  of  one's  p;  iv.ite  atfa'rs.  1  have  just  '  ailiuirc  'l-cm.  I  declare,  one  day  1  bad  the 
uow  been  inlerrupteil  by  one  ol   my  new  neigh- j  honour  of  dining  at  Mi.  lUilie's,    I   was  ahnosi 


MY  DTAR  SIR,       MaucliUne,  July  18,  I7n8. 

I    AM    just  going   "or  Nithsdale,   else  I  would 
certainly  h  ive  transcribed  some  of  my  rhyminr 
The   Miss  Bailies  1  have  seen 


CORRESPONDEXCE. 


3l: 


in  the  jircdicmncnt  of  the  cliildicn  (if  Israel, 
when  fliey  could  not  look  on  Moses's  fice  for 
the  gloiy  that  shone  iu  it  when  he  descended 
from  Mount  Sinai. 

I  did  once  write  a  poetic  address  from  the 
falls  (if  Hmar  to  his  (irace  of  Athole,  when  I 
Was  in  the  Hiijhlands.  When  ymi  return  to 
Seotl.ind  let  me  know,  and  I  will  send  such  of 
my  pieces  as  please  myself  hesf. 

I  return  to  Maucliline  in  ahout  ten  davs. 

My  compliments  to  Mr.  Purdea.  I  am  in 
truth,  but  at  present  in  haste, 

Yours  sincerely. 


No.  XC. 


TO  MRS.  DUXLOP. 

MauchUiie,  2d  Aug.  17S8. 

lIONOUREn   MADAM, 

Your  kind  letter  welcomed  me  yesternight, 
to  Ayishire,  I  am  indeed  seriously  angiy  with 
you  at  the  rjunntum  of  your  luckpenny  ,-  liut 
vexed  and  hurt  as  I  was,  I  could  not  help  laugh- 
ing very  heartily  at  the  noble  lord's  apology  for 
the  missed  napkin. 

I  would  write  you  from  Nithsda'e,  and  give 
you  my  direction  there,  but  I  luive  scarce  an 
opportunity  of  calling  at  a  po»t-offi'.'e  once  in 
a  fortnight.  I  am  six  miles  from  Dumfries, 
am  scarcely  ever  in  it  myself,  and,  as  yet,  have 
little  ac(|U.i;ntance  in  the  neighlxmi  hood.  Be- 
sides, I  am  now  very  busy  uii  my  farm,  build- 
ing a  dwelling-house  ;  as  at  piesent  I  am  al- 
most an  evangelical  man  in  Nithsdale,  for  1  have 
scarce   "  where  to  lay  my  head." 

There  aie  some  passages  in  your  last  that 
brought  tears  in  my  eyes.  "  The  heart  know- 
eth  its  own  sorrows,  and  a  stranger  inferined- 
dleth  not  ".herewith."  The  repository  of  these 
"  sorrows  of  the  heart,"  is  a  kind  of  suiictnm 
sanctorum  ;  and  'tis  only  a  chosen  friend,  and 
that  too  at  j)articuiar,  sacred  times,  who  dares 
enter  into  them. 

"  Heaven  oft  tears  the  h(i«om  chords 
That  nature  finest  strung." 

You  will  excuse  this  quotation  for  the  sake 
of  tile  author.  Instead  of  enteiing  on  this  sub- 
ject farther,  I  shall  transcribe  you  a  few  lines  I 
wrote  in  a  hermitage  belonging  to  a  gentleman 
in  my  Nithsilale  neighbourlioo(L  They  aie  al- 
most the  only  favours  the  muse  has  conferred 
Da  me  in  that  country. 

(  T7ie  lines  on  Friar  Carse  hermitage,  he- 
ginging 

Thou  whim  chance  may  hither  lead.) 

Since   1  am  in  the  waj  of  truiscribing,  the 


following  were  the  production  of  yester(J  ly  as 
I  jogged  through  the  wild  hills  of  New  Cum- 
nock. I  intended  inserting  tliein,  or  something 
like  them,  in  an  epistie  I  am  going  to  write  to 
the  gentleman  on  whose  frieiuKliip  my  excise 
hopes  depend,  Mr.  (jrahain  of  I'iiitry  ;  one  0/ 
the  worthiest  and  most  accomplished  gentle- 
men, iiot  only  of  this  country,  but  I  will  dare 
to  say  it,  of  this  age.  The  following  are  just 
the  first  crude  thoughts  "  unliousel'd,  uiiaQ- 
oiuted,  uuaneird." 


Pity  the  tuneful  muses'  helpless  train  ; 
Weak,  timid  landsmen  on  life's  stormy  main  : 
The  woild  were   blest,   did   bless   on   them    de- 
pend ; 
Ah,    that  "  the  friendly   e'er    should    want    a 

friend  !" 
The  little  fate  bestows  they  share  as  soon  ; 
Unhke  sage,    proverb  d,   wisdom's  hard-wrunsr 

boon. 
Let  jn-udence  number  o'er  each  sturdy  son 
Who  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun  ; 
Who  feel  by  reason  and  who  give  by  rule  ; 
Instinct's  a  brute,  and  sentiment  a  tool  1 
Who  make  poor  wil!  ilo  wait  upon  /  slioiila  , 
We  own  they're  prudent,  but  who  feels  they're 
good  ? 

Ye  wise  one's,  hence  !  ye  hurt  the  social  eye ; 
God's  image  rudely  etch'd  on  base  alloy  1 
But  come 

Here  the  muse  left  me.  I  am  astonished  at 
what  you  tell  me  of  Anthony's  writing  nie.  I 
never  received  it.  Poor  fellow  !  you  vex  i;ie 
much  by  telling  me  that  he  is  unfortunate.  I 
shall  be  in  Ayrshire  ten  days  from  this  date. 
1  have  just  room  fur  an  old  Roman  farewell  I 


No.  XCI. 
TO  THE  SAME. 
Matic/iline,  \Ot/i  August,  1788 

MY  MUCH    HONOURED    KRIKND, 

Yours  of  the  i4th  June  is  before  me.  I 
found  it,  as  well  as  another  valued  friend — iP7 
wife,  waiting  to  welcome  me  to  Ayrshire  :  1 
met  both  with  the  sinecrest  jileasure. 

When  I  write  you.  Madam,  I  do  not  sit  down 
to  answer  every  [laragrajih  of  youis,  by  lehuing 
every  s.'iitiment,  like  the  fairhful  commons  ol 
Great  Biitain  in  parliament  assembled,  answer- 
ing a  speech  from  the  best  of  kings  !  I  express 
myself  in  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  and  may  per- 
haps be  guilty  of  neglecting  some  of  your  kind 
inquiries  ;  but  not  fidin  your  very  odd  reaMm 
that  I  do  not  read  your  letters.  Aii  your  epistle* 
for  several   monllu  have   cost  me  nutbiuj^,   er 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


wpt  a  HTcl'Irij;  tlirob  of  pratitude,  or  a  dccp- 
fclt  wiitiiiii'iit  lit  VHiicratidn. 

Airs.  Burus,  .Madam,  is  the  identical  womaa 


Wlien  she  fir«t  found  herself  "  as  women  wish 
to  l;e  wliii  love  their  lords  ;"  as  I  loved  lier 
ue:irly  to  distraction,  we  took  steps  for  a  pri- 
vate marriafje.  Her  parents  got  the  hint ;  and 
not  only  forhade  ine  her  company  and  their 
house,  but  on  my  rumo\ired  Wfst  Indian  voy- 
age, got  a  warrant  to  ])ut  me  in  jail,  till  I  should 
fiud  security  in  my  al)out-to-l>e  paternal  rela- 
tion. You  know  my  lucky  reve-'se  of  fortune. 
On  my  eclatint  return  to  M.nichline,  I  was 
made  very  welcome  to  visit  my  girl.  The  usual 
consequences  began  to  bettay  her  ;  and  as  1  was 
at  that  time  laid  up  a  cripple  in  Edinburgh, 
slie  w.is  turned,  literally  turied  out  of  doiirs, 
and  I  wrote  to  a  friend  to  shelter  her.  till  my 
return,  when  our  marriage  was  declared.  Her 
ha])])iness  or  misery  was  in  my  ii  inds,  and  who 
could  trillc  with  such  a  deposit  ? 


I  can  e.-LsIly  fancy  a  more  agreeable  compa- 
jiion  for  my  journey  of  life,  i)ut,  upon  uiy  ho- 
nour, I  Lave  never  seen  the  individual  instance. 


Circumstanced  as  I  am,  I  could  never  have 
got  a  female  partner  for  life,  who  could  have 
eiitered  into  my  favourite  studies,  relished  my 
favourite  authors,  &c.  without  probably  entail- 
ing on  me,  at  the  same  time,  expensive  living, 
fantastic  caprice,  perliapa  apish  alTeetation,  with 
all  the  other  blessed  boarding-school  anpiire- 
iiients,  which  (jiartlonnez  mni,  Mailame)  are 
sometimes  to  be  found  among  females  of  the  up- 
j)er  ranks,  but  almost  universally  pervade  the 
uiLsses  ol  the  would-be-gentry. 


I  like  your  way  in  your  cliurch-yanl  iiicii- 
brationx.  Tliii\ii;lit8  that  are  the  spontaneous 
result  of  accidental  situations,  cither  respecting 
health,  place,  or  com])any,  have  often  a  strength, 
and  always  an  oi  igmalrly,  that  would  in  vain 
be  looked  for  in  fancied  circnuistances  and  stu- 
died paragraphs.  For  me,  1  have  often  thought 
of  keeping  a  letter,  in  prorjressian,  by  me,  to 
»pnil  you  when  tlie  sheet  w.-is  written  out.  Now 
I  la'.k  of  Bl.ects,  i  must  tell  you,  my  reason  for 
writing  to  you  on  p.i]ierof  tins  kind,  is  my  pru- 
rieni-v  of  writing  to  you  at  large.  A  page  of 
post  is  on  Riirh  a  dissiical,  narrow-minded  scale, 
tl.at  I  cannot  abide  it  ;  and  doulilc  lelleiM,  at 
least  ill  my  iniwellaneous  revene  manner,  are  a 
Cioiiitious  Cut  in  a  cIom:  curreiipoDdeuce. 


No.  xrri. 

TO  THE  S.^.VE. 

Ellhliw!,  \<ith  A'wiist,  17SH. 
I  AM  in  a  fine  disjiosition,  my  honoured  friend, 
so  send   you   an   e!egi;'.c  epistle  ;   and  want  only 
geuius  to  make  it  quite  Sheiistonian. 

"  Why  droops  my  heart  with  fancied  woes  for. 
lorn  ? 
Wliy  sinks  my  soul  beneath  each  wintry  sky  ?" 


INIy  increasing  nres  in  this,  as  yet,  stiatige 
country — gloomy  conjectures  in  the  dark  vista 
of  futurity — consciousness  of  my  own  inability 
for  the  struggle  of  the  world — my  broadened 
mark  to  misfortune  in  a  v/lie  and  chililrcn  :  — 
I  could  indulge  tln'se  reflections,  till  my  liuuiour 
shoulil  ferment  into  the  most  acrid  clugiin,  that 
would  corrode  the  very  thiead  of  life. 

To  counterwork  these  b.ineful  feelings,  I  have 
sat  down  to  write  to  you  ;  as  I  declare  u)ion 
my  soul  I  always  find  that  the  must  sovereign 
balin  for  my  wounded  spirit. 

I  was  yesterday  at  Mr.  's  to  dinner,  for 

the  first  time.  .My  reception  was  quite  to  try 
mind  ;  from  the  l.idy  of  the  house  quite  flatter- 
ing. She  sometimes  hits  on  a  couplet  oi  two, 
iinprcnnptu.  She  repeated  one  or  two  to  the 
admiration  of  all  present.  My  suffrage  as  a 
professional  man  was  expected  •  I  for  once  went 
agonizing  over  the  belly  of  my  conscience.  Par- 
don me,  ve,  my  adoreii  household  gods,  Imle- 
pendenee  of  Spirit,  and  Integrity  of  Soul  !  In 
the  course  of  conversation,  Johnson's  Musical 
Museum,  a  collection  of  Scottish  songs  with  the 
music,  was  talked  of.  We  got  a  song  on  the 
harpsichord,  beginning, 

"  Ravinir  winds  around  her  blowing." 

The  air  was  much  admired  :  the  lady  of  the 
bou^e  asked  me  whose  were  the  words—"  Mine, 
.Mad.un — they  are  indeed  my  very  best  verses  :" 
she  took  not  the  sm  illest  notice  of  tlieiii  !  Ths 
old  Scottish  pioveib  says,  well,  "  king's  call  is 
better  than  ither  folks'  corn."  I  was  going  to 
make  a  New  Testament  quotation  about  "  ca>-t- 
ing  peails  ;"  but  that  would  be  too  virulent, 
for  tlu;  iady  is  actually  a  wom.iu  of  sense  and 
taste. 


After  all  that  has  been  said  on  the  other  side 
of  the  question,  man  is  by  no  means  a  bapwy 
creature.  I  ilo  not  speik  of  the  selci  ted  few, 
fivoiued  by  partial  be.iven,  whose  scuils  are  tun- 
ed to  gladness  amid  riches  and  luinonrs,  .ii.d  piu- 
dence  and  wisdom — I  S|ieak  ot  the  ncglccteij 
many,  whose  nerves,  wliose  sinews,  whose  day* 
are  sold  to  the  minions  of  fortune. 

If  1  thought,   you  had    uevci'   seen  it     1  would 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


313 


tTiii«(TilM»   f()"vo>i  n  stinza  of  an  oM   Scoti'sli] 
b«llai|,  c'lllril   The  L,>j'e  and  Aje  of  jMuit,  hv- 
g;i\i]ing  tliuii, 

"  'T«-:i«  in  the  sixtornth  luindcT  yeiir 

Of  r,n,\  anil  fifty  three, 
FiJt  Cliii^t  u-;w  l)nrn,  that  bought  us  dear, 

As  wiiting't  testifie." 

1  li:iil  nn  olil  sjnind-uncle,  with  whom  niv 
tniitlier  lived  a  while  in  her  !^irli>h  years  ;  the 
pond  old  man,  for  such  lie  was,  w.is  lung  Mind 
erf  he  dii'd,  during  which  time,  his  highest  en- 
joyment was  to  sit  down  and  ciy,  while  iiiv  mo- 
ther won.n}  sini;  the  simple  old  song  of  T/ie  life 
unil  A(/e  of  Alan. 

It  is  this  way  of  tl-.inking — it  is  those  mel  in- 
choly  truths,  that  make  religion  so  pieeions  to 
the  poor,  n\iser,il)te  children  of  men — If  it  is  a 
ni'Te  phaiit.'in,  existing  ou!y  iu  the  heated  iiiiu- 
giiiitioii  of  enthusiasm, 

"  What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  tiie  lie'" 

I\Iv  idle  reasonings  sometimes  make  me  a  lit- 
tle sceptic  il,  hut  the  necessities  of  my  heart  al- 
ways give  tlie  cohl  Jihilosophizings  tlie  lie. 
U'lio  looks  for  the  heart  weaned  from  earth  ; 
the  soul  affianced  to  lier  God  ;  the  conespon- 
eiii-e  fixed  with  heaven;  the  pious  supplica- 
tion and  devout  thanksgiving,  constant  as  the 
vicissitudes  of  even  and  morn  ;  who  thinks  to 
meet  with  these  in  the  couit,  the  p  ilace,  in  the 
glare  o*' puhlic  life?  No:  to  find  tliein  in  their 
precious  in^portaiice  and  divine  efficacy,  we  inu-t 
jcarch  among  the  obscure  recesses  of  disajij)oint- 
UK'nt,  alfliction,  poverty,  and  distress. 

I  am  sure,  ilcir  .Madam,  you  are  now  more 
than  plea«ed  with  the  htit/tli  of  my  letters.  I 
Jlfurn  to  .Ayrshire,  middle  of  next  week  :  and 
it  quickens  mv  pice  to  think  that  there  will  Ik; 
a  letter  t"ii)iii  you  waiting  me  tlicie.  I  must  he 
here  aguiu  very  soou  for  my  harvest. 


No.  XCIII. 
rO  R,  GRAHAM,  OF  FIMRY,  Esu. 

WnES  I  hail  the  honour  of  being  introduced 
hn  yon  at  Athole-house,  1  did  not  think  so  soon 
of  asking  a  favour  of  you.  When  Lear,  in 
Sli  ikspeare,  asks  old  Kent,  why  he  wished  to 
!);•  in  his  service,  he  answers,  "  Uecause  yon 
have  tiiat  in  your  face  which  I  could  like  to 
call  master."  For  some  such  reason.  Sir,  do  I 
now  solicit  your  patronage.  You  know,  I  daie 
MV,  of  an  application  I  lately  made  to  your 
Hoaril  to  he  admitted  an  officer  of  excise.  i 
Uive,  accordini;  to  form,  been  examined  by  a 
"Upervisor,  and  to-day  I  gave  in  Ins  ceitificute, 
u-iih  a  reuuest  for  an  order  for  iniiUuctioiui       In 


this  afl'ilr,  if  I  snccrpr],  I  nm  afr/iid  I  sb.ill  biri 
too  much  need  a  pationi/inn  friend.  Proprroty 
of  coniliict  as  a  man,  and  fidelity  and  attmtlon 
as  an  officer,  1  ilare  engage  for  :  Init  with  any 
thin:;;  like  businc-s,  except  manual  lahuur,  1  aui 
totally  unacquainted. 


I  bad  intended  to  have  closed  my  late  ap- 
pearance on  the  staiTc  of  life,  in  the  character 
of  a  coumtry  farmer  ;  but  after  disch  irging 
some  filial  and  fraternal  claims,  I  find  I  could 
only  fiijlit  for  existence  in  that  miserable  man- 
ner, which  I  have  lived  to  see  throw  a  venera- 
ble parent  into  the  jaws  of  a  j  lil  ;  whence  death, 
the  jioor  man's  last  and  often  best  fiiend,  rescu- 
ed him. 

I  know.  Sir,  that  to  need  your  goodness  is  to 
have  a  claim  on  it  ;  may  I  therefore  beg  your 
patronage  to  forward  me  in  this  affiir,  till  I  be 
appointed  to  a  division,  where,  by  the  help  ol 
rigid  economy,  I  will  try  to  su.'poit  that  inde- 
pendence so  dear  to  my  soul,  but  winch  has 
been  too  oftua  so  distant  from  my  situation. 


When  nature  her  great  master- piece  ilesigncd, 
And  fram'd  her  last,  best  work,  t!ie  human  iniud; 
Her  eye  intent  on  all  the  mazy  jilan, 
She  forra'd  of  various  parts  the  various  man. 

Then  first  she  calls  the  useful  many  forth  ; 
Plain  plodding  industry,  and  ^obcr  woitli  ; 
Thence  ])casants,  firmers,  native  sons  of  eaith, 
.And  merdiandise' whole  genus  take  their  birth; 
Each  prudent  cit  a  warm  ex  steiice  fimls, 
.And  all  unchanics'  many  apioiied  k.nds. 
Some  other  rarer  sorts  are  wanted  yet, 
riie  leid  and  bimv  are  neelful  to  the  net: 
The  cojini  iiii>rt'iiiiii  of  gro^s  desires 
iVIal  es  a  materi.il,  for  mere  kiiii,dits  and  scpiires  . 
The  martial  ])lins])liiu  us  is  tiiii;lit  to  Ihiw, 
She  kneads  the  lump:s!i  phil()>o))hic  dough, 
Then  marks  th'  unyielding  mass  with  grave  de* 

signs, 
Law,  ph\sics,  politics,  and  deep  divines: 
Last,  slie  sublimes  th*  Aurora  of  the  poles,  . 
The  flashing  elements  of  female  souls. 

The  orilei'd  system  fair  before  her  stood. 
Nature  well  pleased  pronounced  it  very  good  ; 
Hut  ere  she  gave  croatin:^  labour  nVr, 
Half  jest,  she  tried  one  curious  labour  iDore. 
Some  spumy,  fieiy,  i^/tus  fntuus  matter; 
Such  as  the  slightest  breath  of  air  might  scatter  J 
With  arch  alacrity  anil  conscious  glee 
(  Nature  mav  have  her  whim  as  will  as  we, 
Iler  Hogarth-art  perhaps  slie  meant  to  show  it) 
.Slie  forms  the  thing,  ami  christens  it — a  poet. 
Creature,  tho*  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow. 
When  hless'd  to-day  urimindlu!  r.f  to-morrow. 
.A  JK-ing  lorm'd  t,imu>e  his  giaver  friends, 
.Adii'.ired    and    praiseil — and    tht-re  the   huniij^ 
ends :  -^ 


314 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


A  morfal  quite  unfit  for  fortune's  strife, 
Yet  oft  the  sport  (.f  all  tlie  ills  of  life  ; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live  : 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

But  honest  Nature  is  not  quite  a  Turk, 
She  Liugh'd  at  first,  then  felt  for  lier  [loor  work. 
Pitying  the  propless  climber  of  mankind, 
She  cast  about  a  standard  tree  to  find  ; 
And  to  support  his  helpless  woodbine  state, 
Attach'd  him  to  the  generous  truly  great. 
A  title,  and  the  only  one  T  claim. 
To  lay  stiong  hold  for  help  on  bounteous  Gra- 
ham. 

Pity  the  tuneful  muses*  hapless  train, 
Weak,  timid  landmen  on  life's  stormy  main  ! 
Their  hearts  no  selfish  stern  absorbent  stuff, 
That  never  gives — tho'  humbly,  takes  enou"U  ; 
The  little  fate  allows,  they  share  as  soon. 
Unlike  sage,  proverb'd,   wisdom's  hard-wrung 

boon. 
The  u-oild  were  bless'd,  did  bless  on  them  de- 

jiend. 
Ah,  that  "  the   friendly   e'er   should   want    a 

friend!" 
Let  prudence  nundier  o'er  each  sturdy  son, 
Wlio  life  and  wisdom  at  one  race  begun, 
Who  feel  by  reason,  and  who  give  by  rule, 
(Instinct's  a  brute,  and  sentiment  a  fool  !) 
Who  make  poor  will  dn  wait  ujjon  I  slioull — 
VVe  own   they're  prudent,    but  who  feels   their 

good  ? 
Ye  wise  ones,  hence  !   ye  hurt  the  social  eye  ! 
God's  image  rudely  etcli'd  on  base  alloy  ! 
But  come  ye  who  the  godlike  pleasure  know, 
H.'a/en's  attribute  distinguish'd — to  bestow  ! 
Whi.se  irmsof  love  would  graspthe  human  race: 
Come  tlwu  who  giv'st  with  all  a  courtier's  grace; 
Friend  of  my  life,  true  patron  of  my  rhymes  ! 
Piop  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  future  times. 
Why  shrinks  my  soul  lialf  blushing,  half  afraid. 
Backward,  abash'd  to  ask  thy  friendly  aid? 
I  know  my  need,  I  know  thy  giving  hand, 
I  Clave  thy  friendship  at  thy  kind  command  ; 

But  there  are  such  who  court  the  tuneful  nine 

Heavens,  should  the  branded  character  be  mine  ! 
Whose  verse  in  manhood's  pride  sublimely  flows, 
Yet  vilest  reptiles  in  their  begging  prose. 
M:irk,  how  their  lofty  independent  spirit, 
Soais  on  the  s])urning  wing  of  mjured  merit ! 
Sick  nut  tlie  proofs  in  private  life  to  find  ; 
Pity,  the  best  of  words,  should  be  but  wind  ! 
So,  to  heaven's  gates  the  laik-shrill  song  ascends, 
But  grovelling  on  the  earth  the  carol  ends. 
In  all  the  cl.im'rous  cry  of  starving  want. 
They  dun  benevolence  with  shameless  front  ; 
Oblige  them,  pationite  tlieir  tinsel  lays, 
Tliiy  persecute  you  all  your  future  d.iys  ! 
F.ie  my  ])oor  poiil  such  deej)  damnation  stain, 
My  homy  fist  a.ssiime  ihe  plough  again  ; 
The  jiie-b.iH'd  jacket  let  nie  pitch  once  more  ; 
Ou  eighteen  pence  a-weck  I've  lived  before. 


Though,  thanks  to  heaven,  I  dare  even  tliat  Ian 

shift, 
I  trust,  meantime,  my  boon  is  in  thy  gift: 
That  placed  by  thee,  upon  the  wish'd-for  htight, 
V\'here,  man  and  nature  furer  in  her  siu'ht. 
My  muse  in  iv  imp  her  wing  for  some  sublimes 

flight.* 


No.  XCIV. 
TO  MR.  BEUGO,  Engraver,  Edinburgh. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  EUisliind,   Sept.  9,  17S8. 

There  is  not  in  Edinburgh  above  the  num- 
ber of  the  graces  whose  letters  would  have  given 
me  so  much  pleasure  as  yours  of  the  3d  instant, 
which  only  reached  me  yesternight^. 

I  am  here  on  my  farm,  busy  with  my  har- 
vest ;  but  for  all  that  most  pleasurable  p.irt  ol 
life  called  social  com5iunication,  I  am  here 
at  the  very  elbow  of  existence.  The  only  things 
that  are  to  be  found  in  this  country  in  any  da- 
gree  of  perfection,  are  stupidity  and  canting. 
Pro~e,  they  only  know  in  graces,  jirayers.  &c. 
and  the  value  of  these  they  estimate  as  they  do 
their  pl.iiding  webs — by  the  ell  !  As  for  the 
muses,  they  have  as  much  an  id^'a  of  a  rhino- 
ceros as  of  a  poet.  For  my  old  capriciou 
good-natured  hussy  of  a  muse — 

By  banks  of  Nith  I  sat  and  wept 

When  C'oila  I  thought  on. 
In  midst  thereof  I  hung  mv  harp 

The  willow  trees  upon. 

I  am  generally  about  half  my  time  in  Ayrshire 
with  my  '•  darling  Jean,"  and  then  I,  at  lucid 
iutervals,  throw  my  horny  fist  across  my  be- 
cobwebbed  lyre,  much  in  the  same  manner  as 
an  old  wife  throws  her  hand  across  the  spokes 
of  her  spinning  wheel. 

I  well  send  you  "  The  Fortunate  Shepherd 
ess"  as  soon  as  I  return  to  Ayrshire,  for  tlieifi 
I  keep  it  with  other  precious  treasure.  I  snnn 
send  it  by  a  careful  hand,  as  I  would  not  for 
any  thing  it  should  be  mislaid  or  lost.  I  do 
not  wioh  to  serve  you  from  any  benevolence,  or 
other  grave  Christian  virtue  ;  'tis  purely  a  sel- 
fi>h  gratification  of  my  owa  feelings  whenever 
I  think  of  you. 


If  your  better  functions  would  give  you  lei- 
sure to  write  me  I  should  be  extremely  happy; 
that  is  to  say,  if  you  neither  keep  nor  look  for  a 


•  Tliis  is  our  poet's  first  epistle  to  GralmiTi  of  Fin. 
try.  ll  is  not  eiioal  to  ilie  steoiid,  but  it  loiilains  too 
iiiucti  of  rtie  cliara'Meiisiic  vi(;oiir  of  n,s;iiitlior  .o  b« 
fcopinesseit.  A  lillle  more  luiowlidj^c  ■■( 'n.itui;il  lii.>'.(> 
ry  or  if  ctiemistry  wst  w.-.n.i.d  lo  <pat''c  'mn  to  »>  a 
cul«  the  oritjinaJ  loneepuoii  torrccLlv 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


315 


re!»jlir  correspondence.  I  hate  the  iih-a  of  being 
ohliycd  to  write  a  litter.  I  sonietiines  write  a 
fric'iil  twice  a  week,  at  other  times  ouce  a 
luaiter. 

1  am  exceeilinc;!)-  pleased  with  your  fancy  in 
nnkin;;  the  author  you  mention  phice  a  map  of 
Iceland  instead  of  his  portrait  before  his  works  : 
Twas  a  glorious  idea. 

Ciuild  you  conveniently  do  me  one  tliinc;; — 
Whenever  you  tiniNh  any  head  I  could  like  to 
have  a  proof  copy  of  it.  I  mi^ht  tell  you  a 
long  story  about  your  fine  genius  ;  but  as  what 
every  body  knows  cannot  have  escaped  you,  I 
shall  not  say  one  syllable  about  it. 


No.   XCV. 

TO  MISS  CHALMERS,  Edinburgh. 

EUislnnd,  near  Dumfries,  Sept.  16,  17S8. 
Where  are  you  ?  and  how  are  you  ?  and  is 
Lady  M'Kenzie  recovering  her  health?  for  I 
have  had  but  one  solitary  letter  from  you.  I 
will  not  think  you  have  forgot  me,  Madam  ; 
aud  for  my  part — . 

"  When  thee  Jerusalem  I  forget. 
Skill  part  from  my  right  hand  !" 

^  Jly  heart  is  not  of  that  rock,  nor  my  soul 
careless  as  that  sea  "  I  do  not  make  my  pro- 
gress anu)n«  mankind  as  a  bowl  does  among  its 
fellows — rolling  through  the  crowd  without 
bearing  awav  any  mark  or  impression,  except 
where  they  hit  in  hostile  collision. 

I  am  here,  driven  in  with  my  harvest-folks 
by  bad  weather  ;  and  as  ycu  aud  your  sister 
onte  did  me  the  honour  of  interesting  yourselves 
much  a  rei/urd  tie  moi,  1  sit  down  to  beg  the 
continuation  of  your  goo<lness, — I  can  truly  say 
that,  all  the  exterior  of  life  apart,  I  never  saw- 
two,  whose  esteem  flattered  the  nobler  feelings 
of  uiv  soul — I  will  not  say,  more,  but,  so  much 
as  Lady  M'Kenzie  and  Mi^s  Chalmers.  When  I 
think  ofyiiii — hearts  the  best,  niiuds  the  noblest, 
of  human  kind  — un ortunate,  even  in  the  shades 
of  life — when  I  think  I  have  met  with  you,  and 
have  lived  more  of  real  life  with  \oii  iu  eight 
days,  than  I  can  ilo  with  almost  any  body  I  meet 
with  in  eight  years — when  I  think  on  the  Im- 
pidbability  of  meeting  you  in  this  world  again 
— I  coulcl  sit  down  and  cry  like  a  child  ! — If 
ever  you  h(moiire<i  me  with  a  place  in  youri 
esteem,  I  trust  I  can  low  plead  mure  des  rt. — 
1  am  secure  agiin-t  ihat  ciu-hng  grip  of  iron 
poverty,  whico.  alas  !  is  le~s  or  more  fatal  to  the 
native  worth  and  puiity  of,  I  (cdi;  the  i, oldest 
souls  ;  and  a  hite.  important  stej)  in  my  life  has 
kindly  taken  nie  out  of  the  way  of  those  un-  | 
grafeful  iniipities.  which,  however  ovei looked 
in  losha'iuab.e  lic/;u.-e,   or  varnished  in  fdsliiun-  j 


able  phrase,   are   indeed  but  lighter  and  deejioi 
shades  of  vii.i.Ai  <y. 

Shortly  after  my  last  return  to  Ayrshire,  I 
married  "  my  Jean."  This  was  not  in  con-se- 
quence of  the  attachment  of  romance  peihaps  ; 
but  I  had  a  long  and  much-loved  fellow-crea- 
ture's ha]ipiness  (u-  misery  iu  my  def<'i mination, 
and  I  durst  not  tiifle  with  so  important  a  ile|)o- 
sit.  Nor  have  I  any  cause  to  repent  it  II  I 
have  not  got  polite  tattle,  modish  manners,  atul 
fashionable  ihess,  I  am  not  sickened  and  d  sgu-t- 
ed  with  the  multiform  curse  of  boaiding-sehool 
affectation  ;  and  I  have  got  the  handsomest  fi- 
gure, the  sweetest  temper,  the  soundest  cmisti- 
tiition,  and  the  kindest  heart  in  the  county. 
Mrs.  Hums  believes,  as  firmly  as  her  creed,  that 
I  am  le  jiltis  bel esprit,  it  It  jiliis  lionnitt  hor,une 
in  the  univeise  ;  although  she  scarcely  ever  in 
her  life,  except  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  and 
New  Testament,  and  the  Psilms  of  David  in 
metre,  sjicnt  five  minutes  together  on  either 
prose  or  verso.  I  imi^t  except  also  from  this 
last,  a  certain  late  publication  of  Scots  poems, 
which  she  has  perused  very  devoutly  ;  and  ad 
the  ballads  in  the  country,  as  she  has  (()  the 
partial  lover  !  you  will  cry)  the  finest  "  wood- 
note  wild"  I  ever  heard. — I  lui  the  more  parti- 
cular in  this  lady's  character,  as  I  know  she 
will  henceforth  have  the  honour  of  a  share  in 
y(uir  best  wishes.  She  is  still  at  Mauchline,  as 
I  am  building  my  house  ;  for  this  hovel  thit  I 
shelter  in,  while  occasionally  here,  is  pervious  to 
every  bl  1st  that  blows,  and  eveiy  sh.ower  that 
falls  ;  aud  I  am  only  preserved  from  being  chill- 
ed to  death,  by  being  suffocated  with  suuike.  ] 
do  not  find  my  firm  that  pennyworth  I  was 
taught  to  expect,  but  I  l.'elieve,  in  time,  it  may 
be  a  saving  bargain.  You  will  be  jde.ised  to 
hear  that  I  have  laid  aside  idle  ectut,  and  bind 
every  day  after  my  reapers. 

To  save  me  from  that  horrid  situat'on  of  at 
any  time  going  down,  in  a  losing  bargain  of  a 
faim,  to  misery,  I  have  taken  my  excise  iiisti  iic- 
tiiins,  and  have  my  commission  in  my  pocket 
for  any  imergency  of  fortune.  If  I  cmild  set  iil\ 
before  your  view,  whatever  disrespect  you  in 
couimon  with  the  world,  have  for  this  business, 
1  know  you  would  approve  of  my  i   ea. 

I  will  in.ike  no  apdlogy,  dear  Madam,  for  this 
egoti>tic  detail  :  I  know  you  and  your  sister 
will  be  iiiteiested  in  every  cireuintance  of  it. 
What  signify  the  silly,  idle  gewgaws  of  wea'th, 
or  the  ideal  trumpery  of  greatness.  \Vi,eii  S 1- 
low  pait.ikeis  of  the  s.ime  nature  fear  the  sami! 
God,  have  the  same  benevolence  of  heart,  the 
same  o.ihleness  of  soul,  the  same  detestation  at 
every  thing  dishonest,  and  the  same  skum  - 
eve  y  thing  unworthy — if  they  are  not  in  tne 
dependance  of  absolute  beggary,  io  the  niii  e  of 
cuiiimon  sense  are  they  niit  eijuals?  Ai.d  U 
the  bi  IS,  rhe  instinctive  l)ias  of  their  smiN  run 
the  same  wiy,  why  may  they  not  be  khikniis? 

Wlien  I  may  have  .lu  opportunity  of  seinlmg 
yiui  ihis.  Heaven  only  kiiows  Slniistone  sivs, 
"  U'Leu  one  is  coiitii.ed  idle  witliiu  duurs  by  ba<J 


316 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


weaflier,  the  liest  antidote  aa;ainst  ennui  is,  to 
rea<l  the  letters  of,  or  write  to  one's  frienils  ;" 
in  that  case  then,  if  the  weather  continues  thus, 
I  may  scr-nvl  you  half  a  quire. 

I  very  lately,  to  wit,  since  harvest  he<;an. 
wiote  a  poem,  not  in  imitation,  but  in  tlie  man- 
ner of  Po]>e'.s  Moral  Ep  sties.  It  is  only  a  >hort 
essay,  just  to  try  the  stren:;th  of  my  Muse's  |)i- 
nion  in  tint  way.  I  will  send  you  a  copy  of  it, 
v/nen  once  I  have  heard  from  you.  I.  have  like- 
wise been  layin;^  the  fuimdation  of  some  pretty 
laroe  poetic  works :  how  the  supeistructure 
will  come  on  I  leave  to  that  great  maker  and 
marier  of  projects — time.  Johnson's,  collection 
of  Scots  s<mgs  is  going  on  in  the  third  volume  ; 
and  of  conse<|uence  finds  me  a  consumpt  for  a 
gre.it  deal  of  iille  metre. — One  of  the  m  ist  to- 
lerable tilings  I  have  done  in  that  way,  is,  two 
stanzas  that  I  made  to  an  air,  a  musical  gentle 
man  '  of  my  acquaintance  composed  for  the  ai- 
niversary  of  his  we<^ldiiig-day,  which  happens  on 
the  seventh  of  November.      Take  it  as  follows  : 

The  dav  returns — my  linsom  bmns. 

The  blissful  day  we  twa  did  meet,  &c. — P.  90. 

I  shall  give  over  tliis  letter  for  shame.  If  I 
should  be  seized  with  a  scribbling  fit,  before  this 
goes  away,  I  shall  make  it  another  letter  ;  anc' 
then  you  may  allow  your  |iatience  a  week's  re- 
spite between  the  two.  I  have  not  looni  for 
mure  than  the  old,  kind,  hearty,  farewell  ! 

To  make  some  amends,  mes  cheres  Mesdnmes, 
tor  <lragging  you  on  to  this  second  sheet  ;  and  to 
relieve  a  little  the  tiresomeness  of  my  unstudied 
arid  unciMiectible  prose,  I  shall  transcribe  you 
some  of  my  late  poetic  bagatelles  ;  though  I  have, 
chese  eight  w  ten  months,  done  very  little  that 
way.  Oi:e  i!  ly,  in  an  heimitage  on  the  banks 
of  Nilh,  behing.ng  to  a  gentleman  in  niy  ne'tgh- 
bo'irl  lod,  who  is  .so  gixid  as  give  me  a  key  at 
pleasure,  I  wrote  as  fullnws  ;  supposing  myself 
the  sequestered,  venerable  inhabitant  of  the 
lonely  mansiun. 

^ Liines  Kr'Uten  in  Friar  s  Carse  Hermitage.^ ) 


than  once  ;  hut  scarcely  ever  with  more  ^jlea- 
sure  than  when  I  received  yours  of  the  12th  in- 
stant. To  make  myself  understood  ;  I  had 
wrote  to  Mr.  Graham,  enclosing  my  poem  ad- 
dressed to  him,  and  the  same  post  which  fa- 
voured me  with  yours,  brought  me  an  answei 
from  him.  It  was  d  ited  the  very  d  iv  he  had 
received  mine  ;  and  I  a;n  quite  at  a  loss  to  s,)> 
whether  it  was  most  polite  or  kind. 

Your  criticisms,  my  honoured  benefactiess, 
are  truly  the  work  of  a  friend.  They  are  not 
the  blasting  depredations  of  a  canker-toothed, 
caterpillar  critic  ;  nor  are  they  the  fair  state- 
ment of  cold  impartiility,  balancing  with  un- 
feeling exactitude,  the  pro  and  con  of  an  au- 
thor's merits;  the.v  aie  the  judicious  observa- 
tions of  animated  friendship,  selecting  the  beau- 
ties of  the  piece.  I  have  just  arrived  from 
Nithsdale,  and  will  be  here  a  fortnight.  I  was 
on  horseback  this  morning  by  three  o'clock ; 
for  between  my  wife  and  my  firm  is  ju>t  forty- 
six  mi'es.  As  I  jogged  on  in  the  daik,  I  was 
taken  with  a  poetic  fit,  as  follows  : 

"Mrs.  F ofC 's  lamentation  for  the 

d-iath  of  her  son  ;   an   uncommonly    promising 
ycuth  of  eighteen  or  nineteen  years  of  age." 

(  Here  follow  the  verses,  entitled,  "  A  Mo- 
'iter's  lvalue  lit  for  the  Loss  (f  her  Son.") 

You  will  not  send  me  your  poetic  rambles, 
b  H,  you  see,  I  am  no  niggard  of  mine.  1  am 
sure  your  impromptu's  give  me  double  ))lei- 
sur>  ;  what  falls  from  your  pen,  can  neither  bt 
un.-n'ertaining  in  itself,  nor  indifferent  to  me. 

'ihe  one  fault  you  found,  is  just ;  but  I  can- 
not please  myself  in  an  emendation. 

AV  ha";  a  life  of  solicitude  is  the  life  of  a  pa- 
re.it  !  Vou  interested  me  much  in  your  young 
coujilc. 

I  womd  ntt  take  my  fidio  pa])er  for  this 
ejiistle,  L^il  Eov  I  repent  it.  I  am  so  j  uled 
with  my  dirty  Innj^  jaurncy  that  I  was  afraid  to 
drawl  into  tiie  essence  of  dulness  with  any  thing 
larger  than  a  quaito,  I'ld  so  !  riust  leave  out 
another  rhyme  of  ihir  nooning's  ''ifncfartare. 

I   will    i>ay   t'.ie   siMiiei-'icofn*^   Ge-^rge    nios>« 
cheerfully,  to  hear  fruiu  jou  tre  1  l«aTe  A^J 
shire. 


No.  XCVI, 

TO  MRS,  DUNLOP,  OF  DUNLOP. 

MonchUne,  2"lh  Si-pt.   1 7RR. 
I   HAVE   rcceiveil   twins,  dear  Madam,   nunc 


No.  XCVII. 
TO  MR.  P.  HILL. 


•  Captain  Riililcl  of  nienriddc. 

t  Tile  |iiieiie  leiiipcr.iineiit  Is  "'ver  prpdifiposcd  to 
iros;i(ioiis  i>f  the  "  liorrihle  ;iii(l  Mwful."  IJuins,  in 
tciiiriiii  E  frniii  lii»  \iMts  at  (ilciiiiddel  tot.,  .arm  at 
Ellisliiiid,    ha  I   ic   p.iss  Uiriiii;;h  .i   little  wil.l    wood   in    <1 

wliieli  stiicd   ilie   Miriiiila.e-      WlitMi   tlie   niglii    w.is    i,^.'.„    jjjg     >>  Address 
(lark   iiiiil  drrary  it  nas  m- eustoin   peiierallv  to  sdin-it  i  i-    - 

»ti  a.l.liiioi.al   |iiriinn  (-'I 'ss  to  fortify  hi- Kpirils  and    "''''i'  ""  obliging  as  to  seni 


keep  ii|i  In-  OMiir.ice.      I  hi-   ums  rel.iteil  1)\  a  ladv,  a    p;iniielled  one  of  the  author's  jury,  to  determin 
rie.ir  ul  Ikmi  nf  Caiitaui  Ridilel'.ii,  who  liad  fridiiiit    i  r.  .  .i    '    ■        r 

Oi.,.ortuuiUu.  o(  Juiethi..alu.«ry  practice  kelopli-    l"s  crim.uality  resp. Cing  the  s,n  of  poesy,    ni; 
flcJ  .  verdict  Khoulu  l)e  "  iruilty     A  poet  ot  Nature 


ManchUnc,  \st  Oc*oJ>->r    17SS. 

I  HAVE  been  here  in  this  cotintiy  about  three 

ys,    and  uli    that    time   my  chief  reiding  has 

to    Loch    Lomond,"  you 

were  so  ohlimm;  as  to  send  to  me.     Were  I  ini- 

e 

y 

guilty  '  A  poet  of  Nature'* 


CORRESPOXDENCE. 


317 


inakinrr!"Tt  is  nn  exrcllcnt  nu-tlunl  for  im- 
puiviiULTit,  and  what  1  l)L'lieve  every  |)i)et  does, 
to  place  sdiiie  favourite  classic  autlior,  in  his 
own  wii'ks  of  stiiily  ami  composition,  l)efore  him, 
as  a  model.  Thonnjh  yi'i"  author  had  not  men- 
tinned  the  name,  I  could  have,  at  half  a  glance, 
guessed  his  model  to  he  Thomson.  W  ill  my 
hrotlier  poet  Ibigive  me,  if  I  venture  to  hint, 
that  his  imitation  of  that  immortal  hard,  is  in 
two  or  three  places  rather  more  servile  than 
ueh  a  genius  as  his  required. — e.  g. 

To  soothe  the  madding  passions  all  to  peace, 

ADUKKSS. 

To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace, 

THOMSON. 

I  think  the  Address  is,  in  simplicity,  har- 
mony, and  elegance  of  versification,  fully  equal 
to  the  SeiiSDns.  Like  Thomson,  too,  he  has 
looked  into  nature  for  himself:  you  meet  with 
no  C(jpied  descri|>tiun.  One  particular  criti- 
cism I  made  at  first  reading  ;  in  no  one  instance 
has  he  said  too  much.  lie  never  flags  in  his 
progress,  hut  like  a  true  poet  of  Nature's  mak 
ing,  kindles  in  his  cour.-e.  His  begiiming  is 
sinijde,  and  nuidest,  as  if  distrustful  of  the 
stieiiiith  of  his  piuion  ;  only,  I  do  not  altoge- 
ther like 

"   Truth, 

The  soul  of  every  song  that's  nobly  great." 

Fiction  is  the  soul  of  many  a  song  that  is  no- 
bly great.  Pirhaps  I  am  wiong  :  this  may  be 
but  a  prose  criticism.  Is  not  the  phrase,  in  li)ie 
7,  }"i(/ir  6,  "  Great  lake,"  too  much  vulganzrd 
by  every-day  language,  for  so  sublime  a  jioem  ? 

"Great  mass  of  waters,  theme  fur  nobler  song," 

is  perhaps  no  emendation.  His  enumeration  of 
a  cimiparison  with  other  lake*,  is  at  once  har- 
monious and  poetic.  Every  reader's  ideas  must 
sweep  the 

"  Winding  margin  of  an  hundred  miles." 

The  perspective  that  follows  mountains  blue — ■ 
the  imprisoned  billows  beating  in  vain — the 
wooded  isles — the  digres>ion  on  the  yew-tree — - 
*'  Ben  Lomond's  lolty  cloud-enveloped  hejd," 
&c.  are  beautiful.  A  thunder-storm  is  a  subject 
which  has  been  often  tried,  yet  our  poet,  in  his 
gi-and  picture,  has  nteijtcted  a  circumstance,  so 
far  as  I  know,  entirely  original : 

"  The  gloom 
Deep  scam'd  witU  frequent  streaks  of  moving 
file." 

In  his  preface  to  the  storm,  "  the  glens  how- 
dark  between,"  is  noble  liighland  landscape ! 
The  *'  lain  plowing  the  red  mould,"  too,  is 
beautifully    fancied.       Ben    Lomond's    "  kjfty. 


pathless  top,"  is  a  good  expression  ;  anil  tlit 
surrounding  view  fraui  it  is  tiuly  great  j   the 

"  Silver  mist, 
Beneath  the  beaming  sun,' 

is  well  described  ;  and  here,  lie  has  contrived  to 
eiillvfti  his  j)oem  with  a  little  of  that  [)assion 
which  bids  f.iir,  I  think,  to  usurj)  the  modiin 
muses  altogether.  I  know  not  how  far  this  epi- 
sode is  a  beauty  upon  the  wh(de,  Imt  the  swaiii's 
wish  to  carry  "  some  faint  ide*  of  the  vision 
bright,"  to  entertain  her  "pirtial  listening  ear," 
is  a  pretty  thought.  But,  in  my  o|iinion,  the 
mo^t  beautiful  passages  in  the  wlnde  poem,  are 
the  fowls  crowding,  in  wintry  frosts,  to  Loch 
Lomond's  "  hospitable  flood  ;"  their  wheeling 
round,  their  lighting,  mixing,  diving,  &c.  and 
the  glorious  des(  ription  of  the  s])ortsmaii.  Thia 
last  is  equal  to  any  thing  in  the  Seusiins.  The 
idea  of  "  the  floating  tribes  distant  seem,  far 
glistering  to  the  moon,"  provoking  his  eye  as  he 
is  obliged  to  leave  them,  is  a  noble  ray  of  poetic 
genius.  "  The  howling  winds,"  the  "  hideoui 
roar"  of  "  the  white  cascades,"  are  all  in  the 
same  style. 

I  forget  that  while  I  am  thus  bidding  forth, 
with  the  heedless  warmth  of  an  enthusiast,  I 
am  ])eiha|  s  tiring  you  with  nonsense.  I  must, 
however,  mention,  that  the  last  verse  of  the  six- 
teePvh  ^age  is  one  of  the  most  elegant  cumph- 
nients  i  have  ever  seen.  1  must  likewise  notice 
that  beautiful  paragraph,  l.'cginning,  "  Tlie 
gleaming  lake,"  &c.  1  dare  not  go  into  the 
particular  beauties  of  the  two  last  paragraphs, 
but  they  are  admirably  fine,  and  tiu'v  (>>sianic. 

I  must  beg  your  pardon  for  this  lengthened 
scrawl.  I  had  no  idea  of  it  when  I  began — I 
should  like  to  know  who  the  author  is  ;  hut, 
whoever  he  be,  please  present  him  with  my 
ijratefid  thanks  for  the  entertainnient  he  has  af- 
forded me.  * 

A  frienii  of  mine  desired  me  to  commission 
for  him  two  hooks,  Lttttrs  on  tlie  lielii/io/i.  <s- 
seyitiiil  to  ?tlan,  a  book  you  sfnt  me  be!o;e; 
and.  The  World  Untiim-heil,  or  llie  Pliilosiphcr 
ilie  (/reiitest  C/ieid.  Send  me  them  by  the  first 
ojipoitunify.  The  Bible  vou  sect  me  is  truly 
elegant ;   1  only  wish  it  had  been  in  two  volumes. 


No.  XCVIil. 

TO  -MRS.  DUNLOP,  AT  MOltiillAM 
MALN'S. 

.MADAM,  Mauildiite,  ]3lh  Xov.  ]788. 

I   iiAn   the  very  preat   pleasure  of  (lining   at 
Dunlop  yesterday.     JMen  are  said  to  Hatter  wo- 


♦  The  pncm  entitled  An  Adrlress  to  I.och  I,  mnnd, 
U  sanl  to  be  written  h\  a  per.l!ein;in,  now  mie  nf  ilie 
maslersof  the  Ili'^ti  Seliool  M  Kclinburijli,  and  U'esam* 
who  tianslatdl  llie  be->utirulstorv  of  the  Puria,  as  ))ub 
hslieil  lu  ihe  Bee  of  Dr.  Aiiilcrson. 


318 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


men  because  tliey  aip  weak;  if  it  's  so,  poets  the  ruling  features  of  wTiose  adtnioistritinn  h»vt 
must  he  weaker  still;  for  Misses  R.  and  K.  ever  been,  mildness  to  the  suoiect,  ana  tifldtrntst 
and  Miss  G.  1M"K,   with  their  flattering  atten-   of  his  rights. 

tions,  and  artful  compliments,  absolutely  turned  Bred  and  educated  id  revolution  pr'nciplea, 
my  head.     I  oivn  they  did    not  lard  me  over  as   the  principles  of  leason  and  common  sense,   it 

many  a  poet  does  his  patron ,  pou'd  noc  be  any  silly  political   prtjudice  which 

but  they  so  intoxicated  me  with  j  made  my  heart  revolt  at  the  harsh,  abusive  man- 

their   sly  insinuations  and   delicate  inuendos  of  ner,  in  which  the  reverend  gentleman  mention- 


compliment,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  lv«ckv 
recolliction,  how  much  additional  weight  and 
lustre  your  good  opinion  and  friendship  must 
give  me  in  that  circle,  1  had  certainly  looked 
upon  myself  as  a  person  of  no  small  consequence. 
I  ilare  not  say  one  word  how  much  I  was  charm- 
ed with  the  major's  friendly  welcome,  elegant 
manner,  and  acute  remark,  lest  I  shoulil  be 
thought  to  balance  my  orientalisms  of  applause 
over  against  the  finest  quey  *  in  Ayrshire,  which 
he  made  a  present  of  to  help  and  adorn  my  farm, 
stock.  As  it  was  on  hallow-day,  I  am  deter- 
mined annually  as  that  day  returns,  to  decorate 
her  horns  with  an  ode  of  gratitude  to  tha  family 
of  Duulop. 


So  soon  as  I  know  of  your  arrival  at  Dunlop, 
I  will  take  the  first  conveniency  to  dedicate  a 
day,  or  perhaps  two,  to  you  and  friendship,  un- 
der the  guarantee  of  the  major's  hospltalitv. 
There  will  soon  be  threescore  and  ten  miles  of 
permanent  distance  between  us  ;  and  now  that 
your  friendship  and  friendly  correspondence  is 
entwisted  with  the  heart-strings  (d'  my  enjoy- 
ment of  life,  I  must  indulge  myself  in  a  liap|)y 
day  of  "  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul." 


No.  XCIX. 


TO 


SIR,  November  8,  1 783. 

NoTWiTHSTANniNG  the  opprobrious  ejiithets 
with  which  some  of  our  philosophers  and  gloomv 
sectaries  have  branded  our  nature — the  princi- 
ple of  universal  selfishness,  the  proneness  to  all 
evil,  they  have  given  us  ;  still,  the  detestation 
in  which  inhumanity  to  the  distiessed,  or  inso- 
lence to  the  fallen,  are  held  by  all  mankind, 
shows  that  they  are  not  natives  of  the  human 
lieait. — Even  the  unhappy  ])artner  of  our  kind, 
who  is  undone — the  bitter  consequence  of  liis 
follies  or  his  crimes — who  but  sympathises  with 
the  miseries  of  this  rvined  profligate  bnitber  ? 
we  forget  the  '"'  .nes,  and  feel  for  the  man. 

I  went  last  Wednesday  to  my  parish  church, 
most  cordially  to  join  in  grateful  acknowledge- 
ments to  the  AuTiioii  OF  ALL  Goon,  for  the 
ronsequent  blessings  of  the  glorious  revolution. 
To  that  auspicious  event  we  owe  no  less  than 
our  liberties  civil  anil  religious  ;  to  it  we  are 
sikewise  indebted  for  the  presecj  Royal  I'amily. 


1  Heifer. 


«d  the  House  of  Stuart,  and  which  I  am  afraid, 
was  too  much  the  language  of  the  day.  We 
may  rejoice  sufficiently  in  our  deliverance  from 
past  evils,  without  cruelly  raking  up  the  a.sbe3 
of  those,  whose  misfortune  it  was,  perhaps  as 
much  as  their  crime,  to  be  the  authors  of  those 
evils  ;  and  we  may  bliss  God  for  all  his  good- 
ness to  us  as  a  nation,  without,  at  the  same  time, 
cursing  a  few  ruined,  powerless  exiles,  who  only 
harboured  ideas,  and  made  attempts,  that  most 
of  us  would  have  done,  had  we  been  in  their  si- 
tuation. 

"  The  bloody  and  tyrannical  House  of  Stuart," 
may  be  said  with  propriety  and  justice  when 
compared  with  the  jiresent  Royal  Family,  and 
the  sentiments  of  our  days  ;  but  is  there  no  al- 
lowance to  be  made  for  the  manners  of  the 
times  i  Were  the  royal  contemporaries  of  the 
Stuarts  more  attentive  to  their  subjects'  rights? 
Might  not  the  epithets  of  "  bloody  and  tyranni- 
cal" be,  with  at  least  equal  justice,  applied  to 
the  House  of  Tudor,  of  York,  or  any  other  oi 
their  predecessors  ? 

The  simple  state  of  the  case,  Sir,  seems  tc  oe 
this — .\t  that  peiiod,  the  science  of  govei  mneiit, 
the  knowledge  of  the  true  relation  between  king 
and  subject,  was,  like  other  sciences  and  other 
knowledge,  just  in  its  infancy,  emerging  from 
dark  ages  of  ignorance  and  barbarity. 

The  Stuarts  only  contended  fur  prerogatives 
which  they  knew  their  pndecessois  eniuved,  and 
which  they  saw  their  contempoiaries  enjoying  ; 
but:  these  premgatives  were  inimical  to  tiie  li.ip- 
piness  of  a  nation,  and  the  rights  of  subjects. 

In  this  contest  between  prince  and  people, 
the  consequence  of  that  light  of  science,  which 
had  lately  da'wned  over  Europe,  the  monaich 
of  France,  for  example,  was  victorious  over  the 
struu'gbng  liberties  of  his  people  :  with  us,  luc  kily 
the  nioiiarch  failed,  and  his  unwai  raiitabie  pre- 
tensions fell  a  sacrifice  to  our  rights  and  lirjipi- 
ness.  Whether  it  was  owing  to  the  wisdmn 
of  le.iding  individuals,  or  to  the  jiistling  of  par- 
ties, I  cannot  pretend  to  determine;  but  like- 
wise, happily  for  us,  the  kingly  power  was  shift- 
ed into  another  branch  of  the  family,  who,  as 
they  owed  the  throne  solely  to  the  call  of  a  frer 
people,  could  claim  nothing  inconsistent  « ith 
the  covenanted  terms  which  placed  them  there. 

The  Stuarts  have  been  condemned  and  laugh- 
ed at  for  the  lolly  and  impracticability  of  tlitir 
attempts  in  1713  and  1743.  Tli.it  tbey  failed, 
I  bless  Gon  ;  but  cannot  join  in  the  ridicule  a- 
gain>t  them.  Who  does  not  know  that  tlie  abi- 
lities or  defects  of  leaders  and  con  mamlers  art 
oft«ii  hidden  until  ]uit  to  the  touchstone  of  v\'\- 
gency  ;   and  that  there  is  a  capiicecd'  Iv.rtuns. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


319 


tn  oiriiipiifrncc  In  particular  act-idents  and  ron- 
functurcs  al  circuuistancfts,  which  exalt  us  as  lie- 
roes,  or  brand  us  as  madmen,  just  as  they  arc 
for  or  :ip;.iitist  us  ? 

Jlan,  Mr.  Publisher,  is  a  strange,  weak,  in- 
sonsistent  being.  Who  would  believe,  Sir,  tiiat. 
in  this  our  Augustan  age  of  liberality  and  re- 
InuMnent,  while  we  seem  so  justly  sensible  and 
jealous  of  our  rights  and  liberties,  atid  animated 
with  such  indignation  against  the  very  memory 
of  those  who  would  have  subverted  them — that 
a  certain  people,  under  our  national  protection, 
should  coiiiplairi  not  against  our  monarch  and 
a  i<;\v  favourite  advisers,  but  against  our  whole 
LEGISLATIVE  iiODY,  for  similar  oppression,  and 
almost  in  the  very  same  terms,  as  our  forefathers 
did  of  the  House  of  Stuart  !  I  will  not,  1  can- 
not enter  into  the  merits  of  the  cause,  but  I  dare 
say  the  American  Congress,  in  177ti,  will  be  al- 
lowed to  be  as  able  and  as  enlightened  as  the 
English  convention  v/as  in  iGSS  ;  and  that  their 
pos'^'rity  '.'ill  ce'ebrate  the  cf  ntena'  y  of  tl  eir  de- 
liverance Inmi  us,  as  duly  and  sincerelv  as  we 
do  ours  from  the  oppressive  measures  of  the 
wroiig-headed  House  of  Stuart. 

To  conclude,  Sir  ;  let  every  man  who  has  a 
tear  for  the  many  miseries  incident  to  huniaui- 
ty,  feel  for  a  family  illustrious  as  any  in  Europe, 
and  unfoitunate  beyond  historic  precedent  ;  and 
let  every  Briton  (and  particularly  every  Scots- 
aian),  who  ever  looked  with  reverential  pity  on 
the  «iota;;e  of  a  parent,  cast  a  veil  over  the  fatal 
oiistakes  of  the  kinss  of  his  forefathers.  • 


No.  C. 


TO  MR.  JAMES  JOHNSON,  Engraver, 

EniNIiUKGH. 

Mauchllne,  Kuv.  13,  17S8. 

>!Y   TtF.AV.   SI'S., 

1  have  sent  you  two  more  songs. — If  you 
have  got  any  tunes,  or  any  thing  to  correct, 
l)li'ase  send  tliem  by  return  of  the  carrier. 

I  can  easily  see,  my  dear  friend,  that  you  will 
very  prol^ibly  have  four  vohiiiies.  Perhajjs  you 
may  not  tind  y(iur  account  Incrutively,  in  this 
bw-iiie-s  ;  but  you  are  a  patriot  for  the  music  of 
your  ciiuiitiy  ;  and  1  am  certain,  posterity  will 
look  on  themselves  as  highly  imlebted  to  your 
public  spirit.  Be  not  in  a  hurry  ;  let  us  go  on 
correctly  ;   and  your  name  shall  be  immortal. 

I  am  I'leparing  a  fluniiig  prefice  for  your 
third  vohinie.  I  see  every  d.iy,  new  musical 
publications  advertised  ;  but  what  are  they  ? 
Gaudy,  hunted  butterflies  of  a  day,  and  theu  va- 
nish forever:  but  your  work  will  outli\e  the 
monieiitarv  neglects  of  idle  fashion,  and  defy  the 
teeth  of  time. 


n.ive  you  nc\ci  i  fair  goihloss  that  leads  you 
a  wild-goose  chase  of  amorous  devotion  ?  Let 
nie  know  a  few  of  her  qualities,  such  as,  whe- 
ther she  be  either  black,  oi  fair ;  plump,  or 
thin  ;  short,  or  tall,  &c.  ;  and  choo>e  your  air, 
and  I  shall  task  tny  Muse  to  celebrate  her. 


No.  CI. 


TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Mauchline,  Nov.  15,  1788. 

REV.    AND  DTAR  SIR, 

As  I  hear  nothing  of  your  motions  but  thi 
you  are,  or  were,  out  of  town,  1  do  not  know 
where  this  may  find  you,  or  whether  it  will  find 
you  at  all.  I  wrote  you  a  long  letter,  dated 
from  the  land  of  matrimony,  in  June ;  but 
either  it  had  not  found  you,  or,  what  I  dread 
more,  it  found  you  or  Mrs.  Blacklock  in  too 
precarious  a  state  of  health  and  spirits,  to  take 
notice  of  an  idle  packet. 

I  hive  done  many  little  things  fur  Jolmson, 
since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  ;  and  I 
have  finished  one  piece,  in  the  way  of  P<ipe's 
Moral  Epistles ;  but  from  your  silence,  I  have 
every  thing  to  fear,  so  I  have  only  sinit  you  two 
melancholy  things,  which  I  tremble  lest  they 
should  too  well  suit  the  tone  of  your  prtseut 
feelings. 

In  a  fortnight  I  move,  bag  and  baggage,  to 
Nithsdale  ;  till  then,  my  direction  is  at  this 
place  ;  after  that  period,  it  will  be  at  Ellisland, 
near  Dumfries.  It  would  extremely  oblige  nie 
were  it  but  half  a  line,  to  let  me  know  how  you 
are,  and  where  you  are. — Can  I  be  indifferent 
to  the  fate  of  a  man,  to  whom  I  owe  so  much? 
A  man  whom  I  not  only  esteem  but  venerate. 

My  warmest  good  wishes  aiid  most  respectful 
comjjiiments  to  JMrs.  Blacklock,  and  iNJiss  John- 
ston, if  she  is  with  you. 

I  cannot  conclude  without  telling  you  that  I 
am  more  and  more  pleased  with  the  step  I  took 
respecting  "  my  Jean." — Two  things,  troiii  my 
happy  exjieiience,  I  set  down  as  a])othegi)is  in 
life.  A  wife's  head  is  inimuteiial,  com|)aied 
wiih  her  heart — and — "  Virtue's  (for  wi-dom 
I  what  ])oet  pretends  to  it) — ways  are  ways  of 
pleusautuess,  and  all  her  paths  are  peace." 

Adieu  ! 


(Here  follow  "  The  mother  s  Inmeyit  for  the 
]  OSS  if  her  son"  p.  200,  and  the  fong  bcgin- 
I  ning,  "  The  lazr/  mist  hiinc/s  from  the  brow  oj 
'  the  hill,  '  1.  1>3-i.) 


•  Th-s  letter  was  ?ent  tr  the  publisher  of  the  EJin- 
biirg/i  Eviming  0ourant.\ 


32C 


J  URNS' 


WORKS. 


No.  CII. 
TO  AfRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellismnd.  ITlh  Dicemhcr,  17S8. 

MY  DEAR    HONOUKEn    FRIEND, 

Yours,  (iateci  Edinhuigh,  which  I  have  just 
read,  makes  me  very  unh,i|ipy.  Ahiiost  "  lilinil 
ami  wholly  deaf."  ;ire  nieliiuholy  news  of  hu- 
man n.iture;  but  when  told  of  a  much  loved 
and  honoured  friend,  they  c.iiry  misery  in  the 
sound.  Goodness  on  your  pirt,  and  gr.ititude 
on  mine,  besr^in  a  tie,  wliich  hns  gradually  and 
strongly  ciitwisted  itself  among  the  dcare<>t 
chords  of  my  bosom  ;  and  I  tremble  at  the 
omens  of  yout  late  and  present  ailing  habits 
and  shattered  health.  You  miscalculate  mat- 
ters widely,  when  you  forbid  my  waiting  on 
you,  lest  it  .should  hurt  my  worMly  concerns. 
My  small  scale  of  farming  is  exceeiiingly  more 
simj)!e  and  easy  than  what  you  have  lately 
seen  at  RIoreham  i\Iains.  But  be  that  as  it 
may,  the  heart  of  the  man,  and  the  fancy  of 
the  ])oet,  are  the  two  grand  considerations  for 
which  I  live:  if  miry  ridges,  and  dirty  dung- 
hills are  to  engross  the  best  part  of  the  func- 
tions of  my  soul  immortal,  I  had  better  been  a 
rook  or  a  mag|)ie  at  once,  and  then  I  should 
not  have  been  pliigued  with  any  ideas  superior 
to  breaking  of  clods,  and  picking  up  grubs  ; 
not  to  mention  bira-door  cocks  or  mallards, 
creatures  with  which   I  could   almost  exchange 

lives  at  any   time If  you  continue  so  de;Lf,    I 

»m  afraid  a  visit  will  be  no  great  pleasure  to 
either  of  us  ;  but  if  I  hear  you  are  got  so  well 
again  as  to  he  able  to  reli>h  coiiversatiiin,  look 
y<iu  to  it,  Midam,  for  I  will  make  my  tlireaten- 
iiixs  good  ;  1  am  to  be  at  the  new-year-day  filr 
of  Ayr,  and  by  all  that  is  sacred  in  the  world, 
fri'diid,  I  will  come  aud  see  you. 


Your  meeting,  which  you  so  well  describe, 
with  y<nir  old  sclioolf(  How  and  frieml,  was  tru- 
ly llltere^tin:;.  ()utu|i()n  the  ways  of  the  world  ! 
— Tliey  spoil  these  "  social  offsprings  of  the 
heart."  Two  veter.ms  of  the  "  men  of  the 
word"  would  have  met,  with  little  more  heart- 
woikings  than  two  old  hacks  W(uii  out  on  the 
road.  Apropos,  is  not  the  Scotch  phiase, 
"  Auld  lai'g  syne,"  exceedingly  expressive. 
There  is  an  old  song  and  tu-ie  whicli  has  often 
thiilled  through  my  sold.  You  know  I  am  im 
enthusiast  in  uh!  Scutch  songs.  I  shall  give  you 
the  verses  on  the  other  shi'ct,  as  I  ■uj)pose  fiJr. 
Ker  will  save  you  the  postage.  • 

Light  be  the  turf  on  the  breast  of  the  Hea- 
ven-inspired poet  who  com|)osed  this  glorious 
fragment  !  There  is  more  of  tin.-  fire  of  native 
penius  in  it,  than  in  half  a  dozen  of  nunlern 
English    liucchanaliaus.      Now    I    am    on    mv 


hobby  horse,  I  cinnot  help  inserting  tw)  >th»> 
old  stanzas,  which  please  me  nngLtdy. 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o  wine. 
An'  fill  It  in  a  silver  tassie. 


•  Here  foUaws  llie  song  of  4uid  lang  3!/%e. 


No.  cm. 

TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

WHO     HAD     HEARD     HE    HAD     BEEN    MAKINB* 
BALLAD   ON    HER,    ENCLOSING  THAT   BALLAEt 

MADAM,  December,  1783. 

I  UNDERSTAND  my  Very  worthy  neighbour 
Air.  Riddel,  has  informed  you  that  1  have  made 
you  the  subject  of  some  verses.  Thci  e  is  some- 
thing so  provoking  in  the  idea  of  being  the  bur- 
den of  a  ballad,  that  I  do  not  tliink  Job  or 
Moses,  though  such  patterns  of  jjatlence  and 
meekness,  couid  have  resisted  the  curiosity  ta 
know  what  that  ballad  was:  so  my  worthy 
friend  has  done  me  a  mischief,  which  I  dare  say 
he  never  intended  ;  and  reduceii  me  to  the  un- 
fortunate alternative  of  leaving  your  curiosity 
ungratified,  or  else  disgusting  you  with  foolisu 
veises,  the  unfinished  production  of  a  r.iuduni 
moment,  and  never  meant  to  have  met  your  ear 
I  have  heaid  or  read  somewhere  of  a  gentleman, 
who  had  some  genius,  niueh  eccentricity,  ant! 
very  considerable  dexterity  with  his  pencil.  In 
the  accidental  groups  of  life  into  which  one  i» 
thrown,  wherever  this  gentleman  met  with  a 
character  in  a  more  than  (.rdiiiary  degree  con- 
genial to  his  heart,  he  used  to  steal  a  sketch  ot 
the  face,  meiely.  he  said,  as  a  7iOta  bene  to  ])(uiit 
out  the  agreeable  recollection  to  his  meniorv. 
What  this  gentleman's  pencil  was  to  him,  is  my 
muse  to  me  ;  and  the  veises  I  do  myself  the 
honour  to  send  you  are  a  meincrtto  exactly  of  the 
same  kind  that  he  indulged  in. 

It  may  he  more  owing  to  the  fistiillotisness 
of  my  caprice,  than  the  delicacy  of  my  t.iste, 
that  I  am  so  often  tired,  di-gnsted,  and  luirt 
with  the  iii'-i]iidity,  affectation,  and  pride  of 
mankiiid,  that  when  I  meet  with  a  person 
"  after  my  own  heart,"  I  positively  feel  wliat 
an  orthodox  protestant  v.ould  call  a  S])ecies  of 
idolatry  which  acts  on  my  fancy  like  insjiira- 
tion,  and  I  can  no  more  desist  rhyming  on  tlie 
impulse,  than  an  iEcdian  harj)  can  refuse  its 
tones  to  the  streaming  air.  A  distich  or  two 
would  he  the  consec|uence,  though  the  ol.iect 
which  hit  my  fancy  were  g.-ey-l;o  irded  a.^e ; 
but  «herc  my  theme  is  youth  and  beauty,  a 
young  lady  whose  personal  charms,  wit,  and 
nentiment,  are  equally  striking  and  unaffected, 
by  heavens  !  though  1  hail  lived  threescore  year" 
a  mairiei  man,  and  threescore  years  helore  I 
was  a  married  man,  my  imagui.itiou  would  ha), 
low  the  very  idea  ;  and  I  am  ti  nly  sorry  that 
the  enclosed  stanz,is  have  doiio  such  jioor  iastic« 
to  such  a  subject. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


32] 


No.  CIV. 
TO  SIR  JOHN  WIIITEFOORD. 

flK,  Deremher,  I7^fi. 

Mr.  M'Kfnzie,  ill  M.iuelilinc,  my  very  warm 
and  wortliv  IVicnd,  lias  iiiforiiiuil  tiie  Imw  niiirli 
Vdii  are  plea^iMl  to  iiitiTost  ymirsell'  in  my  fate 
as  a  man,  and,  (wlia-t  to  me  it  incumjiaralily 
dourer )  niy  fame  as  a  [icot.  I  iiave,  Sir,  in  out 
or  two  instances,  been  patronized  by  tliose  of 
your  eliaracttT  in   life,    when  I  was  introdured 

to   tlieir    notiee  by friends  to   tliem, 

and  luinoiiiod  acqiiainta'nci'S  to  me:  but  you 
are  the  fir.-t  pentliMuaii  in  the  country  whose 
benevolence  and  <joodne^s  of  heart  has  interest- 
ed Iiim  for  me,  unsolicited  and  unknown.  I 
am  not  master  enough  of  the  etiquette  of  these 
matters  to  know,  nor  did  I  stay  to  inquire, 
whether  firmal  duty  bade,  or  cold  j)ro])riety 
disallowed,  my  thati'ting  you  in  this  ni.'r.ner,  a> 
1  am  convinced,  from  the  li^ht  in  which  you 
kindly  view  nie,  that  you  wdl  do  me  the  justict 
to  !)elieve  this  lettet'  is  not  the  inanopuvra  of  8 
needy,  sharping  author,  fasteninv;  on  those  in 
upper  life,  \yho  honour  hun  with  a  little  nuticf 
of  him  or  his  wo.ks.  Indeed  the  situation  ot 
poets  is  t;enerally  such,  to  a  (irov'erb,  as  may, 
in  some  nieisure,  jialliate  tint  [)rostifution  of 
heart  and  talents  they  have  at  times  been  guilty 
of.  I  do  not  think  prodigality  is,  by  an  means, 
a  necessary  concomitant  of  a  poetic  turn,  but 
believe  a  careless,  indolent  inattention  to  econo- 
my, is  almost  in»epara!)le  from  it  ;  then  there 
must  be  in  the  heart  of  every  I'ard  of  Nature's 
making,  a  certain  modest  sensiliiiity,  mixed 
with  a  kind  of  jiride,  that  wdl  ever  keep  him 
out  of  the  way  of  those  wiii'ltalls  of  fortune, 
xt'liich  fiequeiitly  light  oa  hardy  impudence 
and  foot- licking  servility.  It  is  not  easy  to 
imagine  a  moie  helpless  state  than  his,  whose 
poetic  fancy  unfits  him  f.r  the  world,  and  whose 
character  as  a  scholar,  gives  him  some  l)ruten- 
»iou8  to  the  palittsae  of  life — yet  is  as  poor  as  I 
am. 

For  my  part,  I  thank  Heaven,  my  star  has 
been  kinder  ;  learning  never  elevated  my  ideas 
above  the  peasant's  shed,  and  I  have  an  iude- 
perwlent  fortune  at  the  plough-tail. 

I  was  surprised  to  hear  tint  any  one,  who 
pretended  in  the  least  to  the  mtin?icrs  of  the 
gtnlh  iiKin,  should  he  so  fo(disli,  or  worse,  as  to 
Stoop  to  traduce  the  morals  of  such  a  one  as  I 
am,  and  so  mhumanly  cruel,  too,  as  to  meddle 
with  that  late  most  unfortunate,  unhappy  part 
of  my  story.  With  a  tear  of  gratitude,  I  thank 
you.  Sir,  for  the  warmth  with  which  you  inter- 
po>e(l  in  behalf  of  my  coiuhict.  I  am,  I  ac- 
knowledge, too  frequently  the  sport  of  whim, 
caprice,  and  passion — but  reverence  to  God, 
and  integrity  to  my  fellow-creatures,  1  liope  I 
shall  ever  preserve.  I  have  no  return.  Sir,  to 
make  you  fur  your  goodness  but  one — a  return 
which,  I  ftrn  persuaded,  will  not  be  unaccept- 
»ijl«:— ^Ue  honest,   warm    wisiiea  of  a  grateful 


heart  for  your  happiness,  and  I'very  one  of  tli.it 
lovL-ly  flock,  who  stand  to  vou  in  a  filial  rela- 
ti<in.  If  ever  calumny  aim  the  poisoned  Nliaft 
at  thei^i,  may  friendship  be  by  to  ward  th« 
blow  ! 


LETTERS,  1789. 

No.  CV. 
FROM  MR.  G.  BURNS. 

DF.Aa  BROTHER,     Mnsscjicl,  \st  Jan.  17Sf>. 

I  HAVE  just  finished  my  new-year's-day 
breakfast  in  the  usual  for.n,  which  naturally 
makes  me  call  to  mind  the  days  of  former  years, 
and  the  society  in  which  we  used  to  begin 
them  ;  and  when  I  look  at  our  family  vicissi- 
tudes, "  through  the  dark  |iostern  of  time  long 
elapsed,"  1  cannot  help  remarking  to  yoi",  my 
dear  brother,  how  good  the  God  of  Skasons 
is  to  us  ;  and  that  however  some  clouds  may 
seem  to  lower  over  the  portion  of  time  before 
lis,  we  have  great  reason  to  Lope  that  all  v/iU 
turn  out  well. 

Your  mother  and  sisters,  with  Robert  the 
second,  join  nie  in  the  complimeiits  of  the  sea- 
son to  you  and  Mrs.  Hums,  and  beg  you  wil' 
remember  us  in  the  same  manner  to  William, 
the  fiist  time  you  see  him. 

I  am,  dear  brotlier,  yours, 

GILBERT  BURNS, 


No.   CVI. 
TO  I\IRS.  DUNLOP. 

EllhlattJ,  A'nc-Yeur.Dnj/  iMirrJnfj,  1789. 

Tills,  dear  Jladam,  is  a  moinjug  of  wishes, 
and  would  to  Gon  that  I  came  under  the  apos- 
tle James's  description! — the jirai/tr  of  a  riijh- 
teous  man  aviiileth  mvch.  In  that  case,  ^"Ma- 
dam,  you  should  welcome  in  a  year  full  of  bles- 
sings ;  every  thing  that  obstructs  or  disturbs 
traiKjuillity  and  self-eniojuient,  should  be  re- 
moved, and  every  jjleasure  tliat  frail  humanity 
can  taste,  should  be  yoars.  I  ovvn  myself  so 
little  a  Presbyterian,  that  I  approve  of  set  times 
and  seasons  of  more  than  ordinary  acts  of  devo- 
tion, for  breaking  in  on  that  habituated  routine 
of  life  and  thought,  which  is  so  apt  to  reiluce 
our  existence  to  a  kind  of  instinct,  or  even 
sometimes,  aiii!  with  sonic  minds,  to  a  state  very 
little  sujieiior  to  mere  machinery. 

This  (iay  ;  the  first  Sunday  ol  May  ;  a  breezy, 
blue-skyed  noon  some  time  about  th*"  b.-ginning, 
and  a  hoary  morning  and  calm  sunny  day  about 
the  end,  of  autumn  ;  these,  time  out  of  aut<<^ 
have  been  with  mc  a  kind  of  holiday. 


822 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


1  believe  T  owe  this  to  that  glorious  paper  in 
the  SjJO'^tatnr,  "  The  Vision  of  Mirz.i  ;"  a 
piece  that  struck  my  ynung  fancy  before  I  was 
capable  of  fixin[(  an  idea  to  a  word  of  three  syl- 
]ai)les  :  "  On  the  5th  day  of  the  moon,  which, 
gccording  to  the  custom  of  my  forefathers,  I  al- 
ways keep  holy,  after  having  washed  myself, 
and  offered  up  my  morning  devotions,  I  ascend- 
ed the  high  hill  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  pass  the 
rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayei." 

We  know  nothing,  or  nt'Xt  to  nothing,  of 
the  substance  or  structure  of  our  souls,  so  can- 
not account  for  those  seeming  caprices,  in  them, 
that  one  should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this 
thing,  or  struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of 
a  different  cast,  makes  no  extraordinary  im- 
pression. I  have  some  favourite  flowers  in 
spring,  among  which  are  the  mountain  daisy, 
tlie  hare-bell,  the  fox- glove,  the  wild-brier  rose, 
the  budding  birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn, 
that  I  view  and  hang  over  with  particular  de- 
light. I  never  hear  the  loud,  solitary  whistle 
of  the  curlew,  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild 
mixing  cadence  of  a  troop  of  grey  plover,  in  an 
autumnal  morning,  without  feeling  an  elevation 
of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poe- 
tr)-.  Tell  me,  my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this 
be  owing  ?  Are  we  a  piece  of  machinery,  which, 
like  the  jEolian  harp,  passive,  takes  the  impres- 
sion of  the  passing  accident  ?  Or  do  these  work- 
ings argue  something  within  us  above  the  trod- 
den clod  ?  1  own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs 
of  those  awful  and  important  realities — a  God 
that  made  all  things — man's  immaterial  and  im- 
mortal nature — and  a  world  of  weal  or  woe  be- 
yond death  and  the  grave. 


No.  CVII. 
FROM  THE  REV.  P.  CARFR.\E. 

SIR,  2d  January,  1783. 

Ir  you  have  lately  seen  Jlrs.  Diinlup,  of 
Diitilop,  you  have  certainly  heard  of  the  author 
of  the  verses  which  accompany  this  letter.  lie 
was  a  man  highly  respectable  for  every  accom- 
plishment and  virtue  which  adorns  the  charac- 
ter of  a  man  or  a  Christian.  To  a  great  de- 
gree of  literature,  of  taste,  and  poetic  genius, 
was  added  an  invincible  modesty  of  temjier, 
■which  j)revetittd,  in  a  great  degree,  his  figuring 
in  life,  and  confined  the  perfect  knowledge  of 
his  charactt-r  ms\i\  talents  to  tlie  small  circle  of 
his  chosen  friends.  He  was  untimely  taken 
from  us,  a  few  xveeks  ago,  by  an  iiifiammatory 
fever,  in  the  prime  of  life — beloved  by  all,  who 
enjoyed  his  ac(|uaintance,  and  lamented  by  all, 
who  have  any  regard  for  virtue  or  genius.  Tliere 
iii  a  woe  pronounced  in  Scripture  against  the 
person  whom    k\\   men   speak  well   of ;   if  ever 


that  woe  fell  upon  the  head  of  mortal  ;Tian,  * 
fell  upon  him.  He  has  left  behind  liim  a  con- 
siderable number  of  compositions,  chitfly  poeti- 
cal ;  sufficient,  I  imagine,  to  make  a  large  oc- 
tavo volume.  In  particuhfr,  two  complete  and 
regular  tragedies,  a  farce  of  three  acts,  and  some 
smaller  poems  on  different  subjects.  It  falls  to 
my  share,  who  have  lived  in  the  most  intimate 
and  uninterrupted  friendship  with  him  from  my 
youth  upwards,  to  tiansmit  to  you  the  verses  he 
wrote  on  the  publication  of  your  incomparable 
poems.  It  is  probable  they  were  his  last,  as 
they  were  found  in  his  scrutoire,  folded  up  witL 
the  form  of  a  letter  addressed  to  you,  and  I  im- 
agine, were  only  prevented  from  being  sent  hy 
himself,  by  that  melancholy  dispensation  which 
we  still  bemoan.  The  verses  themselves  I  will 
not  pretend  to  criticise  when  writing  to  a  gen- 
tleman whom  I  consider  as  entirely  qualified  to 
judge  of  their  merit.  They  are  the  oidy  verses 
he  seems  to  have  attempted  in  the  Scottish 
style  ;  and  I  hesitate  not  to  say,  in  general,  that 
they  will  bring  no  dishonour  on  the  Scottish 
muse  ; — and  allow  me  to  add,  that  if  it  is  your 
opinion  they  are  not  unwoithy  of  the  author, 
and  will  be  no  discredit  to  you,  it  is  the  incli- 
nation of  Mr.  Mylne's  friends  that  they  should 
be  immediately  published  in  soine  periodica! 
work,  to  give  the  world  a  specimen  of  what 
may  be  expected  from  his  performances  in  the 
poetic  line,  which,  perhaps,  will  be  afterv/arda 
published  for  the  advantage  of  Lis  family. 


I  must  beg  the  favour  of  a  letter  from  yon, 
acknowledging   the    receipt    of  this,    and   to  be 
allowed  to  subscribe  myself  with  great  regard, 
Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

P.  C 


No.  cvni. 

TO  DR.  MOORE. 
EUidand,  near  Dumfries,  4th  Jan.  1789. 

SIR, 

As  often  as  I  think  of  writing  to  you,  whicc 
has  been  three  or  four  times  every  week  these 
six  months,  it  gives  me  something  so  like  the 
idea  of  an  oidinaiy-sized  statue  ottering  at  a  con- 
versation with  the  Rhodian  Colossus,  that  my 
mind  misgives  me,  and  the  afiair  always  miscar- 
ries somewhere  between  puipose  and  lesiilve.  ) 
have,  at  last,  got  some  business  with  you,  and 
business-letters  are  written  by  the  style-book. — 
I  say  my  business  is  with  you.  Sir,  for  you  never 
had  any  with  me,  except  the  business  that  bene- 
volence has  in  the  mansion  of  poverty. 

The  character  and  om])loyinent  of  a  poet 
were  fcrmerly  my  ]ileasure,  but  are  now  my 
pride.         know  that  a  very  great  d(dl  of  ui) 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


32S 


fate  eclat  was  owing;  to  tlie  singularity  of  my 
nitiKition,  and  the  honest  prejudict'  of  Sei)t»inen  ; 
but  still,  as  I  said  in  the  |)i'ef,ii'e  to  my  first  edi- 
tion, I  do  look  upon  myself  as  h.ivinj;  some  pre- 
tensions from  Nature  to  the  poetic  character.  I 
nave  not  a  douht  but  the  knack,  the  aptitude,  to 
.earn  the  Pluses'  trade,  is  a  gift  bestowed  by 
Him  "  who  forms  the  secret  bias  of  the  sou!  ;" 
• — but  as  I  fii  mly  believe,  that  excellence  in  the 
prjfession  is  the  fruit  of  industry,  labour,  atten- 
tion, and  pains.  At  least  I  am  resolved  to  try 
my  doctrine  by  the  test  of  experience.  Another 
appearance  from  the  press  I  put  off  to  a  very 
di-tant  day,  a  day  that  may  never  arrive — but 
poe:«y  I  am  determined  to  prosecute  with  all  my 
vigour.  Nature  has  givt-n  very  few,  if  any,  of 
the  professi.in,  the  talents  of  shining  in  every 
species  of  composition,  I  shall  try  (for  until 
trial  it  is  impossible  to  know),  whether  she  has 
qualified  me  to  shine  in  any  one.  The  worst  of 
it  is,  by  the  time  one  has  finished  a  piece,  it  has 
been  so  often  viewed  and  reviewed  befoie  the 
mental  eye,  that  one  loses,  in  a  good  measure, 
the  powers  of  critical  discrimination.  Here  the 
be;st  ciiterion  I  know  is  a  friend — not  only  of 
abilities  to  judge,  but  witii  good  nature  enough, 
like  a  prudent  teacher  with  a  young  learner,  to 
praise  perhaps  a  little  more  than  is  exactly  just, 
lest  the  thin-skinned  animal  fall  into  that  most 
deplorable  of  all  poetic  diseases — heai  t-breaking 
despondency  of  himself.  Dare  I,  Sir,  already 
imnietisely  indebted  to  your  goodness,  ask  the 
additional  obligation  of  your  being  that  friend  to 
me  ?  I  enclose  you  an  essay  of  mine,  ia  a  walk 
of  ])oesy  to  nie  entirely  new  ;  I  mean  the  epistle 
adilressed  to  R.  G.,  Esq.,  or  Robert  Graham,  of 
Fintry,  Esq.,  a  gentleman  of  uncommon  worth, 
to  whom  I  lie  under  very  great  obligations.  The 
story  of  the  poem,  like  most  of  my  poems,  is 
connected  with  my  own  story,  and  to  give  you 
the  one,  I  must  give  you  something  of  the  other. 
I  cannot  boast  of 


of  so  much.  I  give  myself  no  airs  on  this,  for 
it  was  mere  selfishness  on  my  ])art  ;  (  was  con- 
scious that  the  wrong  scale  of  the  balance  was 
pretty  heavily  charged,  atul  I  thought  that 
throwing  a  little  filial  piety,  and  fraternal  affec- 
tion, into  the  scide  in  my  favour,  might  help  to 
smooth  matters  at  the  (jriuid  reckoninrj.  There 
is  still  one  thing  would  make  mv  ciicumstances 
quite  easy  ;  I  have  an  excise  officer's  commis- 
sion, and  I  live  in  the  midst  ot  a  country  divi- 
sion.  My  request  to  Mr.  Grahim,  who  is  ont 
of  the  coumiissioners  of  eycise,  was,  if  in  his 
power,  to  procure  me  that  (division.  If  I  were 
very  sanguine,  I  might  hope  that  some  of  my 
gieat  patrons  might  procure  me  a  treasury  war- 
rant for  supervisor,  surveyor-general,  &c. 


Thus  secure  of  a  livelihood,  "  to  thee,  sweel 
poetry,  delightful  maid,"  I  would  uonsecr<ue  my 
future  days. 


No.  CIX. 


I  believe  I  shall,  in  whole,  L.lOO  copy-right 
included,  dear  about  L.-iOO  some  little  odds  ; 
and  even  part  of  this  depends  upon  what  the 
geiitlema.n  has  yet  to  settle  with  me.  I  give 
you  this  information,  because  you  did  me  the 
honour  to  interest  yourself  much  in  my  welfare. 


To  give  the  rest  of  my  story  in  brief,  I  have 
married  "  my  Jean,"  and  taken  a  farm  ;  with 
the  first  step  I  hav^  every  day  more  and  more 
reason  to  be  satisfied  ;  with  the  last,  it  is  rather 
tl'.e  reverse.  I  have  a  younger  brother,  who 
fupports  my  aged  mother  ;  another  still  younger 
brother,  and  three  sisters,  in  a  farm.  On  my 
last  return  from  Edinburgh,  it  cost  me  about 
L.180  to  save  them  from  ruin.  Not  that  I 
nave  lost  so  much — I  only  interposed  between 
mv  biothei  and  his  impending  fate  by  the  loan 


TO  JIR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

Ellhlund,  Jan.  6,  1789. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to  you, 
my  dear  Sir  .  I\Iay  you  be  comparatively  happy 
up  to  your  comparative  worth  among  the  sons 
of  men  ;  which  wish  would,  I  am  sure,  make 
you  one  of  the  most  blest  o-f  the  human  race. 

I  do  not  know  if  passing  a  "  Writer  to  the 
Signet"  be  a  trial  of  scientific  merit,  or  a  mere 
business  of  friends  and  interest.  However  it  be, 
let  me  quotu  you  my  two  favourite  passages, 
which  though  I  hive  repeated  them  ten  thou- 
sand times,  still  tliey  rouse  my  manhood  and 
steel  my  resolution  like  inspiration. 

On  Reason  build  resolve. 


Th.it  column  of  true  majesty  ia  man. 

YOUNQ. 

Hear,  Alfied,  hero  of  the  state. 
Thy  genius  heaven's  high  will  declare; 
The  triumph  of  the  truly  great 
Is  never,  never  to  despair  ! 
s  never  to  despair  ! 

Masque  of  Alfred. 

»  grant  you  enter  the  HnIs  of  life,   to  struggle 
for  bread,    busintss,    notice,   and  distinction,   in 

common  with   hundreds But  who  are  they  .' 

i\Ien,  like  yourself,  and  of  that  aggregate  body, 
your  compeers,  seven-tenths  of  them  come  short 
of  your  advantages  natural  and  accidental ;  while 
two  of  those  that  remain  either  neglect  their 
parts,  as  floweis  blooming  in  a  desert,  or  mis- 
sjiend  their  strength,  like  a  bull  goring  a  branv 
ble  bush. 


324. 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


But  to  cTiange  the  thetne  :  Tain  still  catering 
for  Jolinson's  piiMication  ;  and  among  others, 
I  have  l)ru>la'(l  i:p  the  fdllowing  old  favourite 
song  a  little,  with  a  view  to  your  worship.  I 
have  only  altered  a  word  .•.ere  and  there  ;  hut  if 
vou  like  the  humour  of  i :,  we  shall  think  of  a 
stanza  or  two  to  add  to  it. 


No.  ex. 


TO  BISHOP  GEDDES. 
EWslnnd,  near  Dumfries,  3d  Feb.  1789. 

VENEKABLE    FATHER, 

As  I  am  conscious  ;hat  wherever  I  am  you  do 
me  the  honour  to  interest  yoiirxflf  in  my  wel- 
fare, it  gives  me  pleasuie  to  mforin  you,  that  I 
am  here  at  last,  stationaiy  in  the  serious  busi- 
ness of  life,  and  have  now  not  only  the  retired 
leisure,  hut  the  hearty  inclination,  to  attend  to 
those  great  and  important  questions — what  I 
am?  where  I  am?  and  for  what  I  am  destined  ? 

In  that  first  concern,  the  conduct  of  the  man, 
there  was  ever  hut  one  side  on  which  I  was 
haliitiuilly  hlameahle,  and  there  I  have  secured 
myself  in  the  way  ))oiiited  out  liy  Nature  and 
Nature's  Go<l.  1  was  sensible  that,  to  so  help- 
less a  creature  as  a  pcor  poet,  a  wife  and  family 
were  incumbrances,  which  a  species  of  prudence 
would  bid  him  shun  ;  but  when  the  alternative 
was,  being  at  eternal  warfare  with  myself,  on 
account  of  habitual  fi:Uies,  to  give  them  no  worse 
name,  whiih  no  general  e.\am])le,  no  licentious 
wit,  no  sophistical  infidelity  would,  to  me,  ever 
justify,  I  must  have  been  a  fool  to  have  hesitat- 
ed, and  a  madman  to  have  made  another  choice. 


In  the  affair  of  a  livelihood,  I  think  myself 
tolerably  secure :  I  have  good  hopes  of  my 
farm  ;  init  should  they  fail,  I  have  iin  escise 
commission,  which  on  my  simple  jietitioii,  will, 
at  any  time,  procure  nie  bread.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain stigma  affixed  to  the  irharacter  of  an  excise 
officer,  but  I  do  not  inteml  to  Dorrow  nonour 
from  any  jirofession  ;  and  though  the  salary  be 
comparatively  .iniall,  it  is  great  to  any  thing 
that  the  first  twenty-five  years  of  my  life  taught 
me  to  exjiect. 


Thus,  with  a  rational  aim  and  method  in  life, 
yo\i  may  easily  guess,  my  reverend  and  much- 
lionoured  frie«d,  that  my  cliaracteristical  trade 
is  not  forgotten.  I  am,  if  jinssible,  more  than 
Bver  nti  enth  isiast  to  tlie  muses.  I  am  doter- 
mined  to  study  man  ami  nature,  and  in  that 
view  incessantly  ;   and  to  try  if  the  ripening  and 


corrections  of  years  c/in  enable  me  to  produce 
something  worth  preserving. 

You  will  see  in  your  hook,  which  I  beg  yout 
pardon  for  detaining  so  long,  that  I  have  l)een 
tuning  my  lyre  on  the  banks  of  Nith.  Some 
larger  poetic  plans  that  are  floating  in  my  ima- 
gination, or  partly  put  in  execution,  I  shall  im- 
part to  you  when  I  have  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing with  you,  which,  if  you  are  then  in  Edin- 
burg,  ,  I  shall  have  ihout  the  beginning  of 
March. 

That  acquaintance,  worthy  Sir,  with  which 
you  were  pleased  to  honour  me,  you  must  still 
allow  me  to  challenge  ;  for  with  whatever  un- 
concern I  give  up  my  transient  connection  with 
the  merely  great,  I  cannot  lose  the  patronizing 
notice  of  the  learned  and  the  good,  without  the 
bitterest  regret. 


No.  CXI. 


TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellhland,  Ath  March,  1789. 
Here  am  T,  my  honouied  friend,  returned  safe 
from  the  capital.  To  a  man,  who  has  a  home, 
however  humble  or  remote — if  that  home  is  like 
mine,  the  scene  of  domestic  comfort — the  bustle 
of  Edinburgh  will  soon  be  a  business  of  sicken- 
ing disgust. 

"  Vain  pomp  and  glory  of  this  world,  I  hate  you  !" 

AVhen  I  must  skulk  into  a  corner,  lest  the 
rattling  equipage  of  some  gaping  blockhead 
should  mangle  me  in  the  mire,  I  am  temjitcd 
to  exclaim — "  what  merits  has  he  had.  or  what 
demerit  have  I  had,  in  some  state  of  pre-exlstcnce, 
that  he  is  ushered  into  this  state  of  being  with 
the  sceptre  of  rule,  and  the  key  of  riches,  in  his 
]n;ny  fist,  and  1  am  kicked  into  the  world,  the 
-pint  of  folly,  or  the  victim  of  pride?"  I  have 
read  somewhere  of  a  monarch  (in  Spain  I  think 
it  was),  who  was  so  out  of  humour  with  the 
Ptuleinean  system  of  astronomy,  that  be  said, 
had  he  been  of  the  Creatok's  council,  he  could 
have  saved  him  a  great  deal  of  labour  and  ab- 
surdity, I  will  not  defend  this  blaspiteinous 
speech  ;  but  often,  as  I  iiave  glided  with  humble 
stealth  through  the  pomp  of  Prince's  Street,  it 
has  siiggesteil  itself  to  me,  as  an  inij?rovemtiit 
on  the  present  human  figure,  that  a  man,  in 
proportion  to  his  own  conceit  of  his  consequence 
ill  the  wiprld,  could  have  pushed  out  the  longi- 
tude of  liis  common  size,  as  a  snail  pushes  out 
his  horns,  nr  as  we  draw  out  a  jierspective. 
This  trifling  alteration,  :  ot  to  mention  tlie  pro- 
digious saving  it  would  be  in  the  tear  and  wear 
of  the  nerk  and  limb-sinews  of  many  of  his  !\Ia- 
ji'sty's  liege  subjects  in  the  way  of  tossing  the 
head  and  tiptoe  strutting,  would  evidently  tura 
out  a  vast  adfautage,   in  enabling  us  at  once  U 


CORRESPONDl'^NCE. 


ldjii«t  the  ceremonials  in  iTiakin<5  a  Imw,  or 
niiikiii'^  way  to  a  great  man,  and  that  too  within 
a  seeonii  of  tlie  precise  sjilierical  an<5le  of  reve- 
renee,  or  an  ineh  of  the  pirtienlar  point  of  rc- 
spectfiil  distance,  whicli  the  important  creatnre 
it-.elf  rc(piires  ;  as  a  nKMsnrini;-^! mce  at  its 
towerin;;  altitude  would  determine  the  affair  hke 
Jiscinct. 

Yon  are  rif;ht,  I\I,id,ini,  in  your  idea  of  poor 
Mylne's  poem,  wliich  lie  has  addressed  to  me. 
The  piece  has  a  good  deal  of  merit,  hut  it  has 
Dne  great  fault — it  is,  iiy  far,  too  Ion;;.  He- 
«ldt>s,  my  suf.eess  has  encouraged  such  a  slioal 
of  ill-spawneil  monsters  to  crawl  into  puUlic 
notice,  under  the  title  of  Scottish  Poets,  th.it 
the  very  term  of  Scottish    Poetry   horders   on 

the  liurlesque.      When    I  write  to  IVIr.  C , 

I  shall  advise  bim  rather  to  try  one  of  his  de- 
ceased friend's  English  pieces.  I  am  prodigi- 
.  ..ily  honied  with  my  own  matteri,  else  I 
would  have  requested  a  perusal  of  a.\\  Mylne's 
poetic  performances ;  and  would  have  offered 
his  friends  my  assistance  in  either  selecting  or 
correcting  what  wmdd  he  proper  for  the  press. 
What  it  is  that  occupies  me  so  much,  anil  per- 
haps a  little  oppresses  my  present  sjiitits,  shall 
fill  up  a  paragraph  in  some  tutiire  letter.  In 
the  iiiemtime  allow  me  to  dose  this  epistle  with 
a  few  lines  dune  l»v  a   friend   of  mine 

I  give  you  them,  that  as  you  have  seen 
the  original,  you  may  guess  whether  one  or  two 
alterations  I  have  ventured  to  make  in  them,  be 
any  real  improvement. 

L'ke  the  fair  plant  that  from  our  touch  with- 
draws, 
Shrink  mildly  fearful  even  from  applause, 
Be  all  a  mother's  fondest  hope  can  dream. 

And  aTi  you  are,  my  charming  ,  seem. 

Straight  as  the  fox-glove,  ere  her  hells  disclose. 
Mild  as  the  maiden-ldushing  hawthorn  hlows. 
Fair  as  the  fairest  of  each  lovely  kind, 
Your  form  shall  he  the  image  of  your  mind: 
Your  manners  shall  so  true  your  soul  expresti, 
That   all    shall    long    to    know    the   woitli    they 

guess  ; 
Gnigenial  hearts  sliall  greet  with  kindre<l  love, 
Aud  even  sick'niug  envy  must  approve.* 


No.  CXII. 

.ETTER  FROM  WILLIAM  BURNS,  THE 
PC-iTS  BROTHER. 

Til  IS  and  thr»e  letters  which  follow  hereafter,  are 
the  genulue  and  artle-s  productiiuis  of  the  poet's 
yoiiiigei    I5rotlier,  Wii.i.iam  Burns,  a  yniw^ 
ni.in,  who  after  having   served  an  apprenti<-e 
siiip  to  the  trade  rif  a  Saddler,   took  his  lo.id 


•  hese  l)eautn'ol  linet,  we  have  rp.\«in  to  believe, 
»re  the  iiriiUieliuii  v(  ibe  laAy  Ui  wlioin  this  letter  u 
tdre^  d 


towards  tl;e  South,  anc?  having  resided  a 
short  time  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne,  arrived 
in  London,  where  he  died  of  a  putrid  fevef 
in  the  year  170(1.] 

DEAlisiR,  Lnnr/lnirn,  Feb.  L5,  17S9. 

As  I  am  now  in  a  manner  only  eiitcriiig  into 
the  world,  I  hegin  this  our  correspondence,  with 
a  view  ol  being  a  gainer  liy  your  ailvice,  more 
than  ever  you  can  be  by  any  thing  I  can  write 
you  of  what  I  see,  or  what  I  hear,  in  the  course 
of  my  wanderings.  I  know  not  how  it  hi|>- 
peiied,  but  yon  were  more  shy  of  your  counsel 
thin  I  could  have  wished  the  time  I  staid  with 
you  :  whether  it  was  because  you  thought  it 
would  disgust  me  to  have  my  faults  freely  told 
me  while  I  was  dependant  on  you  ;  or  whether 
it  was  because  you  saw  that  by  my  indolent  dis- 
position, your  instructions  would  hive  no  effect, 
I  cannot  determine  ;  but  if  it  inoceeded  from 
any  of  tile  above  causes,  the  reaxin  of  u'ithholdiiig' 
your  admonition  is  now  done  awiy,  tor  t  now 
stand  on  mv  (wn  bottom,  and  that  indolence, 
which  I  am  very  conscious  of,  is  something 
rubbed  off,  by  being  called  to  act  in  life  whether 
I  will  or  not  ;  and  my  inexperience,  whiih  1 
daily  feel,  makes  me  wish  fur  that  advice  which 
yon  are  so  able  to  give,  and  which  I  can  only 
expect  Umw  you  or  GIbert  since  the  loss  of  the 
kindest  and  ablest  of  fathers. 

The  morning  after  I  went  from  tl-.e  Isle,  I 
left  Dumfries  about  five  o'clock  and  came  to 
Ann  in  to  breakfist,  and  staid  about  an  hour  ; 
and  I  reached  this  place  about  two  o'clock.  I 
h.ive  got  work  here,  aud  !  intend  to  stay  a  month 
or  six  weeks,  and  then  go  fmwird,  as  I  \\\>\\  to 
be  at  Yolk  about  the  latter  end  of  summer, 
where  I  propose  to  spend  next  winter,  and  go 
on  fur  London  in  the  spring. 

I  have  the  piomise  of  seven  shillings  a  week 
fiiMii  .Mr.  i'roctor  while  I  stay  here,  and  six- 
pence more  if  he  succeeds  himself,  for  he  luia 
only  new  begun  trade  here.  I  am  to  pay  four 
shillings  |ier  week  of  board  wages,  so  that  my 
neat  income  here  will  be  much  the  same  as  ia 
Dumfries. 

The  enclosed  you  will  send  to  Gilbert  with 
the  first  opjioi  tiinity.  Please  semi  me  the  tii>t 
Wednesday  after  you  receive  this,  by  the  Car- 
lisle waggon,  two  of  my  coaise  shirts,  one  of 
my  best  linen  ones,  my  velveteen  vest;  anil  a 
neckcloth  ;  write  to  me  along  with  them,  and 
iliirct  to  me.  Saddler,  in  Longtown,  and  they 
will  not  miscarry,  for  1  aoi  boarded  in  the 
w.iggoner's  lioii-e.  You  may  either  let  them 
be  given  in  to  the  w.igion,  or  send  them  to 
{-onlth.ird  and  (ii  llebourn's  shop  and  they  will 
fiirward  thr  ni  Priy  write  me  oltc>n  while  I 
i.tay  lu-ie. —  1  wish  yuu  would  send  me  a  letter, 
though  never  so  small,  every  week,  for  they 
will  be  no  exjiense  to  me.  ami  but  little  trouble 
to  you.  I'le.ise  to  give  my  best  wishes  to  my  sis- 
ter-in-law, and  believe  me  to  be  your  affectionate 
And  obligid  Brother, 

WILLIA.M   BURNS 


32G 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


P.  S.  The  great  coat  y  u  gave  me  at  parting 
dill  me  singular  service  tlu  d.iy  1  came  here,  and 
merits  my  hearty  thanks.  From  what  has  been 
«ai(l  the  conclusion  is  this;  that  my  hearty 
thanks  and  my  best  wishes  are  all  that  you  and 
my  eister  must  exjiect  from 

W.  B. 


No.  CXIII. 
TO  THE  REV.  P.  CARFRAE. 

REVEREND  SIR,  1789. 

I  iio  not  recollect  that  I  have  ever  felt  a  se- 
veier  pang  of  shame,  than  on  looking  at  the 
d.ite  of  your  obliging  letter,  which  accompanied 
Mr.  Wyhie's  poem. 


1  am  much  to  blame :  the  honour  Mr.  IMylne 
has  done  me,  greatly  enhanced  in  its  value  by 
the  endearing,  though  melancholy  circumstance, 
of  its  being  the  la^t  production  of  his  muse,  de- 
served a  better  return. 

I  have,  as  you  hint,  thought  cf  sending  a 
copv  of  the  poem  to  some  periodical  publica- 
tiiin  ;  but,  on  second  thoughts,  I  am  airaid 
that,  in  the  present  case,  it  would  be  an  im- 
proper step.  My  success,  perhaps  as  much  ac- 
cidental as  meiited,  has  brought  an  inundation 
of  nonsense  under  the  name  of  Scottish  poetry. 
Siibscriptioti-biils  for  Scottish  poems  have  so 
dunned,  and  dailv  do  dun  the  public,  that  the 
very  name  is  in  danger  of  conti'ni|)t.  For  these 
reasons,  if  publishing  any  of  Mr.  M.'s  poems  in 
a  maguzine,  &c.  be  at  all  prudent,  in  my  opinion 
it  certainly  should  not  lie  ,i  Scottish  poem.  The 
protits  of  the  labnurs  of  a  man  of  genius,  aie,  [ 
hope,  as  honiuiral)le  as  any  protits  whatever  ; 
and  Mr.  Mvlne's  relations  are  most  justly  en- 
titled to  that  honest  hai  vest,  which  fite  has  ile- 
aird  himself  to  reip.  Hut  let  tiie  friends  of  Mr. 
Mylue's  fame  (among  whivm  I  crave  the  honour 
of  ranking  myself),  always  ko'cp  in  eye  bi<  re- 
fpectaliilitv  as  a  man  and  as  a  poet,  and  take  no 
measure  that,  before  the  world  knows  any  thing 
•nbout  him,  would  ri>k  his  name  and  ciiaiacter 
being  claH^ed  with  tlie  fouls  of  the  times. 

I  h  ive.  Sir.  sonie  experience  of  publishing; 
anil  the  way  in  uhich  I  would  proceed  with 
Air.  Myine's  poems,  is  this:  —  I  woulil  puhii-h, 
in  two  or  three  ICnglish  anil  Scotti>h  public 
papers,  any  one  of  his  Eoitlish  ])oeuis  which 
ishuulil,  by  private  jiiilges.  be  thought  the  most 
exielleiit,  arrd  mention  it  at  the  same  time,  as 
one  of  the  |.roducti(Uis  of  a  Luthiiiri  farmer,  of 
r■:^pl■ctallle  character,  lately  dece.ised,  whose 
I'lerris  bis  frieird>  had  it  in  idea  to  publish  soon, 
^/  /  sirb-cri|ition,  for  the  s.ike  of  hi-<  nurirerous 
A.  nrly  : — not  in  pity  to  that  family,  but  in  jirs- 
ta.'e  tu  what  his  friends  think   the  poetic  merits 


of  the  deceased  ;  and  to  secure,  in  the  most  if 
fectual  manner-,  to  those  tender  connections 
whose  right  it  is,  the  pecuniary  reward  of  thos« 
merits. 


No.  CXIV. 

TO  DR.  JIOORE. 

SIR,  Ellhland,  23d  March,  1  '8J  . 

The  gentleman  who  will  deliver  you  this  is  a 
Sir.  Nielson,  a  worthy  clergyman  in  my  neigh- 
bourhood, and  a  very  particular  acquaintance  o. 
mine.  As  I  have  troubled  him  with  this  packet, 
I  must  turn  him  over  to  your  goodness,  to  re- 
compense him  for  it  in  a  way  in  which  he  much 
needs  your  assistance,  and  where  you  can  effec- 
tually serve  him  : — IMr.  Nielson  is  on  his  way 
for  France,  to  wait  on  his  Grace  of  Queensbeiiy, 
(m  some  little  business  of  a  good  deal  of  impor- 
tance to  him,  and  he  wishes  for  your  instruc- 
tions respecting  the  most  eligible  mode  of  tra- 
velling, &c.  for  him,  when  he  has  crossed  the 
(!^hannel.  I  should  not  have  dared  to  take  this 
liberty  with  you,  but  that  I  am  told,  by  those 
who  hive  the  honour  of  your  personal  acquaint- 
ance, that  to  be  a  poor  honest  Scotchman  is  a 
letter  of  recommendation  to  you,  and  that  to 
have  it  in  your  power  to  serve  such  a  character, 
gives  you  much  pleasure. 


The  enclosed  ode  is  a  compliment  to  the  me- 
mory of  the  late  i\Irs. ,  of .     You 

l)riibably  knew  her  personally,  an  hnnour  ol 
which  I  cannot  boast ;  but  I  spent  my  eaiiy 
year's  in  her  neighbourhood,  and  among  her 
servants  and  tenants.  1  know  that  she  was  de- 
tested with  the  most  heartfelt  cordiality.  How- 
ever-, in  the  particular  part  of  her- conduct  which 
rou'-ed  mv  poetic  wrath,  she  was  ir.oih  less 
blameable.  In  January  last,  im  my  nud  to 
Ayrshire,  I  had  put  up  at  Uiilie  Wigham's  in 
Sanquhar,  the  only  tolerable  inn  in  the  place. 
The  frost  was  keen,  and  the  grim  evening  and 
howling  wind  were  ushering  in  a  night  ot  snow 
and  drift.  My  horse  and  I  were  both  much 
fatigued  with  the  labours  of  the  day,  and  jusi  a.< 
rrry  friend  the  Isailie  and  I  weie  bidding  drtiance 
to  the  storm,  over  a  sriiokrng  bowl,  in  wheels 
the  fuiieial  pageantry  of  the  late  great  Mis 
,  anil   poor  I  am   forced  to  brave  all  the 


horrors  of  the  tempestuous  night,  and  j  ule  my 
horse,  niy  young  fivourite  horse,  whom  I  had 
just  christened  Pe;;asus,  twelve  miles  fartlier 
on,  through  the  wilde-t  muiis  and  hills  of  Ayr 
shire,  to  New  Cumnock,  the  next  inii.  The 
powers  of  jMiesy  and  pro-e  sink  under  me,  when 
I  would  describe  what  1  felt.  Suffice  it  to  s.iy, 
\hat  when  a  good  fne,  at  New  Cumnock,  had 
M>  fir  recover-ed  nry  frozen  sinews,  i  sat  dowj 
and  wrote  the  enclosed  ode. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


327 


1  was  at  Eilinhi-fgh  lafely,  and  settled  finally 
Kith  Mr.  Crt'jcli  ;  and  I  iii'j'<t  own,  that,  at 
'■^t.  he  has  bctu  amicable  uud  fair  with  me. 


No.  CXV. 
TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Ellisland,  Id  April,  1789. 
I  WILL  make  no  excuses,  my  dear  Bil)liopo- 
us,  (  Ciod  foi'give  me  for  niunlering  language  !) 
that  1  have  sat  down  to  wiite  you  on  this  vile 
paper. 


It  is  economy,  Sir  ;  it  is  that  cardinal  virtue, 
prndence  ;  so  I  beg  you  will  sit  down,  and 
either  conijjose  or  borrow  a  panegyric.  If  you 
are  going  to  borrow,  apply  to 


the  glorious  cause  of  LufRE,  I  will  do  any  thing, 
be  any  thing — but  the  horseleech  of  privuta 
ojjpression,  or  the  vulture  of  public  robbery  ! 


Bat  to  descend  from  heroics. 


to  compose,  or  rather  to  compound,  something 
very  clever  on  my  remaikable  tVugalify  ;  that  I 
write  to  one  of  my  llio>t  e.^teemed  friends  cm 
tla»  wretched  paper,  which  was  originally  in- 
tended tor  the  venal  list  of  some  drunken  ex- 
ci^etiian,  to  take  dirty  notes  in  a  miserable  vault 
of  un  ale-Crllir. 

O  Frugality  !  thou  mother  of  ten  thousand 
ble-sini;s — thou  cook  of  fat  lieef  and  dainty 
greens  !  —  thou  niannficturer  of  warm  Shetland 
hose,  aiul  comfortable  surtouts  ! — thou  old 
hmisewife,  darning  thy  decayed  stockings  with 
thy  ancient  spectacles  (  n  thy  aged  nose  ; — lead 
me,  hanri  me  in  thy  clutching  |)alsied  fist,  u]) 
tho>e  heights,  and  through  those  thicket*,  hi- 
therto inaccessii)!e,  and  impervious  to  my  anxi- 
ous weary  feet  : — not  tho>e  rarnas^ian  craggs, 
bleak  and  barren,  where  the  hungry  wnrsbii)- 
pers  of  fime  are,  breathless,  clambering,  hang- 
ing between  heaven  and  hell  ;  but  those  ghtter- 
ing  clitfs  of  Pot.  si,  where  the  all  sufiicient,  all- 
powerful  deity.  Wealth,  hidds  his  immediate 
couit  of  joys  and  plcasuies;  where  the  sunny 
exposure  of  plentv,  and  the  hot  walls  of  profu- 
sion, produce  those  blis-fnl  fruits  of  luxury, 
exotics  in  this  woi  Id,  and  n,iti\  es  of  |)aradise  ! — 
Thou  uitheied  sybil,  my  sage  conductiess,  usher 
me  into  the  refulgent,  adored  jiresence  !  —  The 
I)ower,  splen(li<i  and  |)otent  ,is  he  now  is,  was 
once  the  puling  nursling  of  thy  fiithful  care, 
aTid  fender  arms  !  Cail  me  thy  sun,  thy  cousin, 
thy  kinsman,  or  favourite,  and  adjure  the  god, 
by  the  scenes  ol  his  infant  vear<,  no  longer  to 
lejiulse  me  as  a  sti.ingei,  or  an  alien,  but  to  fa- 
vour me  wiih  his  peculiar  countenance  and  pro- 
tection !  He  daily  liestows  his  greatest  kindness 
on  the  undeserving  and  the  wottiiless — assure 
'iim,  that  1  bring  ample  documents  of  meritcri- 
jus  demerits     Pledge  yourself  for  me,  that,  for , 


I  want  a  Shakspoare  ;  I  want  likewise  an  Eng 
lish  dictionary— Johnson's,  I  suppose,  is  best 
In  these  and  all  my  prose  conmiissions,  the 
cheapest  is  always  the  best  for  me.  T  here  is 
a  small  debt  of  honour  thit  I  owe  Mr.  Robert 
Cleghorn,  in  Sau^hton  .Mills,  my  worthy  friend, 
and  your  well-wisher.  Plea-e  give  him,  and 
urge  him  to  take  it,  the  fir>t  time  you  see  him, 
ten  shillings  worth  of  any  thing  jou  have  to 
sell,  and  place  it  to  my  account. 

The  liluary  schetne  *!iat  I  mentioned  to  you 
is  already  begun,  under  the  direction  of  Captain 
Riddel.  Theie  is  another  in  emulilion  of  it  yo- 
ing  on  at  Closeburn,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr, 
Monteith,  of  Closeburn,  which  will  be  on  a 
greater  scale  than  ours.  Captain  R  give  his 
infant  sticiety  a  great  many  of  his  old  books, 
elsn  I  had  written  you  on  that  subject  ;  but, 
one  of  these  days,  I  shall  trouble  you  with  a 
commission  for  "  The  Monkl.md  Friendly  So- 
ciety"— a  copy  of  Tilt  Spictutur,  Mirror,  and 
Liiiintitr  i  M'Ui  of  Fvilitiij,  :i.'nn  oj't/ic  Wi.rld, 
(jiit/iiits  Geoyraplmal  (iTUiiiiimr,  with  some 
religious  pieces,  will  likely  be  our  first  order. 

When  I  grow  licher,  1  will  write  to  you  on 
gilt  post,  to  make  amends  f  )r  this  sheet,  .^t 
present,  every  guinei  has  a  five-guinea  errand 
with 

My  dear  Sir, 
Your  faithful,  jjoor,  but  honest  friend, 

li.  B. 


No.  CXV  I. 
TO  JIRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellhland,  2d  April,  ]78». 


I  NO  sooner  hit  on  any  poetic  jilan  or  faac/ 
but  I  wi>h  to  send  it  to  you  ;  and  if  kno.viii;» 
and  reading  these  give  hall  tlie  pleasure  to  vou, 
that  conimuuicating  tiiem  to  you  gives  to  u>c, 
I  am  satisfied. 


I  have  a  poetic  whim  in  my  head,  wliich  ] 
at  present  dedicate,  or  rather  inscrilie,  to  the 
Right  H(m.  C.  J.  I''  X  ;  but  how  long  that 
fancy  may  hold,  I  cannot  say.  A  few  of  the 
fiist  lines  I  Lave  just  rough-sketched,  us  fol 
lows  :  — 


328 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


iSKETCn  (}?  C.  J.  FOX. 

How  w:s('i)ni  aiii!  folly  meet,  mix,  am!  unite  ; 
How  virt/ie  aiid  vico  bli-ad  their  black  and  their 

wiiite ; 
How  {reirus,  th*  illustrious  fatlier  of  fiction, 
Cotifounds   rule  and  law,    recuuciies  contradic- 

tiiiM — 
I  sing  :   if   these  mortals,    the  critics,    should 

hustle, 
I  care  not  not  I.  let  the  critics  go  whistle. 

3ut   now  for  a  patron,   whose  name  and  whose 

gloiy,  _ 
At  once  may  illustrate  and  honour  my  story. 

Thou  first  of  our  orators,  first  of  our  wits  ; 
Yet  whose    jiarts  and  ac(j\iirunients  seem   mere 

iui-ky  hits  ; 
With  knowledge  so  vast,  and  with  judgment  so 

strong'. 
No   man   with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went   far 

wrong  ; 
With  passidiis  so  potent,  and  fancies  so  bright, 
No  man  with  the  half  of  'em  e'er  went  quite  right ; 
A  sorry,  poor  misbegot  son  of  the  muses. 
For  using  thy  name  offers  fifty  excuses. 

Good  I d,  what  is  man  !    for  as  simple  he 

looks, 
Do  but  ti  y  to  develope  liishiinks  anil  his  crooks  ; 
Vv'ith  hi"*  di-ptlis  and  his  shallows,  his  good  and 

his  tfvil, 
All  in  all  he's  a  problem  must  puzzle  the  devil. 

On  his   one   ruling   passion   Sir  Pope  luigelv 

labiiiirs. 
That  like  tl;e  old  Ili'brew  walking-switch,  cats 

up  its  iii'it;hboiirs  : 
M.itikiiid  lire  his  '•how-box — a  friend,  wimld  you 

know  bin;  ? 
Piill  the  string,  ruling  passion,  the  picture  v.'ill 

slio\v  biin. 
Vhnt  pity,  in  rearing  so  beauteous  a  system. 
One  tnlbiii;  paiticidar,  truth,  should  have  uiiss'd 

liim  ; 
Fur,  spite  iif  his  fine  theoretic  positions, 
Mankind  is  a  science  defies  definitions. 

.'soiriD  sort  all  our  qualities  ea<'h  to  its  tribe. 
Ami  lliink  huiii.in  nature  liny  truly  ile>cribe  ; 
li.ive  )iiu  fniind    ibis,   or  t'other  ?   tbeie's  more 

in  tlie  wiiiii. 
As  by  one   ilrunkeu  I'ellow   his  comrades   you'll 

fiiiil. 
Dot  sorb  Is  the  fiaw,  or  che  ilepth  of  tiie  plan. 
In  ih:   make  of  that  wondeiful   creature  tall'd 

Rliu. 
No  two  virtues,  whatever  relation  they  claim, 
^•llr  even  two  ditb'rent  hliades  iil  the  same, 
1  l.oii.'b  like  as  was  ever  twin  brother  tobiother, 
I'ussesbing  the  one  shall  imply  yuu've  the  ulhei . 


No.  CXVII, 
TO  .MR.  CUN.M.NGn.\M. 

.MT  TEAR  siK,       EUhland,  Mh  ^tiy,  I7S9. 

Your  ilnty  free  favour  of  the  2(ith  A(iril  I 
received  two  days  a^o  :  I  will  not  say  I  peru- 
sed it  with  pleasure  ;  that  is  the  cold  compli- 
ment of  ceremony  ;    1  jierused  it.  Sir,  with  deli- 

cious  satisfaction In  short,   it  is  such  a  letter, 

that  not  you,  nor  your  friend,  but  the  lei,'i>!a- 
ture,  by  express  proviso  in  their  pust.ige  laws 
should  frank.  A  letter  informed  with  the  soul 
of  frienil>hii>,  is  such  an  honour  to  human  na- 
ture, that  they  should  order  it  free  ingre.'s  and 
egress  to  and  from  their  bags,  and  malls,  as  ao 
eiicourafiemeut  and  mark  of  distinction  to  su- 
per-eminent virtue. 

1  have  just  |uit  the  last  hand  to  a  little  poem 
which  1  think  will  be  something  to  your  taste. 
One  morning  lately  as  ]  was  out  pretty  early 
in  the  fields  sowing  some  grass  seeds,  I  heard 
the  burst  of  a  shot  from  a  neighbouring  plan- 
tation, and  presently  a  poor  little  woumled  hare 
came  crippling  by  me.  You  will  guess  my  in- 
dignation at  the  inhuman  fellow  who  could 
shoot  a  hare  at  this  seasim,  wlu'n  they  all  ol 
thein  have  youns;  ones,  Iiuleed  there  is  some- 
thing in  that  business  of  destroying,  for  our 
sport,  individuals  in  the  animal  creation  that 
do  not  injure  us  materially,  which  I  could  never 
reconcile  to  my  ideas  ol  viitue. 

(  See  Poetry. ) 

Let  me  know  how  you  like  my  poem.  I  am 
doubtful  wliether  it  would  not  be  an  impmve- 
ment  to  keep  out  the  last  slauiia  but  one  alto- 
gether. 

C is  a  ghulons  prnducticm  of  the  author 

of  man.  You,  he,  and  the  noble  Colonel  ol  the 
C F are,  to  me, 

"  Dear   as    the   ruddy   drojis  which  warm    niy 
bieast." 

I  have  a  good  mind  to  make  verses  on  you  all, 
to  the  tune  of  "  l/iree  yood  J'dtous  uyuHt  tlu 
ylen." 


O.T  '.he  20th  rurrent  I  hope  to  liave  the  ho- 
nour (.'f  ussuiing  you,  iu  person,  how  siuceiely 
1  •III, 


No.  CXVHI. 

TiJE  poem,  in  ths  preceding  letter,  had  alM> 
been  sent  by  on-  bard  to  Dr.  (iregorv  for  hit 
ctilicisui.  '1  he  following  is  thai  geulleuiiia'* 
re;ily. 

FRO.M  DR.  GREGORY, 

I'KAS  SIR,  ICiliiihur</h,  2tl  June,  178P. 

I"  AKK  the  first  leisure  hour  1  ei  uld  conimanfl, 
to  thank  y>>u  tor  jitiui  letter,  and  the  cnjiy  of 
Vi'ru.'S  cnciuiuil   IL'    It.      As    there  is  leal   pui:tic 


329 


merit,  f  i.ipnn  luitli  fmcy,  and  tenderness,  and 
Kcime  hiiipy  I'xpressidns,  in  them,  I  think  tliey 
Well  ilesi'ive  that  you  shoiihl  revise  them  care- 
fully iiiiil  polish  rheni  to  tlie  utmost.  This  I  am 
sure  you  can  do  if  yoii  please,  for  you  li  ive  i^re.it 
coiniiMtid  hoth  of  expression  and  of  rliviiies:  ami 
you  may  judije  from  tiie  two  last  pieees  of  Mrs. 
Hunter's  poetry,  that  I  gave  you,  how  nuieli 
correctness  anil  liiijh  polish  enhance  the  value  of 
such  couiposit'ons.  As  you  desire  it,  1  ishall, 
with  gieat  freedom,  give  you  my  most  riynrons 
ciitieisms  on  your  verses.  I  wish  you  would 
give  me  another  edition  of  tlieni,  much  amend- 
ed, and  I  will  send  it  to  Mis.  Hunter,  who,  I 
am  sure,  will  have  much  pleasure  in  reading  it. 
Pray,  give  me  likewise  for  myself,  and  her  too, 
a  copy  (as  much  amended  as  you  please)  of  tlie 
Witter  Fiiwl  on  Lncli   Turit. 

The  WointiLd  Hare  is  a  pretty  good  suhject  ; 
but  the  measure,  or  stanza,  you  have  chosen  for 
it,  is  not  a  good  one  ;  it  does  not  Jlow  will  ; 
and  the  rhyme  (d'  the  fourth  line  is  almost  lost 
h\  its  distance  from  the  titNt  ;  ami  the  two  in- 
terposed, close  rhymes.  If  I  were  you,  I  would 
put  it  iiito  a  dillerent  stanza  yet. 

Stanza  I. — The  execrations  in  the  first  two 
lines  are  strong  or  coarse  ;  but  they  may  piss. 
"  .Murder-aiming"  is  a  bad  compound  epltliot, 
and  not  very  inteihgihie.  "  IJlooil-stained,"  in 
stanza  ill.  line  \,  has  the  same  fault:  Ji/ifiliiirj 
bosom  is  infinitely  better.  You  have  accustom- 
ed yoursrif  to  such  epithets,  and  have  nii  notioTi 
how  sritf  aad  quaint  they  appear  to  others,  aufl 
how  incongruous  with  ]ioetic  fancy,  and  tender 
Kiiti^iciits.  Suppose  Pope  had  written,  "Why 
that  blood-stained  bosimi  gored,"  how  would  vou 
have  liked  it  .'  Form  is  neither  a  poetic,  nor  a 
dli'iiilied,  nor  a  plain,  common  word  :  it  is  a 
mere  spoilsman's  word;  unsuitable  tu  pathetic 
or  serious  poetry. 

"  M.mgied"  is  a  coarse  word.  "  Innocent," 
in  this  sense,  is  a  nursery  word  ;  but  both  may 
pass. 

Stanza  4. — "  Who  will  now  provide  that  life 
a  mother  only  can  bestow,"  will  not  do  at  all  : 
it  is  not  gianimar — it  is  not  intelligible.  Do 
y>u  mean  "  provide  for  that  life  which  the  mo- 
ther had  bestoweil  and  used  to  provide  for?" 

There  was  a  ridiculous  slip  of  the  pen, 
"  Feeling"  (I  suppose)  for  "  Fellow,"  in  the 
title  of  your  copy  of  veises  ;  but  even  fellow 
would  be  wrong  :  it  is  but  a  collocpiial  and  vul- 
gar woid,  un-uitd)ie  to  your  sentiments.  "  .shot" 
is  imprnpcr  too. — On  seeing  a  person  (or  a 
Kportsman )  wound  a  !iure  ;  it  is  tieedless  to  add 
with  what  weajion  ;  but  if  you  think  otherwise, 
you  should  Siy,  with  a  faulinti-jjitce. 

Let  me  see  you  when  you  come  to  town,  and 
I  will  show  you  some  more  of  i\Irs.  Hunter's 
pocais.  • 


No.  CXIX. 
TO  JIR.  JAML.S  HAMILTON, 

CKOCEH,  GLASGOW. 

deah  sir,  j;il!s/anfl,  Maij,  26,  1799. 

I  SFNi)  you  by  John  (;iover,  carrier,  the 
above  account  for  Mr.  Turnbull,  as  I  supjxme 
you  know  his  address. 

I  would  fain  olfer,  my  dear  Sir,  a  word  of 
sympa;hy  with  your  misfortunes  ;  hut  it  is  a 
tender  strinsj,  and  I  know  not  how  to  touch  it. 
It  is  easy  to  flourish  a  set  td'high-flowa  senfini'-nts 
on  the  subject  that  would  give  ■;reat  satisfa.f ion 
to — a  breast  (pilte  at  ea-e  ;  but  as  onk  obsiives, 
who  was  very  seldom  mistaken  in  the  theory  of 
life,  "  The  hint  knowctli  its  own  sorrows,  and 
a  stranger  internuwidleth  not  tln'iewlth." 

Among  some  di-tri-ssful  emergencies  that  I 
have  ex|)erienced  in  life.  I  liave  ever  laid  this 
down  as  my  foundation  of  comtort — That  he 
he  who  has  livnl  t.'ie  life  nf  an  hiutst  man,  has 
by  no  means  licvil  in  rain  ! 

With  every  wish  for  )our  welfare  and  futur* 
success, 

I  am,  my  dear  Sir, 

Siueerely  yours. 


•  It  must  be  ailnijtte<l,  that  this  criticism  is  not 
more  ilisLMinuishe.l  liy  lis  good  sense,  lliaii  liy  itsfrce- 
Jimi  from  ceriin  iiy.  It  is  im|iossible  ii.il  to  sinilc  at 
Ihe  maniiei  in  winch  thepoei  may  tie  su|>|hisisI  to  have 
<u.v.vcd  It      In  laet  il  appears,  a^  liie  toilurt  uy.  \o 


No.  CXX. 

.    TO  WM.  CREECH,  Esq. 

SIR,  Ellishnid,  May  30,  )79»>. 

I  HAD  intended  to  have  troidiled  vou  with  a 
long  letter,  but  at  piescnt  the  .lehglitful  sensa- 
tions of  an  omnipotent  tooihach  so  engross  all 
my  inner  man,  as  to  put  it  out  of  my  power 
even  to  write  nonsense.  —  However,  as  in  duty 
bound,  I  approach  my  bookseller  with  an  offer- 
ing in  my  hand — i  feiv  poetic  clinches  and  a 
song  : — To  e.\pect  any  other  kind  of  offering 
from  the  riivming  TiaiiK,  would  be  to  know 
them  much  less  than  you  do.  1  do  not  [iretend 
that  there  is  much  merit  in  these  morceaux,  but 
I  have  two  reasons  for  send  ng  them  ;  f;riino, 
they  are  mostly  ill-natured,  so  are  in  unison  wiih 
my  present  feelings,  whde  lilfy  tioops  of  infer- 
nal spirits  are  driving  post  IVoin  ear  to  ear  along 
my  jaw-bones  ;  and  sicnna'/y,  the>  are  so  short, 
th.it  you  cannot  leave  off  in  the  v.\  ddle.  and  -^ 
hurt  my  pride  in  the  ide.i  th.it  you  found  any 
work  of  mine  too  heavy  to  get  through. 

I  have  a  request  to  lieg  of  jou,  and  I  not  oa- 
ly  beg  of  you,  but  conj  ue  you — by  all  your 
w.shes   and    by  all   your    ho)ies,  that   the  muse 


have  thrown  hhn  ^»/7^  rt-ioci'.     In  a  letter  which  he 
wrotcsoon  after,  hesays,  "  Pr.  G  is  .igoi.d  man, 

but  he  crucifies  me." — .Anil  aeiiii,  "I  lx>lie\e  in  iha 
iron  jii.stiee  of  Rr.  ( '■  -  ■  ;  hut  hke  the  ilevsLs,  I  lx> 
Ijeve  anil  tremble."  However,  he  profiu-d  by  these 
criticisms,  as  Ihe  reailcr  will  liu.l,  by  coiiipanng  ihii 
first  eililioi)  uf  the  poeiu,  wiih  ihat  ]ii.bli:Jied  alUt 
warat. 


330 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


will  sp.ire  tlie  satiric  wink  in  the  moment  of 
your  f(iil)les  ;  tli.it  she  will  warble  the  song  of 
rapture  round  your  hymeneil  cnuch  ;  and  that 
she  will  shed  on  your  turf  the  honest  tear  of 
elegiac  gratitude  !  grant  my  request  as  speedily 
as  possilile. — Send  ne  by  the  very  first  fly  or 
coach  for  this  place,  three  copies  of  the  last  edi- 
lion  of  my  poems  ;  which  place  to  my  account. 
Now,  niay  the  good  things  of  prose,  and  the 
good  things  of  verse,  come  among  thy  hands 
until  thev  be  filled  with  the  good  things  of  this 
tile  !  prayeth 

ROBt.  BURNsS 


No.  CXXI. 
TO  MR.  M'AULEY, 

OF  DUMBAUTO.V. 

DKAR  sm,  ith  Jtnie,  17S9. 

TiiouoH  I  am  not  without  my  fears  respect- 
ing my  f.ite  at  that  grand,  universal  inquest  of 
right  and  wrong,  commonly  called  The  Lust 
Dill/,  yet  I  trust  there  is  one  sin,  which  that 
arch-vairabond,  Satan,  who,  I  understand,  is  to 
be  king's  evidence,  cannot  throw  in  my  teeth 
— I  nieim  ingratitude.  There  is  3  certain  pret- 
ty large  quantum  of  kindness  for  which  I  re- 
main, and  from  inab  lity,  I  f,^ar,  must  remain 
your  debtor  ;  but  though  unable  to  repay  the 
debt,  1  assure  yon.  Sir,  I  shall  ever  warmly  re- 
member the  obligation.  It  gives  me  the  sin- 
cerest  jdeasure  to  hear  by  my  old  ac(|uaintance, 
Mr.  Kennedy,  that  you  are,  in  immortal  Allan's 
language,  "  Hale  ami  weel,  ami  living  ;"  and 
that  your  charming  fimily  are  well,  and  promis- 
ing to  be  an  amiable  and  respectable  ailditiim  to 
the  company  of  performers,  whom  the  Great 
Manager  of  the  Drama  of  Man  is  bringing  intn 
acti<in  for  the  succeeding  age 

With  respect  to  my  welfire,  a  subject  in 
which  you  once  warndy  and  effectively  inteiest- 
ed  yourself,  I  am  here  in  my  old  way,  holding 
my  plough,  marking  the  growth  of  my  corn,  or 
the  healih  of  my  dairy;  and  at  times  saunter- 
ing by  the  delightful  windings  of  the  Nith,  on 
the  maigin  of  which  I  have  built  my  humble 
domicile,  praying  for  seasonable  weather,  or 
holding  an  intrigue  with  the  Muses  ;  the  only 
gA'pseys  with  whom  I  li.ive  now  any  intercourse. 
As  I  am  entered  into  the  li<dy  state  of  m.itrimo- 
3y,  I  trust  my  face  is  turned  tom])!eftly  Zion- 
Ward  ;  and  as  it  is  a  rule  with  all  honest  fel- 
.<)W«,  to  repeat  no  grievances,  I  hope  that  the 
.ittle  poetic  licences  of  former  days,  will  of 
course  fall  under  the  oblivious  influence  of  some 
pood-natureil  statute  tjf  celestial  prosci  iption. 
In  my  family  divotioii,  which,  like  a  good  pres- 
byterlan,  1  occasionally  give  to  my  lionsehold 
folkv.  1  am  exneme!\  fund  of  the  ptalm,  "  Let 
fcot  li.e  errors  of  my  youth,"  &c.  and  that  other, 


"  Lo,  children  are  God's  neritage,"  kz.  $5 
which  last  Mrs.  Burns,  who,  by  the  bye,  has  1 
glorious  "  wood-note  wild"  at  either  old  song 
or  psalmody,  joins  me  with  the  pathos  of  Han- 
del's Messiah. 


No.  CXXII. 
TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

ElUsland,  June  8,  1 789. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 

1  AM  perfectly  ashamed  of  myself  when  ] 
lopk  at  the  date  of  your  la-t.  It  is  not  that  I 
fiuget  the  friend  of  my  heart  and  the  companion 
of  my  peregrinations  ;  but  I  have  been  con- 
demned to  drudgery  beyonil  sufferance,  though 
not,  thank  God,  beyond  redemption.  I  have 
had  a  collection  of  poems  by  a  lady  put  into  my 
hands  to  prejjare  them  for  the  press  ;  which 
horrid  task,  with  sowing  my  corn  with  my  own 
hand,  a  parcel  of  masons,  wrights,  plaisterers, 
&c.  to  attenil  to,  roaming  on  business  tlircmgh 
Ayrshire — all  this  was  against  me,  and  the  very 
first  dreadful  article  was  of  itself  too  much  for 
me. 


13th.  I  have  not  had  a  moment  to  spare  from 
incessant  toil  since  the  8th.  Life,  my  dear  Sir, 
is  a  serious  matter.  You  know  by  experience 
that  a  man's  individual  self  is  a  good  deal,  but 
believe  me,  a  wife  and  family  of  children,  when- 
ever you  have  the  honour  to  be  a  husband  and 
a  father,  will  shew  you  that  yonr  piesint  \m>t\ 
anxious  hours  of  solicitude  are  suent  en  trides. 
The  Welfare  of  those  who  are  very  dear  to  us, 

whose  only  support,  hope  and  stay  we  are this, 

to  a  generous  mind,  is  another  sort  of  more  im- 
portant object  of  care  thin   any  concerns  what- 
ever which  centre  merely  \n  the  individual.    On 
the  other  hand,  let   no  yi..  ng,  unmarried,  rake- 
helly dog  auu)ng  you,  make  a  song  of  his  pre- 
tended liberty  and   freedom   from  care.      It   the 
relations  we  stand  in  to  king,  country,  kinilied, 
and  friends,  be  any  thing  but  the  visionary  fan- 
cies of  di'eaming   metaphysici  ins  ;    if    religion, 
virtue,  magnanimity,   generosity,  humanity  and 
justice  be  aught   but   empty   sour.ds  ;    then   the 
man  who   may  be  s.iid   to   live   only   for  i.thers, 
ior  the  beloved,  honourable  female  whose  teiiihT 
I  lithful  embrace  endi-ars   life,  and  for  tlie  help- 
Kss  little  innocents  who  are  to  be  the  men  and 
women,  the   worshippers  of  his  God,   the  sub- 
jects of  his  king,  and  the  support,  nay  the  very 
vital  existence  of  his  Countky,   in  the  ensuir.<» 
ige ; — compile   such    a   man    with    any    fellow 
wliatever,  who,  whether  he   bu'-tle  and  pii>li   in 
l/usiiicss  among  labourers,  cli'iks.  slafesmeii  ;  or 
iiliether  he  roar  and    rant,  and   drink   anil  s:ng 
in  f.iverns — a  fellow   over  whose  grave  no   one 
will  breathe  a  sinjrie  heigh-ho,  except  froia  tin 


CORRESPCNDENCE. 


331 


:ol)web-tie  of  what  is  called  gooil  ft-nowship — 
wild  has  no  view  nor  aim  but  wluit  teiii.Iii.iti's 
in  himself — it"  there  be  any  grovelling  earthbcirn 
wretch  nf  out  speeies,  a  renegado  to  cimmxin 
sense,  who  would  fain  believe  that  the  noble 
creature,  man,  is  no  better  thaa  a  so:t  of  fun- 
gus, gcneiated  out  of  nothing,  nobiidy  knows 
how,  and  soon  dis-ipating  in  nothing,  nobody 
knows  where  ;  such  a  stupid  beast,  sueh  a 
crawling  reptile  might  halanee  the  foregoing 
unexaggerated  comparison,  but  no  one  else 
would  have  the  patience. 

Forgive  me,  my  dear  Sir,  fi-r  this  long  silence. 
To  miike  you  amends,  I  shall  send  you  soon, 
and  more  encouraging  still,  withe  Jt  any  postage, 
one  or  two  rhymeB  of  my  later  r.anufacture. 


No.  CXXIIL 
FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

DEAR  SIR,       Cliff >rJ  Stiett,  lOth  Jiine,l7S<J. 

I  THA.NK  you  for  the  different  communica- 
tions jcu  have  made  me  of  your  occasional  jiro- 
iluctions  in  manuscript,  all  of  which  have  merit, 
and  some  of  them  merit  of  a  different  kind  from 
what  a|>|iears  in  tlie  poems  joii  have  published. 
You  ought  carefully  to  preserve  all  your  occa- 
sional jiioductioiis,  to  correct  and  improve  them 
at  voar  leisure  :  and  when  you  can  select  as 
many  of  these  as  will  make  a  vulume,  publish 
it  cither  at  Edinburgh  or  London,  by  subscrip- 
tion :  On  such  an  occasion,  it  may  be  in  my 
power,  as  it  is  very  umch  in  my  ini.lination,  to 
be  of  service  to  you. 

If  I  were  to  olfer  an  opinion,  it  would  lie,  that 
in  vour  future  |)ioduetiiiiis  yuu  slmulil  abandon 
the  Scottish  staiza  and  dialect,  and  adojit  the 
measure  and  language  of  modern  English  poetry. 

The  stanza  wli  ch  you  use  in  iuiitation  ol 
Christ  Kirk  on  tlit  GVcew,  with  the  tiresome 
repitition  of  "  that  day,"  is  fatiguing  to  English 
ears,  and  I  should  think  not  very  uJiceaLile  to 
Scottish. 

All  the  fine  satire  and   humour  of  your  //  hj 
Fair  is  lost  on  the  English  ;   yet,  witiiout  more  I 
trouble  to  yourself,  yuu  cou'd  have  conveyed  the  | 
whole  to  them.      The  same  istiueof  some  of  ^ 

your  other  poems.    \n\\^wr  Ejiihtle  to  J.  S , 

the  Stan/as  from   that  beginning  with  this  iine,  , 
"  This  life,  so  f.i'b  ]  understand,"  to  that  which 
cuds  with,    "  Short  while   it  grieves,"  are  ea-y,  ' 
flowing,  gaily  philosuphicil,  and  of  lloratiaii  ele- 
gan  ". — the  laiigua-e  is  En.;li>li,  witha_/eR-  Scot-  j 
tish    vords,   and  koine  of  tho>e  so   lianno  lious,  | 
•:>  to  add  to  ihe  beauty  :    lor  what  poet  would 
nut  prefer  ylijniiiin(j  to  twili_^/it. 

I  imagine,  that  by  carefuhy  keeping,   and  oc- 
casionally poh-hing  and  c  Meeting  t.'ii)>e  veiscs, 
which  the  iiiu-e  dictates,  y  lU  will   witliin  a  year  i 
or  two,  have  aii'iiUer  voluui!-  as  large  as  the  fii.-t,  i 
ceady  for  the  ;>        ;  ami  this,  without  diveitiug  | 


)oi.    from   every  proper  attention  'o  the  stud) 

i.nd   jiri-*'!-'"  of  husl drv,   in   which   I  iinder- 

;-tand  you  are  very  learned,  and  which  I  fincy 
you  will  choise  to  adhere  to  as  a  vife,  whiK 
poetry  amuses  you  troni  time  to  tune  as  a  mis- 
tress. The  former,  like  a  prudent  wife,  mu>t 
not  show  ill  humour,  although  you  retain  a 
sneaking  kindness  to  this  ugiee;U>le  gipsy,  and 
pay  her  occasional  visits,  ivhich  in  no  manner 
alienates  your  lieai  t  from  your  lawful  lijiouse,  bat 
tends  on  the  contrary  to  promote  her  interest. 

I  de.-ired  3Ir.  Cadell  to  write  to  Mr.  Creech 
to  send  you  a  copy  of  iiiliiro.  T!iis  perform- 
ance has  had  great  success  here,  but  1  sli.ill  l.€ 
glad  to  have  your  opinion  of  it,  bec.iuse  I  know 
you  are  above  saying  what  you  do  not  think. 

1  beg  you  will  offer  my  best  wishes  to  my 
very  good  friend  Mis.  Hamilton,  who  I  vimler- 
Ptund  is  your  ne.giibour.  If  she  is  as  happy  aa 
I  wish  her,  she  is  ha]ipy  enough.  Make  m) 
compliments  also  to  Mrs.  Bums,  and  believe  uia 
to  be,  with  sincere  esteem. 

Dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.  CXXIV. 
TO  JIRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellidand,  2\st  June,  1789, 

DEAR    MAnAM, 

Will  you  take  the  effusions,  the  miserable 
effusions  of  low  sp  rits,  just  as  they  tlow  fioin 
their  bitter  spring.  I  know  not  of  any  particu- 
lar cause  for  this  worst  of  all  my  foes  besittiiig 
me,  but  for  some  tone  my  soul  has  been  be- 
clouded with  a  thickening  atmo»phere  of  evil 
imaginations  and  gloomy  presages. 


Monday  Evening. 
I  have  just  heard  ....  give  a  seimon. 
He  is  a  man  famous  for  his  berievolence,  and  I 
revere  him  ;  but  fioiii  >ui-li  ideas  of  my  Cieator, 
good  Lord  deliver  iiie  !  Rel  gioii  my  honoured 
friend,  is  surely  a  siinjile  Iui>i!iess,  as  it  cipjaily 
concerns  the  ignorant  and  the  learned,  the  poor 
and  the  rich.  That  them  is  an  incomprehensi- 
bly great  Beipg.  to  whom  I  o«  e  my  existence, 
am!  that  he  must  be  intimately  accpiainted  with 
the  operations  and  progress  of  the  inteiiial  ma- 
chinery, and  coiiseijueiit  outward  dejau  tnieiit  o( 
this  creature  whicii  he  has  made;  these  are,  I 
think,  sell -e^  ident  propositions.  That  there  is 
a  I'HuI  and  eternal  distinction  between  virtue  and 
vice,  and  consequently  that  I  ant  an  aiciiiiiitable 
creature  ;  that  from  tiie  seeming  nature  ot  th" 
hiiinan  mind,  as  well  as  from  the  evident  iiu 
perfection,  nay,  positive  injustice,  in  tiie  adnii- 
nistration  of  atliirs,  both  in  the  iia'iiral  and 
movil  wollds,  there  n  iR>t  be  a  retn'mrive  seeraf 
uf  eci^tence   beyond   the  grave;   u.ast,  I  thiLlt 


32 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


be  a!I(  wfd  by  pvrry  one  who  will  ^ive  himself  a 
mniuent's  n-flei'tinn.  I  will  go  faitlier,  aiid  af- 
£iin,  that  fnmi  the  siihlimity,  excellence.  iTi.d 
purity  of  his  iliictrine  and  precepts,  unparalleled 
by  all  the  a^'^reg.ited  wisdom  and  leurniiig  of 
many  preceding  ages,  though,  to  appeurfincc,  he 
hiiusflf  u'as  the  oliscurest  and  most  illiterate  of 
our  species  J  therefore,  Jesus  Christ  was  from 
God. 


Whatever  mitigates  the  woes,  or  increases 
the  happiness  of  others,  this  is  my  criterion  of 
goodness  ;  and  whatever  itijures  society  at  large, 
or  any  individual  in  it,  this  is  my  measure  of 
iniipiity. 

What  think  you.  Madam,  of  my  creed  ?  I 
tru^t  that  I  have  said  nothing  that  will  lessen 
me  in  the  eye  of  one,  whose  good  opinion  I  va- 
lue almost  next  to  thi?  approbation  of  my  owu 
iDiad. 


No.  CXXV. 


FROM  MISS  J.  L- 


«R,  Lomlim-Ilmse,  \2th  July,  1  789. 

Tuoitr.H  I  have  not  the  happinesj  of  being 
personally  acquainted  with  you,  yet  ainonsrst  the 
nuodHT  i>f  those  who  have  read  and  admired 
your  p'dilications,  may  I  be  permitted  to  trouble 
you  with  this.  You  nin-t  know.  Sir,  I  am 
eoniewhat  in  love  with  the  Muses,  though  1 
cannot  lina-t  of  any  favours  they  have  deigned 
to  coiifir  upo:)  me  as  yet  ;  my  situation  in  lite 
has  been  v^.y  much  against  me  as  to  that,  i 
have  spent  m.i.ic  years  in  and  about  Ecdefechan 
(wl'fe  my  parents  reside),  in  tlie  staticm  of  a 
seivant,    anil  am    now   come  to  Loudon-House, 

at    present    possessed   by    Mrs.    II :    she   is 

daughter  to  Mis.  Dunlup,  of  Dunlop,  whom  I 
under>taiid  you  are  particularly  aeipiainted  with. 
As  I  had  th''  pleasure  of  perusing  your  poems, 
I  felt  a  |iaitiality  for  the  author,  which  I  should 
not  have  experienced  had  you  been  in  moredig- 
nilied  station.  I  wrote  a  lew  verses  of  address 
to  you,  which  I  di<i  not  then  think  of  ever  pre- 
senting :  but  as  fortune  seems  to  have  favoured 
nie  in  this,  by  bringing  me  into  a  family  by 
wloun  VDii  are  well  known  and  much  esteemed, 
ttiul  where  pel  haps  I  may  have  an  opportunity 
lif  seeing  you  ;  I  .-h  dl,  in  hopes  of  your  future 
frieidHhip,  take  the  hberty  to  transcribe  thuiii. 


Fair  fa'  the  honest  rustic  swain, 
The  prile  o*  a'  our  Scottish  plain  : 
TIiou  gi'es  us  joy  to  hear  thy  strd  u. 

And  note  sae  swett : 
Uld  RitiHiay's  shade  revived  agaiu 

In  thee  we  [f.ect. 


Loved  Thalia,  that  delightf  i'  rau«e, 
SeeniM  lang  shut  up  as  a  lecliise; 
To  all  she  did  hc-r  zr.A  refuse. 

Since  Allan's  day  : 
'Till  Burns  arose,  then  did  she  chuse 

To  grace  his  lay. 

To  hear  thy  sang  all  ranks  desire. 
Sac  weel  you  strike  the  dormant  lyre  } 
Apollo  with  poetic  fire 

Thy  breast  does  wai  m  • 
And  critics  silently  ailmire 

Thy  art  to  charm. 

Csesar  and  Luath  weel  can  speak, 
'Tis  pity  e'er  their  gabs  should  steek, 
but  into  human  nature  keek. 

And  knots  unravel  : 
To  Lear  their  lectures  once  a-week, 

Nine  miles  I'd  travel. 

Thy  dedication  to  G.  H. 

An  unco  bonnie  liamespun  speech, 

Wi'  winsome  glee  the  heart  can  teach 

A  better  lesson. 
Than  servile  bards,  who  fawn  and  fieech 

Like  beggar's  messon. 

When  slighted  love  becomes  your  themei 
And  women's  faithless  vows  you  blame* 
With  so  much  pathos  you  exclaim. 

In  your  lament ; 
But  glanced  by  the  most  frigid  dame, 

She  would  relent. 

The  daisy  too  ye  sing  wi'  skill ; 
And  weel  ye  praise  the  whisky  gill} 
In  vain  I  blunt  my  feckless  quill, 

Your  fame  to  raise  ; 
While  echo  sounds  from  ilka  hill, 

To  Burns's  praise. 

Did  Addison  or  Pope  but  hear. 

Or  Sam,  that  critic  most  severe, 

A  ploughhoy  sing  with  throat  sae  cleaTi 

They  in  a  rage, 
Their  works  would  a'  in  pieces  inir, 

And  curse  your  page. 

Sure  Milton's  eloquence  were  faint. 
The  beauties  of  your  veise  to  paint, 
My  rude  unpolish'd  strokes  but  taint 

Their  brilhancy  ; 
Th'  attempt  would  doubtless  vex  a  saint 
And  weel  may  me. 

The  task  I'll  drop  with  heart  sincere, 
To  heaven  present  my  humble  pray  r 
That  all  the  blessings  ninrtals  share, 

Mav  be  by  turns, 
Di'IxiDtuid  by  ii   indulgent  caie 

To  Hubert  Burn*. 


CORRESPONDENCE,. 


333 


Sir,  I  hrpc  yfu  will  p.iidon  my  ImUncss  iti 
this;  my  liaiul  trfiiihlt-s  .vliile  1  write  to  yoii, 
conscious  of  my  iiruvorthiness  of  what  I  woulil 
most  tMrnestly  solicit,  viz.  your  favour  and 
fricuilship  ;  yet  ho|iing  you  will  show  rourscif 
posscsseii  of  as  much  generosity  and  goo<l-nature 
as  will  prevent  your  expo-ing  what  may  justly 
be  fouiiil  lialile  to  censure  in  this  measuie,  I 
•Uiill  take  the  liberty  to  subscr'be  myself, 
Sir, 
Your  most  obedient  hun  Me  servant, 

J 

P.  S. — If  you  would  condescend  to  honour 
me  with  a  few  lines  from  your  hand,  I  would 
take  it  as  a  particular  favour,  and  direct  to  me 
at  Loudon-IIouse,  near  Galsloch. 


No.  CXXVI 

FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAJI, 

MY  DF-ATv  SIR,  London,  blh  Avg.  17S9. 

Excuse  me  when  I  say,  that  the  uncommon 
abilities  which  ynu  possess,  must  render  your 
correspiinilence  very  acceptable  to  any  one.  I 
can  assure  you.  I  am  particularly  proud  of  your 
partialitv,  and  shall  endeavour,  by  every  method 
in  my  power,  to  merit  a  coQtiouance  of  your 
politeness. 


When  you  can  spare  a  few  moments  I  should 
be  i)r()ud  of  a  letter  from  you,  directed  for  me, 
Gerrard  Street,  Soho. 


I  cannot  express  my  happiness  sufficiently 
at  the  instance  of  your  attachment  to  my  late 
incstini.ihle  friend.  Bob  Fergus.son,  who  was 
partlcuhiily  intimate  with  niystif  anil  R'latiims.* 
While  I  rcollect  with  pleasure  his  extraordiii.iry 
talents,  and  nianv  amiable  qualities,  it  atlonls 
me  the  greatest  consolation,  that  I  am  hoiuiured 
with  the  correspondence  of  his  successor  in  na- 
tional simplicity  and  genius.  That  Mr.  IJurns 
has  refined  in  the  art  of  poetry,  must  readily  be 
admitted  ;  but  notwithstanding  many  favouiablc 
representations,  I  am  yet  to  leain  that  he  in- 
herits his  convivial  powers. 

There  was  such  a  richness  of  conversation, 
such  a  p'enitude  of  tancy  and  attraction  in  him, 
that  when  I  call  the  happy  period  of  our  inter- 
c«)Uise  tc  my  memory,  1  feel  myself  in  a  state  of 
deliiium.  I  was  tben  younger  than  him  by 
eight  or  fen  years  ;  but  his  manner  was  so  fcli- 
eitiius,  that  he  enraptured  every  person  around 
him,  and  infused  into  the  hearts  of  the  youug 
and  old,  the  spirit  and  animation  which  operated 
•n  his  own  mind. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 

•  '1  he  erection  of  a  monument  to  Ivim.  \ 


No,  CXXVII. 

TO  MR.  cunmngha:\i, 

IN  ANSWER  TO  TME  FOREGOINa 

MV   DEAR   SIR, 

The  hurry  of  a  farmer  in  this  pirticular  sea- 
son, and  the  indolence  of  ft  po^-t  at  all  times  and 
seasons,  will,  I  hope,  phad  my  excuse    for  ne 
glecting  so  long  to  answer  your  obliging  leltet 
of  the  5th  of  August. 

That  you  have  done  well  in  quittirig  your  la- 
borious concern  in  .  .  .  .1  di)  n  it  doubt  ; 
the  weighty  reasons  you  mention  were,  I  hope, 
very,  arid  ileservedly  indeed,  weighty  ones,  and 
your  health  is  a  matter  of  the  last  imjiortance  , 
but  whether  the  remaining  projjrietors  of  the 
pajier   have   also   done   well,    is    whit    I    much 

doubt.     The ,    so  fir  as  I  was  a 

reader,  exhibited  such  a  brilli  mcy  of  point,  such 
an  elegance  of  paragra|)h,  and  such  a  variety  of 
intelligence,  that  I  can  hardly  conceive  it  possi- 
ble to  continue  a  daily  paper  in  the  same  degree 
of  excellence  ;  but  if  there  was  a  mm  who  had 
abilities  equal  to  the  t  isk,  that  man's  assistance 
the  proprietors  have  lust. 


When  I  received  your  letter  I  was  transcri- 
bing fur my  letter  to  the  magistrates 

of  the  Canongate,  Edinburgh,  begging  their  per- 
•i.ission  to  place  a  tomb-stone  over  poor  Fergus- 
son,  and  their  edict  in  consequence  of  my  peti- 
tion ;  but  now  I  shall  send  them  ti)  .  .  .  . 
Poor  Fergusson  !  If  there  be  a  life  be- 
yond the  grave,  which  I  trust  there  is  ;  and  ii 
there  be  a  good  God  presiding  over  all  nature, 
which  I  am  sure  there  is  ;  thou  art  now  eiijuy- 
ing  existence  in  a  glorious  world,  where  worth 
of  the  heart  alone  is  distinction  in  the  man  ; 
where  riches,  deprived  of  all  their  p'casure-pur- 
chasiiig  powers,  return  to  their  native  sordid 
niatfui  :  where  titles  and  honours  are  the  disre- 
giriL'd  reveries  of  an  idle  dream;  and  where 
that  heavy  virtue,  which  is  the  negative  conse- 
quence of  steady  dulneSs,  and  those  thoughtless, 
thoiigti  often  destructive  f<illies.  which  are  the 
unavoidable  aberrations  of  frail  hum  iii  nature, 
will  be  thrown  into  equal  oblivion  as  if  they  had 
never  been  ! 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir  !  so  soon  as  your  pre!>ert 
views  and   schemes  are  concentred  in  an  aim,  1 
shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you  :   as  your  wel 
fire  and  happiness  is  by  no  means  a  subject  ia 
dilTereut  to 

Yours,  &C. 


334 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Vo.  CX  XVIII. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 
ElUsland,  Gth  September,  1789. 

DEAR  MADAM, 

1  HAVE  mentioned  in  my  last,  my  appoint- 
ment to  the  excise,  and  the  l)iith  of  little  P'lank  ; 
who,  by  the  bye,  I  trust  will  be  no  discredit  to 
t!  e  honouralile  name  of  Wallace,  as  he  has  a 
fine  manly  countenance,  and  a  figure  that  might 
do  credit  to  a  little  fellov/  two  months  older  ; 
and  likewise  an  excellent  good  temper,  though 
when  he  pleases  he  has  a  pipe,  only  not  quite  so 
loud  as  the  horn  that  his  immortal  namesake 
blew  as  a  signal  to  take  out  the  pia  of  Stirling 
bridge. 

1  had  some  time  ago  an  epistle,  part  poetic, 
and    part    prosaic,    from  your   poetess,   Mrs.  J, 

L ;   a  very  ingenious,   but  modest  compo- 

sitifm.  I  should  have  written  her  as  she  re- 
:^ufsted,  but  fin-  the  hurry  of  this  new  business. 
1  have  heard  of  her  and  her  compositions  in  this 
country  :  and  I  am  happy  to  add,  always  to  the 
honour  of  her  character.  The  fact  is,  I  know 
not  well  how  to  write  to  her  ;  I  should  sit 
down  to  a  sheet  of  paper  that  I  knew  not  how 
to  stain.  I  am  no  daub  at  fine  drawn  letter- 
wi  iting  ;  .nnd  except  when  prompted  by  friend- 
ship or  gratitudi',  or  which  hap])en<  extremely 
rartly,  inspired  by  the  I\Iuse(I  know  not  her 
name),  that  presides  over  epistolary  writing,  I 
sit  down,  when  necessitated  to  write,  as  I  would 
sit  down  to  beat  hemp. 

Some  parts  of  your  letter  of  the  20th  August 
struck  me  with  melancholy  concern  for  the  state 
of  your  mind  at  present. 


AVould  I  could  write  you  a  letter  of  comfort !  I 
would  sit  down  to  it  with  as  much  pleasure,  as 
I  would  to  write  an  epic  poem  of  my  own  com- 
position, that  should  equal  the  Iliud,  Religion, 
my  dear  fiiend,  is  the  true  comfort  !  A  strong 
];eisuasion  in  a  future  state  of  existence  ;  a  pro- 
position so  obviously  probable,  that,  setting  re- 
velation aside,  every  nation  and  people,  so  far  as 
investigation  has  reached,  for  at  least  near  four 
thousand  years,  have,  in  some  mode  or  other, 
tiniily  believed  it.  In  vain  would  we  reascm  and 
pretend  to  doubt.  I  have  myself  done  so  to  a 
very  daring  pitch  ;  but  when  I  reflected,  that  1 
was  ojiposing  the  most  ardent  wishes,  and  the 
most  darling  hopes  of  good  men,  and  (lying  in 
the  face  of  all  human  belief,  in  all  ages,  1  was 
thiK  keil  at  :<iy  own  conduct. 

I  know  not  whether  I  have  ever  sent  you  the 
foIloM  ing  lines,  or  if  you  have  ever  seen  them  ; 
But  it  is  one  of  my  favourite  quotations,  which 
I  keep  constantly  by  me  in  my  j)rogresg  through 
lilie,  in  the  language  of  the  'look  of  Job, 

"  Against  the  day  of  battle  and  of  war," — 

tjioken  of  religion. 


"  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  ttat  streaks  ourmoining 

bright, 
'Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night. 
When  wealth  forsakes  us,   and  when  friendi 

are  few  ; 
When  friends  are  faithless,  or  when  foes  pur 

sue  ; 
'Tis   this  that  wards  the  blow,   or  stills  the 

smart. 
Disarms  affliction  or  repels  his  dart  : 
Within  the  breast  bids  purest  raptures  rise, 
Bids  smiling  conscience  spread  her  cloudless 

skies.' 

I  have  been  very  busy  with  Zehico.  The 
Doctor  is  so  obliging  as  to  request  my  opinion 
of  it;  and  I  have  been  revolvmg  in  my  mind 
some  kind  of  critiiisms  on  novel  writing,  but 
it  is  a  depth  beyond  my  research.  I  shall  how- 
ever digest  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  as  well 
as  I  can.  Zehico  is  a  most  sterling  perfor- 
mance. 

Farewell  !  A.  Dieu,  le  hon  Dieu,  je  tout 
commende  / 


No.  CXXIX. 

FROM  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

Edinhurc/h,  2\th  Atigvst,  1789. 
Dear  Burns,  thcu  brother  of  my  heart, 
Both  for  thy  virtues  and  thy  art  : 
If  art  it  may  be  call'd  in  thee, 
Which  nature's  bounty,  large  and  free, 
With  pleasure  on  thy  breast  diifuses. 
And  warms  thy  soul  with  all  the  IMusea. 
Whether  to  laugh  with  easy  grace, 
Tl;y  numbers  move  the  sage's  face, 
Or  bid  the  softer  passions  rise, 
And  ruthless  souls  with  grief  surprise, 
'Tis  nature's  voice  distinctly  felt, 
Through  thee  her  organ,  thus  to  melt. 

Most  anxiously  I  wish  to  know, 
With  thee  of  late  how  matters  go  ; 
IIciw  keeps  thy  much-loved  Jean  lier  health? 
What  promises  thy  farm  of  wealth  ? 
Whether  the  Muse  persists  to  smile, 
And  all  thy  anxious  cares  beguile? 
Whether  bright  fancy  keeps  alive? 
And  how  thy  darling  infants  thrive  ? 

For  me,  with  grief  and  sickness  speat> 
Since  I  my  j(Miiney  homeward  bent, 
.Spirits  depiess'd  no  more  I  mourn. 
Hut  vigour,  life,  and  health  return 
No  mine  to  gloomy  thoughts  a  prey, 
I  sleep  all  night,  and  live  all  day  ; 
By  turns  my  book  and  friend  enjoy, 
.\w\  thus  my  circling  hours  employ; 
Happy  while  yet  these  hours  remain. 
If  Burns  could  juiu  the  cheerful  train* 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


335 


With  wo  iteil  zeal,  sincere  and  fervent, 
Ba!ut«  once  mure  his  humble  servant, 

TIIO.  BLACKLOCK. 


No.  CXXX. 

TO  DR.  BLACKLOCK 

Enhland2\st  October,  1789. 
VVoh",  but  your  letter  inaile  ine  vauntie  ! 
Anrl  are  yc  hale,  and  wccl,  and  cantie  ? 
I  keu'd  it  still  your  wee  bit  jauntie, 

Wad  hrina:  ve  to  ■. 
Lord  send  you  aye  as  \veel's  I  want  ye, 
And  then  ye'll  do. 

The  ill-thief  blaw  the  Heron  south  ! 
And  never  drink  be  near  liis  drouth  ! 
He  tauld  mysel  by  word  o'  mouth, 

He'd  tak  in«  letter  ; 
I  lippen'd  to  the  chiel  in  trouth, 

And  bade  nae  better 

But  aiblins  honest  Master  Heron, 
H,id  at  the  time  some  dainty  fair  onei 
To  w<ire  his  theologic  care  on, 

And  holy  study  ; 
And  tired  o'  sauls  to  waste  his  lear  on, 

E'ea  tried  the  body.  • 

Bnt  what  d'ye  tjink,  my  trusty  fier, 
I'm  turn'd  a  ganger — Pea'-e  be  here  ! 
Parnassian  queens,  I  fear,  I  fear, 

Ye'll  now  disdain  me, 
And  then  my  fifty  pounds  a-year 

Will  little  gain  me. 

Ye  glaiket,  gleesome,  dainty  damics, 
V\  iia  by  Castalia's  winiplin  streamies, 
Lowp,  sing,  and  lave  your  pretty  linibies, 

Ye  ken,  ye  ken, 
That  Strang  necessity  supn-me  is 

'iMang  sons  o'  men. 

I  hae  a  wife  and  twa  wee  laddies, 

They  maun  bae  brose  and  brats  o'  dnddies  : 

Ye  kea  yoursel  my  heart  right  proud  is, 

1  needna  vacnt. 
But  I'll  sned  besoms — thtaw  saugh  woodies, 

Before  they  want. 

Lord  he!])  me  through  this  warld  o'  care  ! 
I'm  w.-ary  Mck  o't  late  and  air  1 
Not  but  I  hae  a  richer  shaie 

Than  mony  ithers  ; 
But  why  SQOuia  ae  man  better  fare. 

And  a'  men  brilhers  ! 


•  Mr.  Heron,  author  of  the  History  of  Scotland  ; 
and  among  various  other  works,  of  a  respectable  l.fe 
of  our  poet  hnnselt 


Come  Firm  Resolve  take  thou  toe  vaa 
Thou  stalk  o'  carl-hemp  in  man  ! 
And  let  us  mind,  faint  heart  ne'er  waa 

A  laily  fiir : 
^^^la  does  the  utmost  that  lie  can. 

Will  whyles  do  mair* 

But  to  conclude  my  silly  rhyme, 

(I'm  scant  o'  verse,  and  scant  o'  time), 

To  make  a  happy  fire-side  clime 

To  weans  and  wife. 
That's  the  true  pathos  and  sublime 

Of  human  life. 

My  compliments  to  sister  Beckie  ; 
And  eke  the  same  to  honest  Lucky  ; 
I  wat  she  is  a  dainty  chuckle. 

As  u'er  tread  clay  i 
And  gratefully  my  gude  auld  cnckie, 

I'm  your's  for  aye. 

ROBERT  BURNS. 


No.  CXXXL 
TO  CAPTAIN  RIDDEL,  Cause. 

sm,  ElUsland,  Oct.  16,  1789. 

Big  with  the  idea  of  this  important  day  •  at 
Friars  Carse,  I  have  watehed  the  elements  and 
skies  in  the  full  persuasion  that  they  would  an- 
nounce it  to  the  astoni>.hed  world  by  some  pheno- 
mena of  terrific  portent. — Ye>ten.ight  until  a 
very  late  hour  did  I  wait  with  anxious  horror, 
for  the  appearance  of  some  Comet  firing  half  the 
sky  ;  or  aerial  armies  of  sanguinary  Scandina- 
vians, darting  athwart  the  startled  heavens  ra- 
pid as  the  ragged  lightning,  and  hor.id  as  those 
convulsions  of  nature  that  bury  nations. 

The  elements,  however,  seem  to  take  the  mat- 
ter very  quietly  :  they  did  not  even  usher  in 
this  morning  with  triple  suns  and  a  shower  o 
blood,  symbolical  of  the  three  potent  heroes,  and 
the  mighty  claret-shed  of  the  day. — For  me,  as 
Thomson  in  his  Winter  says  of  the  storm — I 
shall  "  Hear  astonished,  and  astonished  sing," 

The  whistle  and  the  man ;  I  sing 
The  man  that  won  the  whistle,  &e. 


No.  cxxxn. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

SIR, 

I  WISH   from  my  inmost  soul  it  were  in  mj 
power  to  give  you  a  more  substantial  gratifica- 


•  The  day  on  which  "  the  Whistle"  was  contended 
<or. 


330 


BURNS   WORKS. 


tion  and  return  for  all  your  <roodness  to  the  poet, 
than  tianscriliin^  a  fi-w  of  Iiis  idle  rhymt'S. — 
Hoivever,  "  an  uld  soti'^,"  though  to  a  provfrh 
an  instance  of  in-iirnificance,  is  generally  the 
only  coin  a  poet  h.i«  to  pay  with. 

If  my  poems  which  I  have  tianscrihetl,  and 
mean  still  to  traiiscrihe  into  your  hook,  were 
equal  to  the  fjrateful  respect  and  high  esteem  I 
bear  for  the  gentleman  to  whom  I  present  them, 
they  would  he  the  tinest  poems  in  the  language. 
—As  they  are,  tiipy  will  at  least  he  a  testimony 
with  what  aiueerity  I  have  the  honour  to  be. 
Sir, 
Your  devoted  humble  servant. 


No.  cxxxiri. 

TO  MR.  ROBERT  ALN'SLIE. 

Ellisland,  Nov.  I,  1789. 

MY  tiFAR  FRIFyn, 

I  HAD  written  yon  long  ere  now,  could  I  have 
gue.ssed  where  to  find  you,  for  I  am  sure  you 
have  more  good  sense  than  to  waste  the  precious 
days  of  vacation  time  in  the  dirt  of  business  and 
Edinburgh. — Wherever  you  are,  God  bless  you, 
ami  lead  you  not  into  temjitation,  but  deliver 
vou  from  evil  ! 

I  do  not  know  if  I  have  informed  you  that  I 
am  now  appointed  to  an  excise  division,  in  the 
middle  of  v.hich  my  house  and  farm  lie.  In  this 
I  was  extrer:iely  lucky.  Without  ever  having 
been  an  cx|)cctant,  a»  they  call  their  journeymen 
excisemen,  I  was  directly  planted  down  to  all  in- 
tents and  purjioses  an  officer  of  excise  ;  theie  to 
flourish  and  bring  furth  fruits — worthy  of  re- 
pentance. 

I  know  not  how  the  word  exciseman,  or  still 
more  opjirobricins,  ganger,  will  sound  in  your 
ears.  I  too  have  seen  the  day  when  my  audi- 
tory nerves  would  have  fdt  very  delicately  on 
this  subject;  but  a  wife  and  children  are  things 
which  have  a  wonderful  power  in  blunting  these 
kind  of  seiisations.  Filty  poutids  a  year  for 
life,  and  a  provislim  fur  wid.nvs  and  orphans, 
you  will  allow  is  no  had  settlement  for  a  paet. 
^or  the  iguiiminy  of  the  profession,  I  have  the 
encouragement  which  I  once  heard  a  recruiting 
sergeant  give  to  a  numerous,  if  not  a  resjicc- 
tahle  audience,  in  the  streets  of  Kilmarnock. 
— "  Gentiemcn,  for  your  further  ami  better  en- | 
couragenu'iit,  I  can  assure  you  that  our  regiment 
is  the  nu)st  blackguard  c(Hps  under  the  crown, 
Ind  consecpu'utly  with  us  an  honest  fellow  has 
■Jie  surest  chance  for  preferment." 

You  ui'ed  not  doubt  that  I  find  several  very 
unpleasant  ami  disagreeable  circumstances  in  my 
Ijusiness  ;  but  I  am  tired  with  and  disgusted 
at  the  language  of  complaint  against  the  evils  of. 
life.  Hum  in  existence  in  the  most  favourable 
situations  does  not  abound  with  pleasures,  and 
Qas  its  inconveniences  aud  ills  ;  capricious  foul-  j 


ish  man  mistakes  .hese  inconveniences  atr.  il'it 
as  if  they  were  the  peculiar  pro])eity  oi'his  par 
ticular  situation  ;  and  hence  th.it  eternal  fickle- 
ness, that  love  of  change,  which  has  ruinerl,  and 
daily  does  ruin  many  a  fine  fellow,  as  well  as 
many  a  blockhead  ;  and  is  alnmst,  without  ex- 
ception, a  constant  source  of  disappointment  aud 
misery. 

I  long  to  bear  from  you  how  you  go  on — not 
so  much  in  business  as  in  life.  Are  you  j)retty 
well  satisfied  with  your  own  exertions,  anil  to- 
lerably at  ease  in  your  internal  reflections? 
'Tis  much  to  be  a  great  character  as  a  lawyer, 
but  beyond  cimiparison  more  to  he  a  great  cha- 
racter as  a  man.  That  you  may  be  both  the 
one  and  the  other  is  the  earnest  wish,  and  that 
you  will  be  both  is  the  firm  persuasion  of, 
My  dear  Sir,  &,c. 


No.  CXXXIV. 

TO  R.  GRAHAM,  ESQ.  OF  FINTRY. 

SIR,  9//j  Decenihrr,  1789. 

I  HAVE  a  good  while  had  a  wish  to  troulile 
you  with  a  letter,  and  harl  certainly  done  it  lung 
eie  now — hut  for  a  luimiliating  soMiethiog  that 
throws  cold  water  on  the  resolution,  as  if  one 
should  say,  "  You  have  found  Mr.  Giaham  a 
veiy  powerful  and  kind  friei;d  indeed,  and  tliat 
nteiest  he  is  so  kindly  taking  in  your  conceins, 
you  ought  by  e\'ery  thing  in  your  power  to  keep 
alive  and  cherish."  Now  though,  since  Odd 
has  thought  projier  to  make  one  powerful  and 
another  helpless,  the  connexion  of  ohliger  ai.d 
obliged  is  all  fair  ;  and  though  my  being  niuier 
your  patronage  is  to  me  higliK-  hipuuiiral)  e,  vet, 
Sir,  allow  me  to  Hatter  ni\self,  that,  as  a  poet 
and  an  htmest  man,  you  first  interesterl  vourself 
in  my  welfare,  and  principally  as  such  sldl,  you 
permit  me  to  ap]U()ach  you. 

I  have  found  the  excise  business  go  on  a  great 
deal  smoother  with  me  than  I  expected  ;  owing 
a  good  (leal  to  the  generous  fiienilship  of  i\Ir. 
.Mitchell,  my  collector,  and  the  kind  ass  stance 
of  Mr.  Find  later,  my  supervisor.  I  dare  to  be 
honest,  and  I  fear  no  labour.  Nor  do  I  find 
my  hurried  life  greatly  inimical  to  my  corres- 
pondence with  the  JNluses.  Their  visits  to  me, 
indeed,  and  I  believe  to  most  of  their  ac(|uaint- 
ance,  like  the  visits  of  good  angels,  are  short  and 
far  between  ;  but  I  meet  them  now  and  then  ai 
I  jog  through  the  hills  of  iS'ithsdale,  just  as  1 
used  to  do  on  the  banks  of  Ayr.  1  take  the  li-. 
herty  to  enclose  you  a  few  bagatelles,  all  of  tliem 
the  juoductions  of  my  leisure  thoughts  in  nijt 
excise  rides. 

If  you  know  or  have  ever  seen  Captain  Grose, 

the  antif|uarian,  you  will  enter  into  any  huUKUir 

that  is  in  the  verses  on  him.      I'erhaps  you  h.ive 

seen  them  before,  ns   I  sent  them   to  a  London 

paper.     Though  I  dare  say  jrou  have  nooc 


COHKF.S^PONDMNCr:. 


of  tb.c  Rolemn-lciic;uc-and-covemnt  fire,  wliidi 
«h(>(ie  so  c()tis|iiiui)iis  in  L<iril  Gi'orgf  Gdrdon, 
Wiii  the  KiliiKiinock  \ve;ivtTs,  yet  I  think  you 
must  hiive  hoard  nl  Dr  IM'Gill,  one  of  the  cler- 
gymen of  Ayr,  and  his  heretical  book.  God 
htl()  liiin,  poor  man  !  Though  he  is  one  of  tlie 
worthitst,  as  well  as  one  of  the  ahlcst  of  the 
whole  pr'cstliood  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland,  in 
every  sense  of  that  amhigumis  term,  yet  the  poor 
Doi'tor  and  his  nunieious  family  are  in  immi- 
tient  danger  of  being  tliniwn  out  to  the  mercy 
iif  the  winter-winds.  The  enclosed  ballad  on 
that  business  is,  I  confess,  too  local,  but  I 
laughed  myself  at  some  conceits  in  it,  though 
I  am  convinced  in  my  conscience,  that  there  are 
a  good  many  he.ivy  stanzas  in  it  too. 

The  election  ballad,  as  you  will  see,  alludes 
to  the  present  canvass  in  our  string  of  boroughs. 
I  do  i;ot  believe  there  will  be  such  a  hard  run 
match  in  the  whole  general  election.* 


I  am  too  little  a  man  to  have  any  political 
attachments ;  I  am  deeply  indebted  to,  and 
have  the  warmest  veneration  for,  individuals 
of  both  parties  ;  but  a  man  who  h  is  it  in  his 
power  to  be  the  father  of  a  country,  and  who 
is  a  character  that  one  cannot 


fjieak  of  with  patience. 

Sir  J.  J.  does  "  what  man  can  do,' 
I  doubt  bis  fate. 


but  yet 


No.  CXXXV. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

ElUsland,  \Sth  December,  1789. 
Manv  thanks,  dear  Madam,  for  your  shcet- 
ful  of  Rhymes.  Though  at  jirescnt  I  am  below 
the  veriest  prose,  yet  from  you  every  thing 
pleases.  I  am  groaning  under  the  miseries  of 
a  diseased  nervous  system  ;  a  system,  the  state 
of  which  is  most  conducive  to  our  happiness — 
or  the  most  productive  of  our  misery.  For 
now  near  three  weeks  I  have  been  so  ill  with 
a  nervous  head-ache,  that  I  have  been  obliged 
to  give  up,  for  a  time,  my  excise  hooks,  being 
scarce  able  to  lift  my  head,  nmch  less  to  rvJc 
once  a-week  over  ten  muir  parishes.  What  is 
Man  !  To-day,  in  the  luxuriance  of  health,  ex- 
ulting in  the  enjoyment  of  existence  ;  in  a  few 
diys,  pernaps  in  a  few  hours,  loaded  with  con- 
scious painful  being,  counting  the  tardy  pace  of 
the  lingering  moments  by  tlie  repercussions  of 
anguish,  and  refusing  or  denied  a  comforter. 
Day  follows  night,  and  night  comes  after  day, 


•  This  alludps  to  the  contest  for  the  borough  cA 
Diimfnes,  beiwcen  the  Puke  of  (Jueciuitjcrry's  iiitereit 
»iid  that  of  Sir  James  Johnstons. 


only  to  curse  him  willi  life  whi.-h  gives  hitn  lu 
plei-ure  ;  and  yet  the  awful,  <lark  teriiiii\,iti«a 
of  that  life,  is  a  sontething  at  which  he  rccoilo. 

"  Tell  us,  ye  dead  ;  will  none  of  you  in  pity 

Di-close  the  secret 

Wlidt  'tis  you  art,  ami  we  must  shnrtli/  he  ! 
'tis  no  matter  : 


A  little  time  will  make  us  learn'd  as  you  are." 

Can  it  be  possible,  that  when  I  resign  this 
frail,  feverish  being,  I  shall  still  fitid  myself  ia 
conscious  existence  !  When  the  last  g,a>])  of 
agony  has  announcetJ,  that  I  am  no  mere  to 
those  that  knew  me,  und  the  few  who  loved 
me  :  when  the  cold,  slitTeiied,  unconscious, 
ghastly  corse  is  resigned  into  the  earth,  to  be 
the  prey  of  unsightly  re])tiles,  and  to  become  in 
time  a  trcxlden  clod,  shall  I  yet  he  warm  in  life, 
seeing  and  seen,  enjoying  and  enjoyed  ?  Ye  ve- 
nerable sages,  and  holy  flamens,  is  there  proba- 
bility in  your  conjectuiKs,  trnlh  in  your  storiei 
of  another  world  beyond  death  ;  or  are  they  all 
alike,  baseless  visions,  and  f.ibricated  fihles  ?  If 
there  is  another  life,  it  must  be  only  for  the  just, 
the  benevolent,  the  amiable,  and  the  hum  i;ie  ; 
what  a  flattering  idea,  then,  is  the  world  to 
come?  Would  to  God  1  as  firmly  believed  it, 
as  I  ardently  wish  it!  There  I  should  meet  an 
aged  parent,  now  at  rest  from  the  many  bnlTet- 
ings  of  an  evil  world,  against  whicii  lie  so  lung 
and  so  bravely  struggled.  There  should  I  meet 
the  friend,  the  disinterested  friend  of  my  early 
life  ;   the  man  who   rejoiced   to  see  me,  becaus* 

he  loved  me  and  could  serve  me. .Muir  !  thy 

weaknesses  were  the  aberrations  of  human  na- 
ture, but  thy  heart  glowed  with  every  thing  ge- 
nerous, manly,  and  nobie  ;  and  if  ever  emana- 
tion from  the  All-gooil  Heing  animated  a  humaa 
form,  it  was  thine  ! — There  should  I  with 
speechless  agony  of  rapture,  again  lecognlze  my 
lost,  my  ever  dear  Alaiy!  whose  bosom  was 
fraught  with  truth,  lionour,  constancy,  aud  love. 

My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  heavenly  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laiil  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  ;ond  his  breast  .' 

Jesus  Christ,  thou  amiablest  of  character*  I 
I  trust  thou  art  no  impostor,  and  that  thy  re- 
velation of  blissful  scenes  of  existence  bejoud 
lieath  and  the  grave,  is  not  one  of  the  many 
impositions  which  time  alter  time  have  been 
palmed  on  crediilovis  maidxind.  I  trust  that  in 
thee,  "  shall  all  the  families  of  the  earth  be 
blessed,"  by  In-ing  yet  counecteil  togetiiei  in 
better  world,  \ehere  every  tie  that  bounil  iieart 
to  heart,  in  this  state  of  existence,  shall  be,  far 
Iwyond  our  present  conceptions,  moie  enilearing 

I  am  a  good  deal  inclined  to  tliink  with  thiiwi 
who  maintain,  that  what  are  calleil  nervous  aC 
fections  are  in  fact  diseases  ot  tlie  mind.  I  cikF.- 
not  reason,  I  cannot  think  ;  and  but  to  you  I 
would  nut  vcntute  to  write  any  thiug  above  an 
V 


33S 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


onlcr  to  a  cobbler.  You  have  felt  too  much  of 
the  ills  of  !ife  not  to  sympathize  with  a  dir^eased 
wretch,  who  has  impaired  more  than  half  of  any 
faculties  he  posse>ised.  Your  goodness  will  ex- 
cuse this  distracted  scrawl,  which  the  writer 
dare  scarcely  read,  and  which  he  would  throw 
mto  tlie  fire,  were  he  able  to  write  any  thing 
better,  or  indeed  any  thing  at  all. 

Ilumour  told  nie  something  of  a  son  of  yinirs 
who  was  returned  fjom  the  East  or  West  In- 
dies, If  you  have  gotten  news  of  James  or  An- 
thony, it  was  cruel  in  you  not  to  let  me  know  ; 
as  J  promise  you,  on  the  sincerity  of  a  man, 
who  is  weary  of  one  world  and  anxious  about 
another,  that  scarce  any  thing  could  give  me  so 
niucli  pleasure  as  to  hear  of  any  good  thing  be- 
falling my  honoured  friend. 

If  you  have  a  minute's  leisure,  take  up  vour 
pen  in  pity  to  la  pauvre  miserable.         R.  li. 


No.  CXXXVI. 
TO  SIR  JOHN  SINCLAIR. 

SIR, 

The  following  circumstance  has,  I  believe, 
been  omitted  in  the  statistical  account,  trans- 
mitted to  you,  of  the  parish  of  Duuscore,  in 
Nithsdale.  I  hcg  leave  to  send  it  to  you,  be- 
cause it  is  new  and  may  be  useful.  How  far  it 
is  deseiving  of  a  place  in  your  patriotic  publica- 
tion, you  are  the  hest  judge. 

To  store  the  minds  of  the  lower  classes  with 
useful  knowledge,  is  certainly  of  verv  great  im- 
portance, both  to  them  as  individuals,  and  to 
society  at  large.  Giving  them  a  turn  for  read- 
ing aiul  reflection,  is  giving  them  a  source  of 
innocent  and  laudable  amusement  ;  and  besides 
raises  them  to  a  more  dignified  degree  in  the 
scale  of  rationality.  Impressed  with  this  idea, 
a  gentleman  in  tliis  parish,  Robert  Riddel,  Esq. 
of  Glciiriddel,  set  oa  foot  a  species  of  circulat- 
ing liberary,  on  a  plan  so  simple  as  to  be  prac- 
ticable in  any  corner  of  the  country  ;  and  so 
useful,  as  to  deserve  the  notice  of  every  country 
geiitlenian.  who  thinks  the  improvement  of  that 
part  of  his  own  species,  whom  chance  has 
thrown  into  the  humble  jvalks  of  the  peasant 
and  the  aitizan,  a  matter  worthy  of  his  atten- 
tion. 

Mr.  Riddel  got  a  number  of  his  own  tenants, 
and  fuming  neighbours,  to  form  themselves 
into  a  society  f<ir  the  purpose  of  having  a  library 
among  iheniselvcs.  They  cnteied  into  a  legal 
engagen:ent  to  abide  by  it  for  three  years  ;  with 
a  saving  clause  or  two,  in  case  of  rijnoval  to  a 
dis';;i!ce,  or  cf  death.  Each  member,  at  his 
entry,  paid  five  thiilings,  and  at  each  of  their 
meetings,  which  weie  (leld  every  fourth  Satur- 
day, sixpence  more.  With  their  cntry-nu)ney, 
and  the  credit  which  they  took  on  the  faith  of 
their  future  funds,  they  laid  in  a  tolerable  stock 


of  books  at  the  commencement.  What  authon 
they  were  to  purchase,  was  a4ways  decided  by 
the  majority.  At  every  meeting,  all  the  books, 
tender  certain  fines  and  forfeitures,  by  way  oi . 
penalty,  were  to  be  produced  ;  and  the  mem- 
bers had  their  choice  of  the  volumes  in  rotation. 
He  whose  name  stood,  fur  that  ni^ht,  first  on 
the  list,  had  his  choice  of  what  volume  he  pleas- 
ed in  tlie  whole  collection  ;  the  second  had  his 
choice  after  the  first  ;  the  third  after  the  second, 
and  so  on  to  the  last.  At  next  meeting,  he  who 
had  been  first  on  the  list  at  the  preceding  meet 
ing,  was  last  at  this  ;  he  who  had  been  sca.nd 
was  first  ;  and  so  on  through  the  whole  three 
years.  At  the  expiration  of  the  engagement, 
the  books  were  sold  by  auction,  but  only  among 
the  members  themselves  :  and  each  man  had  his 
share  of  the  common  stock,  in  money  or  in 
books,  as  he  chose  to  be  a  purchaser  or  not. 

At  the  breaking  up  of  this  little  society, 
which  was  formed  under  Mr.  Riddel's  patron- 
age, what  with  benefactions  of  books  from  him, 
and  what  with  their  own  purchases,  they  had 
collected  together  upwards  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  volumes.  It  will  easily  be  guessed,  that  a 
good  deal  of  trash  would  be  bought.  Among 
the  books,  however,  of  this  little  li-brary,  were 
Ulair's  Sermons,  liuhertson  s  Hist  ry  of  Scot- 
liind,  Hume's  History  of  the  i>tuurts,  the  Sj>tc- 
tiito-,  Idler,  Adventurer,  Mirror,  Lmuiyer, 
Observer,  Man  of  Feelinff,  Man  iftlte  World, 
Chrtjsal,  Don  Quixotte,  Joseph  Andrtics,  ^x, 
A  peasant  who  can  read,  and  enjoy  such  hooks, 
is  certainly  a  much  superior  being  to  his  neigh- 
bour, who  perhaps  stalks  beside  his  team,  very 
little  removed,  except  in  shape,  from  the  brute 
he  drives. 

NVisLing   your    patriotic    exertions    t'neir  so 
much  merited  success,  I  am, 
Sir, 

Your  humble  scrvarit, 

A  PEASANT.* 


•  Tlie  above  is  extracted  from  the  tliird  volume  of 
Sir  John  Sinclair's  Statistics,  p.  .•)9H. — It  was  eiidoseU 
to  Sir  John  by  Mr.  Riddel  himself  m  the  following 
letter,  also  printed  there; — 

"  Sin  John, 

"  I  enclose  you  a  letter,  written  by  Mr.  Burns  as  an 
addition  to  ihe  account  of  Dunsoore  parisli.  It  con- 
tains an  account  of  a  small  library  which  he  was  so 
pood  (at  my  desire),  as  to  oet  on  foot,  in  the  barony  of 
Monklaiul,  or  Friar's  Car^e,  /ii  this  parish.  As  its 
utihty  has  been  felt,  particularly  among  the  younger 
class  of  people,  I  think,  that  if  a  similar  plan  were  ,.«- 
tablishcd,  ill  the  dillerent  Ilari^hcs  of  s-cotlaml,  it 
woiilil  tend  greatly  to  the  sjcedy  impiovrmcnt  of  the 
tenantry,  trades  people,  and  work  people.  Mr.  thinis 
was  so  (jood  as  to  take  llic  whole  ihaige  of  this  small 
coiicciii.  He  was  treasurer,  librari.m,  ami  censor  to 
this  little  society,  who  will  lon^'  have  a  grateful  sen* 
of  Ills  )iublie  spirit  and  exertions  for  their  improvj- 
nieiit  and  information. 

"  1  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sir  Jo'm, 
"  Yours  most  sineirelv, 

"  HOUliUT  niDDKL. 


To  Sir  Jith-f,  Sinclair, 
of  Uibiirr,  hurt. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


339 


LETTERS,  1790. 

No.  CXXXVII. 
TO  MR.  GILBERT  BURNS. 

Ellibland,  1  U/i  January/,  1790. 

DTAR   BKOTHER, 

I  MEAN  to  take advantn^e  of  tlie  frank,  though 
I  have  not  in  my  present  frame  of  mind  much 
appetite  for  exertion  in  writing.  i\Iy  nerves 
are  in  a  .  .  .  .  state.  I  feel  that  horrid 
hypochondria  pervading  every  atom  of  both 
body  and  soul.  This  farm  has  undone  my  en- 
joyment of  myself.  It  is  a  ruinous  affiir  on  all 
hands.  But  let  it  go  to  .  .  .  !  I'll  fight  it 
out  and  be  off  with  it. 

\\'e  have  gotten  a  set  of  very  decent  players 
here  just  now.  I  have  seen  them  an  evening 
or  two.  David  Campbell,  in  Ayr.  wrote  to  me 
by  the  manager  of  the  company,  a  Mr.  Suther- 
land, who  is  a  man  of  apparent  worth.  On 
New-year-day  evening  I  gave  him  the  following 
prologue,  which  he  sj)outed  to  his  audience  with 
Bi)plause. 

PROLOGUE. 

No  song  nor  dance  I  bring  from  yon  great 
city. 
That   queens   it  o'er  our  taste — the  more's  the 

pity  : 
Tliough,  by  the  bye,  abroad  why  will  you  roam  ? 
Good  sense  and  taste  are  natives  here  at  home  ; 
But  not  for  panegyric  I  appear, 
I  come  to  wish  you  all  a  good  new  year  ! 
Old  Father  Time  deputes  me  here  before  ye, 
Not  for  to  preach,  but  tell  his  simple  story: 
The  sage  grave  ancient  cough'd,  and  bide  me 

say, 
"  You're  one  year  older  this  important  day," 
It  u-i.\er  ton — he  hinted  some  suggestion, 
But  'twould  be  rude,  you  know,  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion ; 
And  with  a  would-be-roguish  leer  and  wink, 
lie    bade    me   on    you    press   this  one    word — 

"  THINK  !" 

Ye  sprightly  youths,  quite  flush  with  hojie 
and  spirit, 
Who  think  to  storm  the  world  by  dint  of  merit. 
To  you  the  dotard  has  a  deal  to  say, 
In  his  sly,  dry,  sententious,  proverb  way  ! 
lie  bids  you  mind,  amid  your  thoughtless  rattle. 
That  the  first  blow  is  eve ■   half  the  battle  ; 
1  hat  though  some  by  the  sxirt  may  try  to  snatch 

him, 
Yet  by  the  forelock  is  the  hold  to  catch  him, 
That  whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbearing, 
You  may  do  miracles  by  persevering. 

Last,  though  not  least  in  love,  ye  youthful  fair, 
.\ngelic  forms,  hi-jh  Heaven's  peculiar  care  ! 
To    you   old   Bald-pate  smooths    his   wrinkled 

brow, 
Aud  humlily  begs  you'll  mind  the  important — 

NOW  1  I 


To  crown  you?  hapiiiness,  he  n^tcs  v  /ur   eave, 
And  offers,  bliss  to  give  and  to  iLy.-ei>e. 

For  our  sincere,    though    haply  weak  endcru 
vours, 
With  grateful  pride  we  own  your  many  favours: 
And  howsoe'er  our  tongues  may  ill  reveal  it, 
Believe  our  glowing  bosoms  truly  feel  it. 


I  can  no  more — If  once  I  was  clear  of  this 
.     .     .  farm,  I  should  respire  more  at  case. 


No.  CXXXVIIL 

FROM  WILLIAM  BURNS,  THE  POETS 
BROTHER. 

DEAR  BROTHER,     Neiocastlc,  2i^th  Jan.  1790. 

I  WROTE  you  about  six  weeks  ago,  and  I  have 
expected  to  hear  from  you  every  post  since,  but 
I  suppose  your  excise  business  which  you  hinted 
at  in  your  last,  has  jirevented  you  from  writing. 
By  the  bye,  when  and  how  have  you  got  into 
the  excise ;  and  what  division  have  you  got 
about  Dumfries?  These  questions  please  an- 
swer in  your  next,  if  more  itnjjortant  matter  do 
not  occur.  But  in  the  mean  time  let  me  have 
the  letter  to  John  Murdoch,  which  Gilbert  wrote 
me  you  meant  to  send  ;  enclose  it  in  your's  to 
me,  and  let  me  have  them  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  I  intend  to  sail  for  London,  in  a  fortnight, 
or  three  weeks  at  farthest. 

You  promised  n)e  when  I  was  intending  to 
go  to  Ediidjurgh,  to  write  mc  some  instructions 
about  iiehaviour  in  companies  rather  above  my 
station,  to  which  I  might  bo  eventually  intro- 
duced. As  I  may  be  introduced  into  such  com- 
panies at  Murdoch's,  or  ou  his  account,  when  I 
go  to  London,  I  wish  you  would  write  me  some 
such  instructions  now  :  I  never  had  more  need 
of  them,  for  having  spent  little  of  mv  time  in 
company  of  any  sort  since  I  came  to  Newcastle, 
I  have  almost  forgot  the  common  civilities  of 
life.  To  these  instructions  pray  add  some  of  a 
moral  kind,  for  though  (either  through  the 
strength  of  early  imjjressions,  or  the  frigidity  of 
my  constitution),  1  have  hitherto  withstood  the 
temptation  to  those  vices,  to  which  voung  iff 
lows  of  my  station  and  time  of  liie  are  so  mucn 
,1(1(1  icted,  yet,  I  do  not  know  if  my  virtue  will 
be  able  to  withstand  the  more  powerful  tem|)ta- 
tlcns  of  the  metro|)olis  :  yet,  through  God's  as- 
sistance and  your  instructions,  I  hope  to  wea- 
ther the  storm. 

Give  tlie  compliments  of  the  season  and  my 
love  to  my  sisters,  and  all  the  rest  of  your  fa- 
mily. Tell  Gilbert,  the  first  time  you  writd 
him,  that  I  am  well,  and  that  I  will  write  hii» 
either  when  I  sail  or  when  I  arrive  at  London. 
I  am,  &c 

V/    B. 


S40 


TURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CXXXIX. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

EUhland,  25lh  January,  170a 
Ir  has  been  owing  to  uuiemittiiig  hurry  of 
business  that  I  have  not  written  to  you,  Ma- 
diini,  long  ere  now.  My  health  is  greatly  but- 
ter, anil  I  now  begin  once  more  to  share  in  sa- 
tisfaction and  enjoynient  with  the  rest  of  my 
felliiw-creatures. 

I\Iany  thanks,  my  much  esteemed  friend,  for 
your  kind  letters  ;  but  wl  y  will  you  make  nie 
run  the  risk  of  being  contemptible  and  merce- 
nary in  my  own  eyes  I  When  I  pique  myself 
in  rfry  independent  spirit,  I  hope  it  is  neither 
poetic  license^  nor  poetic  rant  ;  and  I  am  so 
flattered  with  the  honour  you  have  done  me, 
in  making  me  your  compeer  in  friendship  and 
friendly  correspondence,  that  I  cannot  without 
pain,  and  a  degree  of  mortification,  be  reminded 
of  the  real  inequality  between  our  situations. 

Most  sincerely  do  I  rejoice  with  you,  dear 
Madam,  in  the  good  news  of  Anthony.  Not 
only  your  anxiety  about  his  fate,  but  my  own 
esteem  for  such  a  noble,  warm-hearted,  manly 
young  fellow,  in  the  little  I  had  of  his  acquiint- 
anie,  has  interested  me  deeply  in  his  fditiiiie*. 

Falconer,  the  unfortunate  author  of  the  Ship- 
wreck,  which  you  so  much  admire,  is  no  more. 
After  weathering  the  dreadful  catastrophe  he  so 
feelingly  describes  in  his  poem,  and  after  wea- 
thering many  hard  gales  of  fortune,  he  went  to 
the  bottom  with  the  Aurora  frigate  !  I  forget 
what  part  of  Scotland  had  the  honour  of  giving 
him  birth,  but  he  was  the  son  of  obscurity  and 
misfortune.*  He  was  one  of  those  daring  ad- 
venturous spirits,  which  Scotland  beyimd  any 
other  country  is  remarkable  for  producing. 
LiMie  does  the  fond  mother  think,  as  she  hangs 
delighted  over  the  sweet  little  leech  at  her  bo- 
som, where  the  poor  fellow  may  hereafter  wan- 
der, and  what  may  be  his  fate.  1  remember  a 
stanza  in  an  old  Scottish  ballad,  which,  not- 
withstanding its  rude  simplicity,  speaks  feelingly 
to  the  heart  . — 

»  Falcnncr  was  in  earlv  life  a  seaboy,  to  use  a  worti 
of  Shakspeare,  on  board  a  man-of-war,  in  whiih  cap,v 
city  he  iittracfed  the  notice  of  ('aMi])bpll,  the  author  of 
tlie  satire  nn  Dr.  Jrhnson,  entitled  LfxiphntKS,  then 
purser  nf  the  sliip.  r,;mpl)cll  took  him  as  his  servant, 
and  deli'^lited  Ml  civini;  hirn  instnietion  ;  and  when 
Kalconcr  aftiTV/ards  aeipiired  relel)rity,  boasted  of  him 
as  his  scholar.  'I'lie  editor  had  this  inf.'inialif.n  from 
a  surgeon  of  a  man-of-war.  in  1777,  who  knew  l)olh 
Campbell  and  l/il>i)iier,an.l  who  himself  perished  soon 
after  hv  shipwieck,  on  Ihi'  coast  of  America. 

Thont'h  the  death  of  Fileoner  hap\ieiied  so  lately  a» 
17:0  or  1771,  vet  in  the  l)iot;raphv  jinfixed  by  Dr.  An- 
derson to  his  works,  in  the  eonili'.etc  edition  of  the 
P-icts  iifC.ruit  Ilrihiin,  it  is  said,  "  Of  the  fi.mdy, 
birtli-ii'laef,  and  idiieation  of  Wiliiam  l-'aleoner,  there 
are  no  memorials.''  On  the  aiiihority  alrcadv  Riven, 
it  may  be  mentioned,  that  he  wiis  a  native  of  one  of 
the  to\Tnson  the  eoiist  of  I'ife,  and  that  his  parents, 
who  had  siilVered  some  mi  fortunes,  reo  oveil  to  one 
•)(  the  sea-i)orls  of  Kn^lanil.  where  thev  both  diid, 
toon  ifler,  of  an  ei<idc-mic  fever,  leaving  poor  Fal- 
roner,  then  a  boy,  forlorn  and  destitute.  In  nmsc- 
giieneeof  whiih  he  entered  on  board  a  man-of-war. 
These  la»t  circumstances  arc  liowev  ;r  less  cerUiiii. — 
Chomi'.k. 


"  Little  did  my  tnotTier  think, 
That  day  she  cradled  me, 
What  land  1  was  to  travel  in, 
Or  what  death  I  should  die." 

Old  Scottis.li  sonea  are,  V9U  know,  a  favour, 
ite  study  and  pursuit  01  mine  ;  and  now  I  an" 
on  that  subject,  allow  me  to  give  you  two 
stanzas  of  another  old  simple  ballad,  which  1 
am  sure  will  please  you.  The  catastrophe  o\ 
the  piece  is  a  poor  ruined  female,  lamenting 
her  fate.  She  concludes  with  this  pathetic 
wish  : 

*'  O  that  my  father  had  ne'er  on  me  smiled ; 
O  that  my  mother  had  ne'er  to  me  sung  ! 
O  that  my  cradle  had  never  been  rock'd  ; 
But  that  I  had  died  when  I  was  young ! 

0  that  the  grave  it  were  my  bed  ; 
My  blankets  were  my  winding  sheet ; 

The  clocks  and  the  worms  my  bedfellows  a'  ; 
And  O  sae  sound  as  1  should  sleep  !" 

1  do  not  remember  in  all  my  reading  to  have 
met  with  any  thing  more  truly  the  language  of 
misery,  than  the  exclamation  in  the  last  lir.«. 
Misery  is  like  love  ;  to  speak  its  language  truly, 
the  author  must  have  felt  it. 

I  am  every  day  expecting  the  doctor  to  give 
your  little  god-son*  the  small-pox.  They  ar« 
rife  in  the  country,  and  I  tremble  for  his  fate. 
By  the  way,  I  cannot  help  congratulating  you 
on  his  looks  and  spirit.  Every  person  who 
sees  him,  acknowledges  hiin  to  be  the  tinest, 
handsomest  child  he  has  ever  seen.  I  am  my- 
self delighted  with  the  manly  swell  of  his  little 
ciiest,  and  a  certain  miniature  dignity  in  the 
carriage  of  his  head,  and  glance  of  his  fine  black 
eye.  which  promise  the  undaunted  gallantry  of 
an  independent  mind. 

I  thought  to  have  sent  you  some  rhymes,  but 
time  forbids.  I  promise  you  poetry  until  you 
are  tired  of  it,  next  time  I  have  the  honour  of 
assuring  you  how  truly  I  am,  &c. 


No.  CXL. 
FROM  INIR.   CUNNINGIL\1SI. 

2Sth  Jamiary,  1790. 
In  some  instances  it  is  reckoned  unpardonable 
to  quote  any  one's  own  n-oi  ds  ;  but  the  value  1 
have  for  your  friendship,  nothing  can  more  truly 
or  more  elegantly  express,  than 

"  Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 
As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear." 

Having  written  to  you  twiw  without  hayiaf 


The  br  rJ'»  second  son,  Krancia 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


34. 


aeard  from  you,  1  am  apt  to  think  my  letters 
liiive  miscairifil.  My  conjecture  is  only  framed 
upon  the  chapter  of  accidents  turnini;  up  against 
nic,  as  it  too  often  does,  in  the  trivi;-.!,  and  I 
(Kiv  U'illi  truth  add,  the  more  important  aflairs 
cf  life  :  but  I  sliali  continue  occa>ional!y  to  in- 
form you  what  is  goinsif  on  among  the  circle  of 
your  fiiends  in  these  parts.  In  these  davs  of 
merriment,  I  have  frequently  heard  your  name 
vrocliiimcil  at  the  jovial  hoard — under  the  roof 
of  our  hospitable  friend  at  Stenhouse  Mills,  there 
were  no 

"  Lingering  moments  numberM  with  care." 

I  saw  your  Address  to  the  New-year  in  the 
Dumfiies  Journal.  Of  your  productions  I  shall 
gay  nothing,  but  my  acquaintance  allege  that 
when  your  name  is  mentioned,  which  eveiy  man 
of  celebrity  must  know  often  happens,  I  am  the 
champion,  the  Mendoza,  against  all  snarling  cri- 
tics, and  narrow-minded  reptiles,  of  whom  a  Jem 
on  this  planet  do  crawl. 

With  best  compliments  to  your  wife,  and  her 
black -eyed  sister,  I  remain,  yours,  &c. 


does  me  the  honour  to  mention  me  so  kinrlly  ii 
his  works,  please  f;ive  him  my  best  thanks  fol 
the  copy  of  his  book — 1  shall  write  him,  my  first 
leisure  hour.  I  like  his  poetry  much,  but  1 
think  his  style  in  pruse  quite  astouisliing. 


No.  CXLI. 
TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

EWsland,  Feb.  2.  1790. 

No !  I  will  not  say  one  word  about  apolo- 
gies or  excuses  for  not  writing — I  am  a  jionr, 
rascally  ganger,  condemned  to  gallop  at  least 
200  miles  every  week  to  inspect  dirty  ponds 
jnd  yeasty  barrels,  and  where  can  I  find  time 
to  wiite  to,  or  importance  to  interest  any  body? 
The  uphraidings  of  my  conscience,  nay  the  up- 
braidings  of  my  wife,  have  persecuted  me  on 
your  account  these  two  or  three  months  past. — 
I  wish  to  Goil  I  was  a  great  man,  that  my  cor- 
respondence might  throw  light  upon  you,  to 
let  the  world  see  what  you  really  are  ;  and  then 
I  would  make  vour  fortune,  witiiout  putting  my 
hand  in  my  pocket  for  you,  which,  like  all  other 
great  men,  I  suppose  I  would  avoid  as  much  as 
possible.  What  are  you  doing,  and  how  are  >'i>u  i 
doing  ?  Have  you  lately  seen  any  of  my  few 
fiiends?  What  is  become  of  the  BOiioroH 
REFuiiM,  or  how  is  the  fate  of  my  poor  name* 
sake  M.idemoiselle  Burns  decided  ?  O  tnan  ! 
but  for  thee  and  thy  selfish  appetites,  and  dis- 
honest artifices,  that  beaiiteous  f(Min,  and  thiit 
once  innocent  and  still  ingenuous  mind  might 
have  shone  conspicuous  and  lovely  in  the  faith- 
ful wife,  and  the  affectionate  mother  ,  and  shall 
the  unfortunate  sacrifice  to  thy  pleasures  have 
no  claim  on  thy  hum  iiiity  ! 

1  saw  huely  in  a  Review,  some  extracts  from 
1  new  |)oem,  called  The  Village  Curate  ;  send 
t  me.  I  wa  t  likewise  a  cheap  copy  of  The 
World.     Mr.    VriHstrong,   the  young  poet,  who 


Your  book  came  safe,  and  I  am  going  to  trou- 
ble vou  with  farther  commissions.  I  call  it 
troubling  you — because  I  want  only,  books  ; 
the  cheapest  way,  the  best ;  so  you  may  have 
to  huut  for  them  in  tiie  evening  auctions.  I 
want  Smollett's  Works,  for  the  sake  of  his  in- 
comparable humour.      I  have  already  Roderick 

Random,    and    Humphrey   Clinker Peregrine 

Pickle,  Launeelot  Greaves,  and  Frederick,  Count 
Fathom,  I  still  want  ;  but  as  I  said,  the  veriest 
ordinary  copies  will  serve  me.  I  am  nice -only 
in  the  ajjpearance  of  my  poets.  I  forget  the 
price  Oi'  Cowjier's  Poems,  but,  I  believe,  I  umst 
have  them.  I  saw  the  other  day,  proposals  for 
a  publication,  entitled,  "  Banks's  new  and  corn- 
plet  Christian's  Family  Bible,"  printed  for  C. 
Cooke,  Paternoster-row,  London. —  He  promises 
at  least,  to  give  in  the  work,  I  think  it  is  three 
hundred  and  odd  engravings,  to  which  he  has 
put  the  names  of  the  first  artists  in  London.*  — 
You  will  know  the  character  of  the  performance, 
as  some  numbers  of  it  are  published  ;  and  if  it 
is  really  what  it  pretends  to  be,  set  me  down 
as  a  subscriber,  and  send  me  the  published 
numbers. 

Let  me  hear  from  you,  your  first  leisure  mi- 
nute, and  trust  me,  you  shall  in  future  have  no 
reason  to  complain  of  my  silence.  The  dazzling 
perplexity  of  novelty  v/ill  dissipate  and  leave  me 
to  pursue  my  course  in  the  quiet  path  of  me- 
thodical routine. 


No.  CXLIL 

TO  MR.  W.  N I  COLL. 

MV  DEAR  SIR,  EllisUind,  Feb,  9,  1790. 

That    d-mned    mare   of   yours    is    dead.     I 
would  freely  have  given  her  price  to  have  saved 


»  Perhaps  no  set  of  men  more  efrcctually  avail  them, 
selves  of  the  easy  creclu'ity  of  the  public,  tii  m  3  cer. 
talnilcseriptiou  ori'aterncster-rowbooksi-ller*.  Three 
hundred  and  odd  cngra^  inps  ! — and  hy  t\\ejir.st  a  Hit, 
in  London,  too!  No  wonder  that  Burns  was  dazzk-.l 
hy  the  splendour  of  the  promise.  It  i-  no  umusimI 
ihinR  for  this  class  of  impostors  to  itluftraie  ;lie  UJij 
Scr'tptwes  by  plates  originally  er-Kraved  lor  the  Hit- 
lorii  (if  Knslanil,  ami  I  have  aetually  seen  siibjeels  ile- 
siijr.cd  hy  oui  celebrated  artisl  Sto'haid,  from  CfarLt.ta 
IJii r/im^e  iin(\  Ibe  Xiwelixt's  .1/«^rt;i«f,  c  inverted,  with 
inereibble  dexterity  by  the-r  Do  >ksellint;-l!rcslaw», 
into  Si'rifttur.il  einbttlisliinfnts  !  One  of  tlie-e  vendeii 
of  '  t'aniilv  Ibbles'  lately  ralle  I  on  nie,  to  consult  me 
professiiinally,  about  a  folio  engraving  he  brought 
with  him.— It  repiesented  MoNs.  Bukkov,  sealed, 
eoiiioDiplalinij  various  groups  of  animals  that  siir. 
niiindol  bl'ii  :  He  merely  »'-bcd,  he  said,  to  be  in 
formed,  whether  by  uncloutUine  the  NaluraLst,  ana 


342 


BURNS    WORKS. 


her  :  she  has  vexed  me  beyond  description.  In- 
d'.bted  as  1  was  to  your  fjoodness  beyond  what 
I  can  ever  repay,  I  eagerly  grasped  at  your  of- 
fer to  have  the  mare  with  me.  That  I  might 
at  lea^t  shew  my  readiness  in  wishing  to  be 
grateful,  I  took  every  care  of  her  in  my  power. 
She  was  never  crossed  for  riding  above  half  a 
score  of  times  by  me  or  in  my  keeping.  I  drew 
her  in  the  plough,  one  of  three,  for  one  poor 
week.  I  refused  fifty-five  shillings  for  her,  which 
was  the  highest  bode  I  could  squeeze  for  her. 
I  ferl  her  up  and  had  her  in  fine  order  for  Dum- 
''ies  fair  ;  when  four  or  five  days  before  the  fair, 
•no  was  seized  with  an  unaccountable  disorder 
in  the  sinews,  or  somewhere  in  the  bones  of  the 
neck  ;  with  a  weakness  or  total  want  of  power 
in  her  fillets,  and  in  short  the  whole  vertebrae 
of  her  spine  seemed  to  be  diseased  and  unhinged, 
and  in  eight  and  forty  hours,  in  sjiite  of  the  two 
best  farriers  in  the  country,  she  died  and  be 
d-mned  to  her  !  The  farriers  said  that  she  had 
been  quite  strained  in  the  fillets  beyond  cure  be- 
fore \ou  had  bought  her,  and  that  tlie  pour  de- 
yil,  though  she  might  keep  a  little  fle-h,  had 
been  jaded  and  quite  worn  out  with  fatigue  and 
op])ressiun.  Wliile  she  was  with  me,  she  was 
under  my  own  eye,  and  I  assure  you,  my  much 
viducd  friend,  every  thini;  was  done  lor  l)er  that 
could  be  dune  ;  and  the  accident  has  vexed  nie 
to  the  heart.  In  fact  I  could  nut  j)luck  up  spi- 
rits to  wiite  you,  on  account  of  the  unfortunate 
business. 

There  is  little  new  in  this  country.  Our  the- 
atrical conipan)',  of  which  you  mu>t  have  heanl, 
leave  us  in  a  week.  Their  merit  and  character 
ate  indeed  very  great,  both  on  the  stage  and  in 
private  life,  nut  a  wuithless  creature  anK.n'j; 
tlieni  ;  and  their  encouragement  has  been  ac- 
cordingly. Their  usu.d  run  is  from  eighteen 
to  twenty-five  pounds  a  night ;  seldom  less  than 
the  one,  and  the  house  will  hold  no  more  than 
the  otlicr.  There  have  been  repeated  instances 
of  sending  away  six,  and  eight,  and  ten  p  uuds 
in  a  night  for  want  of  room.  A  new  theatjo  is 
to  he  budt  by  subsciiption  ;  the  first  stone  is  to 
be  laid  on  Fi  iday  first  to  come.*  Three  hun- 
dred guineas  have  been  raised  by  thirty  subscri- 
bers, and  thirty  mure  migh.t  have  been  got  it 
wanted.  The  manager,  Mr.  Sutherland,  was 
introduced  to  mo  by  a  friend  from  Ayr  ;  and  a 
worthier  or  cleverer  fellow  I  have  i  arely  met 
with.  Some  of  our  clergy  have  slipt  in  by 
stealth  now  and  then;  but  they  have  got  up  a 
farce  of  their  own.  Yini  must  have  heard  how 
toe  Rev.  Mr.  Lawson  <if  Kiikmahoe,  seconded 
by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Kirkpatrick  of  Dunscore, 
and  the  rest  of  that  faction,  have  accuse<i  in  fur- 
nial  process,  the  unlortuiiate  and  Rev.  Mr  He- 
ron uf  Kirkgunzeun,  that  in  ordaining  Mr. 
Ne!son  tu  the  cure  of  suuls  in  Kirkliean,  he, 
the    said     Heron,     feloniously    and     treasonably 


bound  the  said  Nelscn  to  the  confession  of  faitlj, 
so  far  as  it  was  agreeable  to  reason  and  the 
word  of  God  ! 

Mrs.  B.  begs  to  be  remembered  most  grate- 
fully to  you.  Little  Bobby  and  FranK  are 
charmingly  well  and  healthy.  I  am  jaded  to 
death  with  fatigue.  For  these  two  or  threi 
months,  on  an  average,  I  have  not  ridden  less 
than  two  hundred  miles  per  week.  I  have 
done  little  in  the  poetic  way.  I  have  given  Mr. 
Sutherland  two  Prologues  ;  one  of  which  was 
delivered  last  week.  I  have  likewise  strung 
four  or  five  barbarous  stanzas,  to  the  tune  of 
Chevy  Chase,  by  way  of  Elegy  on  your  poor  un- 
fortunate mare,  beginning, — 

"  Peg  Nicholson  was  a  good  Bay-mare," — 
{see  p.  77.) 

ISTy  best  compliments  to  Jlrs.  Nicoll,  and  lit- 
tle Neddy,  and  all  the  family.  I  hope  Ned  is 
a  good  scholar,  and  will  come  oui  to  gather  nut» 
and  apples  with  me  next  harvest. 


giving  hnn  a  r.ither  more  resolute  look,  the  pinte  eoultl 
not,  iit   a  trilling  iX|Hiise,    !)»•  m.iile  tn  pass  tor  "  Da. 

Kill,  IN  TIIK   t   kins'   111  N  !" — (IIOMKK. 

•  On  t'ridai/,first  to  cuine — a  Scotticism. 


No.  CXLIII 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Ell  island,  13th  Fcbruari/,  1790. 
I  BEG  your  pardon,  my  dear  and  much  valued 
friemi,  fur  writing  to  you  on  this  very  unfashion- 
able, unsightly  sheet — 

"  My  poverty  but  not  my  will  consents." 

But  to  make  amends,  since  of  modish  post  I 
have  none,  except  one  poor  widowed  lialf  sheet 
of  gilt,  which  oes  in  my  drawer  among  my  ple- 
bei.iu  foolsci])  pages,  like  the  widow  of  a  man 
of  fasl-.ioii,  whom  that  unpollte  scoundrel,  Ne- 
cessity, has  driven  from  Burgundy  and  Piue- 
ajiple,  to  a  dish  of  Bohea,  with  the  scandal- 
beiring  help-mate  of  a  village  jiriest  ;  or  a  glass 
of  whisky-toddy,  with  the  ruby-nosed  yoke- 
fellow of  a  fi)ot-|)ad(ling  exciseman — I  niake  a 
vow  to  enclose  this  sheet-full  of  epistolary  frag- 
ments in  that  my  only  scrap  of  gilt-paper. 

I  am  Indeed  your  unworthy  debtor  for  three 
friendly  letters.  I  ought  to  have  written  to  you 
long  ere  now,  but  it  is  a  literal  fact,  I  have 
scarcely  a  spare  moment.  It  is  not  that  I  iiill 
not  write  to  you  ;  Miss  Burnet  is  not  more  dear 
to  her  guardian  angel,   nor   his  grace   the  Uuke 

(if  to  the  powers  of  ,    than   my 

friend  Cunningham  to  me.  It  is  not  that  I 
cannot  write  to  you  ;  should  you  doubt  it,  take 
the  fiillowiiig  fragment  which  was  intended  fir 
yuu  some  tliiiC  ago,  anil  lie  convinced  tJiat  1  can 
antithesize  sentiment,  and  circnmvniute  jieriods, 
as  well  as  any  coiner  o'  phrase  in  the  regions  u 
philology 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


34a 


mrr  dear  cl'nningha.m,  December,  17S9. 

Where  are  you?  And  what  are  you  iloing  ? 
Can  yon  l)e  that  son  of  levity,  who  takes  up  a 
fi  ienil>hip  as  lie  takes  up  a  fashion  ;  or  are  you, 
hke  some  (?ther  of  the  wortliie^t  fellow-i  in  the 
wiiiM,  tlie  victim  of  iiiilolente,  laJeu  with  fetters 
of  ever-increasing  weij^ht. 

Wli.it  straiii;e  beings  we  are  !  Since  we  liave 
a  portion  of  conscious  existence,  equally  capahle 
oi  enjoying  pleasure,  happiness,  and  rapture,  or 
of  fuffcring  pain,  wretchedness,  and  misery,  it 
>  surely  worthy  of  an  inquiry,  whether  there 
DC  not  such  a  tiling  as  a  science  of  life  ;  whether 
method,  economy,  and  fertility  of  ex|)edients  he 
aot  applicahle  to  enjoyment  ;  and  whether  there 
oe  not  a  want  of  dexterity  in  pleasure,  which 
renders  our  little  scantling  of  happiness  still 
less  ;  and  a  profuseness,  an  intoxication  in  bliss 
which  leads  to  satiety,  disgust,  and  self-abhor- 
rence. There  is  not  a  doubt  but  that  health, 
talents,  character,  decent  coinpetency,  respecta- 
ble friends,  are  real  substantial  blessings  ;  and 
yet  do  we  not  daily  see  those  who  enjoy  many 
or  all  of  these  good  things,  contrive,  notwith- 
standing, to  be  as  unhappy  as  others  to  whose 
lot  few  of  them  have  fallen.  I  believe  one  great 
s^Hiice  of  this  mistake  or  misconduct  is  owing 
to  a  certain  stimulus,  with  us  called  ambition, 
which  goads  us  up  the  hill  cf  life,  not  as  we 
ascend  other  eminences,  for  the  laudable  curio- 
sity of  viewing  au  extended  landscape,  but  ra- 
ther for  the  dishonest  priiie  of  looking  down  on 
others  of  our  fellow-creatures,  seemiugly  dlmi- 
uutive,  in  humble  stations,  &c.  &c. 


S'tnrla'j,  14</j  Fthrunry,  1790. 
God  help  me  !   I  am  now  obliged  to  join 

"  Night  to  day,  and  Sunday  to  the  week.'* 

If  there  be  any  truth   in  the  orthodox   faith  of 

tl.e'^e  churches,    I  am  past   redemjitiun, 

and  what   is  worse,  to  all    eternity.      I 

am  deeply  read  in  Urislnn's  Finirfald  Slate. 
IflarsliiiU  1)11  Sanctijication,  Cint/ieric'a  Trial  oj' 
a  Savin(f  Interest,  SfC.  but  "  There  i>^  no  balm 
in  Gilcad,  there  is  no  pl>rsician  there,"  ft.r  me; 
so  I  shall  e'  en  turn  Arminian,  and  trust  to 
"  Sincere,  though  impel  feet  obedience." 


Tuetd^nj,  1  Gth, 
Luckily  for  me  I  was  prevented  from  the 
disi'ussion  of  the  knotty  point  at  which  I  had 
iust  made  a  full  stop.  Ail  my  fears  and  cares 
are  of  this  world  :  if  there  is  another,  an  lione-t 
man  has  nothing  to  fear  from  it.  I  hate  ami<;) 
that  wishes  to  be  a  Deist,  but  I  fear,  every  fais 
unprejudiced  inquirer  must  in  snme  degree  be  e 
sceptic.  It  is  not  that  there  are  any  Viry  stag- 
f^iing   arguments   against   tke    imuiort&iic^    of 


man  ;  but  like  electricity,  ,ihlogistL..l,  &c.  the 
subject  is  so  involveil  in  darkness,  that  we  wan« 
dat.i  to  go  upon.  One  tlfing  frightens  me  muc  h  ; 
that  we  are  to  live  for  ever,  seems  loo  <;n,)il  news 
to  he  true.  That  we  are  to  enter  into  a  new 
scene  of  existence,  where,  exenqit  from  want 
and  pain,  we  shall  enjoy  ourselves  and  our  friends 
williout  satiety  or  separation  —  how  much  should 
I  be  indebted  to  any  one  who  could  fully  assuie 
me  that  this  was  certain  ! 


]My  time  is  once  more  expired.  I  will  write 
to  !\Ir.  Cleghori.  snon.  fied  bless  him  and  all 
his  concerns  !  Anc.  may  all  ttie  poweis  that  pri^ 
side  over  conviviality  and  friendship,  be  presetit 
with  all  their  kindest  influence,  when  the  bearer 
of  this,  I\Ir.  Synie,  arid  yon  meet !  I  wish  I 
could  also  make  one. — I  think  we  should  be 

Finally,  brethren,  farewell  !  AVhatBoevcr 
things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  thing*  are  gentle, 
whatsoever  things  are  charitable,  whatsoever 
things  are  kind,  think  on  these  thin^;s,  anc 
think  on  ROBERT  BURNf<. 


No.  CXLIV 
TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

Elllslaml,  '^d  March,   1790. 

At  a  late  meeting  of  the  Mimkland  Friendly 
Society,  it  was  resolved  to  augment  their  libra- 
ry  by  the   following   books,   which    you   are   to 
send  us  as  soon  as  possible  : —  The  Mirror.  The 
Lnviiyvr,  Man  of  Teelnig,  3Ian  of  the   W  uld, 
(these  for  my  own  sake    1  wish  to  have  bv  th< 
first  carrier)  h'nox^s  IL'ilori/  of  the  liifoniia 
lion  ;    line's  Hist  ry  if  the  Hthelli  n  in  171-j 
anv  good  Ilislory  if  llie   IlihtUion   in    1715 
A  Dis/ilinj  ifihe  Scces.sion  yirt  and  Testimn 
11!/,  by  .Mr.  Giua  ;   Hcrviy's  J^h-<Jitations  ;   ,Vo 
verlili/e'a  Thoituhts  ;  and  another  copy  of   W.ik 
soil's  llody  of  Uiviniti;. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  .\.  Misterton  three  r-;-  fuen 
months  ago,  to  pay  some  ir.oRey  ha  cwe'J  ns* 
ii;to  ycur  hands,  and  lat';iy  1  vote  t-:,  you  <^ 
the  same  purpose,  but  I  liW/e  Leiid  fr  lUi  nei  • 
ther  one  nor  o(4ier  ri  vou. 

In  addition  to  \}\i  b^o's  7.  cMPmissioncd  in 
mv  list,  I  want  mr-j  i»-..ie'.i,  A't  Index  to  Ihe 
Excise  Laws,  or  an  ah'td^ni'-iit  if  all  the  .Sta- 
tutes now  in  f.jr',,  '■^lat/vc  to  the  Excise,  by 
Jellinger  Svmons  ;  I  want  three  copies  of  this 
book  ;  if  it  is  now  to  be  had,  cheap  oi  dear,  get 
it  for  vrs.  Aa  honest  country  neighbour  of 
n\\r^  "/aits,  toe,  A  Eamili;  Jidile,  the  luiger 
tlie  be'.tv,  bat  second -handed,  for  he  dues  not 
e'.KVjse  tc  give  above  ten  shillnigs  f'>r  the  booK. 
I  Want  likewise  for  niy-elf,  as  you  can  pick 
tUen.   up,   second -handed    o«    cheap,    copie^i  oj 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Otway'i  Dramatic  IVoris,  lien  Jonsnn't, 
T)ry<iens  Conijreve's,  \Vi/c/icT!ey\i,  Vanhrugh' s, 
Cililier's,  or  any  Dranidlic  Works  of  the  more 
rnoilern — Mack/in.  Garrick,  Foote,  Culman,  or 
S/icrii/ci)i.  A  good  copy  too  of  3Iuliere,  in 
French,  I  niucli  want.  Any  otlier  good  dra- 
matic authors  in  tint  language  I  want  also  ; 
but  comic  authors  chiefly,  though  I  should  wi^h 
t(i  have  lincine,  Cnrneille,  and  Voltaire  too. 
I  am  in  no  hurry  for  all,  or  any  of  these,  but  if 
you  accidentally  meet  with  them  very  cheap, 
get  them  for  nie. 

And  now,  to  quit  the  dry  walk  of  business, 
liow  do  yini  do,  my  dear  friend  ?  and  how  is 
Mrs.  Hill?  1  trust  if  now  and  then  not  so  ele- 
gnutly  handsome,  at  least  as  amiable,  and  sings 
as  ilivineiy  as  ever.  IMy  good-wife  too  lias  a 
charming  "  wood-note  wild  j"  now  could  we 
four     ■ 


1  am  out  of  all  patience  with  this  vila».world, 
for  one  tiling.  Mankind  are  by  nature  benevo- 
'ent  creatures  ;  except  in  a  few  scoundrelly  iu- 
stances,  I  do  not  think  that  avarice  of  the  giiod 
tilings  we  chance  to  have,  is  born  with  us  ;  but 
we  are  placed  here  amid  so  much  nakedness,  and 
hunger,  and  poverty,  and  want,  that  we  are  un- 
der a  cur'^i-d  necessity  of  studying  selfishness,  in 
order  that  we  may  exist  !  Still  there  are,  in 
everv  ace,  a  few  souls,  that  all  the  wants  and 
woes  of  life  cannot  debase  to  selfishness,  or  even 
to  the  iieressaty  alloy  of  ciutlon  and  prudence. 
If  ever  I  am  in  danger  of  vanity,  it  is  when  I 
c.(nitcni|)late  myself  on  this  s.de  of  my  dUpo»i- 
tiun  and  chaiacler.  (ioii  knows  1  am  no  saint; 
I  have  a  whole  host  of  follies  and  sins  to  answer 
for  ;  but  if  I  could,  and  I  believe  1  do  it  as  far 
as  I  ran,  I  would  wi|K;  away  all  tears  from  all 
eyes.      Adieu  ! 


N).  CXLV. 

FUO.M  UIM.IAM   lUTlNS,  THE  PDHT'S 
liUOTIh.H. 

Lnu,/oii,'2\st  March,   \~W. 

DFAR    HKOtHrn, 

I  I'AVK  liirn  here  three  week*  come  Tuesday, 
er.d  wi;i;ld  have  written  you  sooner,  but  was  not 
lu-ttled  in  a  place  of  wmk. — We  were  ten  days 
on  our  jiassage  fiom  Shiihls  ;  the  weather  being 
raim  I  was  not  sick,  except  one  day  when  ;t 
blew  j)rettv  h.ird.  I  got  into  woik  the  l-'rldiy 
ufuT  1  came  to  towii,  I  wrought  theie  only 
eight  days,  their  jub  luiiig  iloue.  I  gut  work 
again  in  a  shop  in  the  ."slrmid,  the  next  day  af- 
ti  r  I  left  my  former  master.      It  is  only  a  lein- 


swartns  of  fresh  liards  just  come  froin  the  eoMiu 
try  that  the  town  is  quite  overstocked,  and  ex- 
cept one  is  a  ])artieularly  good  workman,  (  which 
you  know  1  am  not,  nor  I  am  afra-.d  ever  wilj 
be),  it  is  hard  to  get  a  place  :  However,  I  don't 
yet  despair  to  bring  up  my  lee-way,  and  shal: 
endeavour  if  possible  to  sail  within  three  or  four 
points  of  the  wind.  The  encouragement  here  is 
not  what  1  expected,  wages  being  very  low  in 
proportion  to  the  expense  of  living,  but  vet,  if  I 
can  only  lay  i)y  the  money  that  is  spent  by 
others  in  my  situation  in  dissipation  and  riot,  I 
expect  soon  to  return  you  the  money  I  borrowed 
of  you  and  live  comfortably  besides. 

In  the  mean  time  1  wish  you  would  send  up 
all  my  best  linen  shirts  to  London,  which  vou 
may  easily  do  by  sending  them  to  some  of  your 
Edinburgh  friends,  to  be  shipped  from  Leith. 
Some  of  them  are  too  little  ;  don't  send  any  but 
what  are  good,  and  I  wish  one  of  my  sisters 
could  find  as  much  time  as  to  trim  my  shirts  at 
the  breast,  for  there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen 
here  as  a  plain  shirt,  even  for  wearing,  which  is 
what  I  want  these  for.  I  mean  to  get  one  or 
two  new  shirts  here  for  Sundays,  but  I  assure 
i  you  that  linen  here  is  a  very  expensive  article. 
1  am  going  to  write  to  Gilbert  to  send  me  an 
•Ayrshire  cheese  ;  if  he  can  spare  it  he  will  send 
it  to  you,  and  you  may  send  it  with  the  shirts, 
but  I  exj)ect  to  hear  from  you  before  that  time. 
The  cheese  I  could  get  here  ;  but  I  will  have  a 
pride  in  eating  Ayrshire  cheese  in  London,  and 
the  expense  of  sending  it  will  be  little,  as  you 
are  sending  the  shirts  any  how. 

I  write  this  by  J.  Stevenson,  in  his  lodgings, 
while  he  is  wiiting  to  Gilbert.  He  is  well  and 
hearty,  which  is  a  blessing  to  me  as  well  as  to 
him  :  We  were  at  Covent  Garden  chapel  this 
forenoon,  to  hear  the  Co//' preach  ;  he  is  grown 
very  fat,  and  is  as  boisterous  as  ever.'  There 
is  a  whole  colony  of  Kilmarnock  people  here,  so 
we  diin't  want  for  acquaintance. 

Kemeinher  n.e  to  my  sisters  and  all  the  f  i- ^ 
iiiily.      I   shall   give  you  all  the   observations  I 
havic  ntaile  on  l.iuidim  in  my  nest,  when  I  shiU 
havt  se«u  more  ot  it. 

I  a::i,  dear  Brother,  yours,  &c. 

W    B. 


No.  CXLVL 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Ellislaud,  \Oth  /ipri!,  IVnO. 
I  liAVF.  just  now,  my  ever-honoured  friend 
enjoved  a  very  high  luxury,  in  reading  a  pipei 
of  the  J^ounijer.  You  knuw  my  national  pre- 
judices. I  had  often  read  and  admired  the  Sjiec- 
tator,    Adventurtr,  IlambliT,  and    World;    bul 


j.jrary  place,  but  I  expect  to  be  settled  M)on  in's""  w"l»  »  certain    regret,   that   they  were  »c 

B  »h'iji  to  my  mind,  alllniugh  it  will  be  a  hardelC> 

U.sk  Ih.m  1  at  fust  imagined,  for  tliere  are  kuch  ;  •  fia';  Psctical  AdJrcsi  to  the CaX 


CORRlvSPON  DENXE. 


345 


thojt)u«,'li]y  and  entirely  English.  Alas  !  liiive  I 
eftcn  said  to  mysolf,  whut  are  all  the  boastt'd  .id- 
(ranti'^es  which  my  country  reaps  from  the 
Uni;m,  that  can  counterbalance  the  annihilation 
of  her  inilependeuce,  and  even  her  very  name  ! 
I  often  iCjieat  that  couplet  of  my  favourite  poet, 
Goldsmith — 

States  of  native  liberty  possest. 


Tiiiiu\;h  very  poor,  may  yet  be  very  blest." 

Nothino;  can  reconcile  me  to  the  common 
icrm-i,  "  Knj;ligh  ambassador,  English  court," 
&c.  And  I  am  out  of  all  patience  to  see  that 
equivocal  character,  Histinjjs,  impeached  by 
*'  thj  Commons  of  En.;land."  Tell  me,  my 
friend,  is  this  u-eak  prejudice?  I  believe  in  my 
conseieru'e  such  ideas,  as,  "  my  countrv  ;  her 
independence  ;  her  honour  ;  the  illuvtrious 
names  that  mark  the  history  of  my  native 
land,"  &c. — I  believe  the~e,  anions;  your  men  of 
the  worlil — nien  who  in  fact  guide  for  the  most 
part  and  trovern  our  world,  are  looked  on  as  so 
ni anv  modifications  of  v.'rongheadedness.  They 
know  the  use  of  bawling  out  such  terms,  to 
rouve  or  lead  the  kaeiiI.k  ;  but  fur  their  own 
private  use,  with  almost  all  the  alilc  stattsiiieJi 
that  ever  existed,  or  now  exist,  when  they  talk 
of  right  and  wrong,  they  only  mean  (iroper  and 
imjjroper  ;  and  their  mea-ure  of  coniluct  is,  not 
what  thev  ought,  but  what  they  1)akk.  For 
the  truth  of  this  I  shall  not  ran^^aik  the  hi>tory 
of  iiatioiis,  but  ap  eal  to  one  of  the  ablest  judges 
of  men,  and  himself  one  of  the  ablest  men  that 
ever  lived — the  celebrateil  Earl  of  Cliesterlield. 
In  fact,  a  man  who  could  thoroughly  controul 
his  vices  whenever  they  interfered  with  his  in- 
terest, and  who  could  completely  put  on  the  ip- 
pearatice  of  every  viitue  as  often  as  it  suited  his 
pur|)o»es,  is,  on  the  .Stanhopiau  plan,  the  pirfict 
man  ;  a  man  to  leail  nations.  Hut  are  great 
abilities,  comjilete  without  a  flaw,  and  polished 
without  a  blemish,  the  standard  of  human  ex- 
cellence ?  This  is  certainly  the  staunch  opinion 
of  tnen  of  the  world  ;  but  I  call  on  honour,  vir- 
tue, and  worth,  to  give  the  Stygian  doctrine  a 
loud  ntg.itive  !  However,  this  must  be  allowed, 
that,  if  you  abstract  Irom  man  the  idi-a  of  an 
existence  beyond  the  grave,  t/ten,  the  true  mea- 
sure of  human  conduct  is  pro/ttr  and  i'lipri'jier: 
Virtue  and  vice,  as  di>po9itions  of  the  heart,  are 
in  that  case,  of  scarcely  the  import  and  value  to 
the  woild  at  large,  as  harmony  and  discord  in 
the  mod.ficatiou-,  of  sound  ;  and  a  delicate  sense 
of  homur.  like  a  nice  ear  for  music,  though  it 
may  sometimes  give  the  possessor  an  ecstasy  un- 
known vo  the  coarser  organs  of  the  herd,  yst, 
consiilering  the  Viarsh  gratings,  and  inharmonic 
jars,  in  tills  ill-timed  state  of  being,  it  is  odd* 
but  t!;e  individual  would  be  as  happy,  and  cer- 
tainly woul<l  be  as  much  respected  by  the  true 
juiiges  of  soiiety,  as  it  would  then  stand,  *iili- 
out  ether  a  good  ear  or  a  good  heart. 

You   must   know    I   have  ju>t  met  with  the 
Mirror  and  J  ounger  f-vc  the  lirst  time,   and  I 


am  quite  in  raptures  with  them  :  I  slioulil  b« 
glad  to  have  your  opinion  of  some  of  the  pa|K'rs. 
The  oue  I  have  just  read,  Lotimjcr,  No.  01, 
has  cost  me  more  honest  tears  than  any  thing 
I  have  read  of  a  long  time.  .M'Kenzie  has  beea 
calleci  the  Addison  of  the  Scots,  and  in  n;y 
opinion,  Addison  would  not  be  hurt  at  the  com- 
parison. If  he  has  not  Addison's  exijiiisite  hu- 
mour, he  as  certainly  outdoes  him  in  the  tei.der 
and  the  pathetic.  His  Mitii  nf  Feitini/  (but  I 
am  not  counsel-learned  in  the  laws  of  eritiii^m), 
I  estimate  as  the  first  petformance  in  its  kiud  I 
ever  saw.  From  what  books,  moral  or  evei; 
|iious,  will  the  susceptible  young  mind  receive 
impressions  more  congenial  to  humanity  and 
kindness,  generosity  and  benev.'lence  ;  in  short, 
more  of  all  that  ennobles  tlie  soul  to  herself,  or 
endears  her  to  otheis — than  from  the  simple  af- 
fecting tale  of  poor  Hailey. 

Still,  with  all  my  admiration  of  M'Kenzie's 
writings,  I  do  not  know  if  they  are  the  fittest 
reading  for  a  young  man  who  is  about  to  set 
out,  as  the  phrase  is,  to  make  his  way  into  lite. 
Do  not  you  think,  .Mad.un,  that  among  the  few 
favoured  of  Heaven  in  the  structure  of  their 
minds  (for  such  there  certainly  aie),  there  may 
be  a  purity,  a  tenderness,  a  dignity,  an  elegance 
of  soul,  which  are  of  no  use,  nay,  in  some  de- 
gree, absolutety  dis(|ualifying  for  the  truly  im- 
portant business  of  making  a  man's  way  into 
hfe.      If   I   am   not  much  mistaken,    my  gallant 

younsr    friend,    A ,    is  vei'-'   much    under 

these  disqualifications  ;  and  lor  the  young  fe- 
males of  a  family  1  could  mention,  well  may 
they  excite  parental  solicitude,  for  I,  a  common 
actpiaintance,  or  as  my  vanity  will  have  it,  an 
humble  fiiend,  have  often  trembled  foi  a  turn  of 
mind  which  may  render  them  eminently  happy 
— or  peculiarly  miserable  ! 

I  have  been  manuficturing  some  verses  late- 
ly ;  but  as  I  have  got  the  most  hurried  season 
of  excise  business  over,  1  hojie  to  have  more  lei- 
sure to  transcribe  any  thing  that  may  show  how 
much  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Aladam,  yours, 
Sec. 


No,  CXLVII. 
FROM  MR.  CUNNINGn,\M. 

Edinburgh,  2bth  May.  1790. 

.MY  DEAR  BCIINS, 

I  AM  much  indebted  to  you  for  your  last 
fr'endly.  elegant  e'istle,  and  it  siiali  make  a 
part  of  the  vanity  of  my  camfxisition,  to  retain 
your  coriespondence  through  life.  It  was  le- 
niarkable  your  introducing  the  name  of  Mis« 
Hurnet,  at  a  time  when  she  was  in  such  ili 
health  ;  and  I  am  sure  it  will  grieve  your  gen- 
tle heart,  to  hear  of  hei  being  in  the  la^t  stiga 
of  a  consumption.  Alas  !  that  so  much  beauty, 
innocence,    and   virtue,   sLuuld    be    nipt  In   lh» 


346 


BURNS'  VyORKS. 


fcud.  Kers  was  the  smile  of  cheerfulness — of 
eensil.ilitj',  not  of  allurement  ;  and  her  elegance 
of  manners  corresponded  witk  the  purity  and 
elevation  of  her  minJ. 

How  does  your  friendly  nuise  ?  I  am  sure 
she  still  retains  lier  affection  for  you,  and  that 
you  have  many  of  her  favours  in  your  posses- 
sion, which  I  have  not  seen,  I  weary  much  to 
bear  from  you. 


I  besfech  you  do  not  forget  nr.e. 


I  most  sincerely  hope  all  your  concerns  in 
life  piosper,  and  that  your  roof  tree  enjoys  the 
^lessin^  of  good  health.  All  your  friends  here 
are  well,  among  whom,  and  not  the  least,  is  your 
acquaintunte,   Cleghorn.     As  for  myself,  I  am 

well,  as  far  as will  let  a 

man  be  j  but  with  these  I  am  happy. 


WHien  you  meet  with  my  very  agreeable  friend 
J.  Synie,  give  him  for  me  a  hearty  squeeze,  and 
b.d,  God  bless  him. 

Is  there  any  probability  of  your  being  soon  in 
Edinburgh  ? 


No.  CXLVIII. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 
Dumfries,  Excise- Office,  Hth  July,  1790. 

SIR, 

Coming  into  town  this  morning,  to  attend 
my  duty  in  this  office,  it  being  collection-day,  I 
met  with  a  gentleman  who  tells  me  he  is  on  his 
way  to  Londcm  ;  so  I  take  the  opportunity  of 
writing  to  you,  as  franking  is  at  present  under 
a  temporary  death.  I  shall  have  some  snatches 
of  leisure  through  the  day,  amid  our  horrid  bu- 
jiness  and  bustle,  and  I  shall  improve  them  as 
ivel!  as  I  can  ;  but  let  my  letter  be  as  stupid  as 
,  as  miscellaneous  as  a  news- 
piper,  as  short  as  a  huiigiy  grace-i)el'ore-nu'at, 
or  as  long  as  a  law-paper  m  the  Douglas'  cause 
as  ill-spelt  as  country  John's  liillet-doux,  or  as 
unsightly  a  scrawl  as  IJetty  Byremucker's  an- 
swer to  it  ;  1  hope,  cousidcrijig  circumstances, 
you  will  forgive  it  ;  and  as  it  will  put  you  to  no 
exjiense  of  postage,  I  shall  have  the  less  reflec- 
tiuu  about  it. 

1  am  sadly  ungratfful  in  not  returning  you 
my  thanks  for  your  most  vaUiabl,.'  present,  Xe- 
liico.  In  fact,  you  are  in  some  degree  blamealile 
for  niy  neglecl.  You  were  pleased  to  express  a 
wi^h  for  my  opinion  of  the  work,  which  so  flat- 
tered me,  tii.it  iiotliiii^  Its*  would  serve  my 
ov<ir-wceniDg  fancy,    than  a  formal  criticism  on 


the  book.  In  fact,  I  have  gravely  planned  ^ 
iiomparative  view  of  you,  Fielding,  Richardson, 
and  Smollett,  in  your  different  qualities  and  me- 
!  rits  as  novel-writers.  This,  I  own,  betrays  my 
riiliculous  vanity,  and  I  may  probably  never 
bring  the  business  to  bear  ;  but  I  am  fond  ol 
the  spirit  young  Elihu  shows  in  the  book  ot 
.lob — "  And  1  said,  I  will  also  declare  my  opi. 
ni(m."  I  have  quite  disfigured  my  copy  of  the 
hook  with  my  annotations.  I  never  take  it  up 
without  at  the  same  time  taking  my  pencil, 
and  marking  with  asterisks,  parenthesis,  8te. 
wherever  I  meet  with  an  original  thought,  a 
nervous  remark  on  life  and  manne's,  a  reinark- 
ably  well-turned  period,  or  a  character  sketched 
with  uncommon  precision. 

Though  I  shall  hardly  think  of  fairly  writinr 
out  my  "  Conipai-ative  View,"  I  shall  certainly 
ti-ouble  you  with  my  remarks,  such  as  they  are. 
I  have  just  received  from  my  gentleman,  that 
horrid  summons  in  the  book  of  Revelations — 
"  That  time  shall  be  no  more  !" 

The  little  collection  of  sonnets  liave  some 
charming  poetry  in  them.  If  indeed  I  am  in- 
debted to  the  fair  author  for  the  book,  and  cot, 
as  I  rather  suspect,  to  a  celebrated  aiitiior  of 
the  other  sex,  I  should  certainly  have  written  to 
the  lady,  with  my  grateful  acknowledgments, 
and  my  own  ideas  of  the  comparative  excellence 
of  her  pieces.  I  would  do  this  last,  not  from 
any  vanity  of  thinking  that  my  remarks  could 
be  of  much  consequence  to  Mrs.  Smith,  but 
merely  from  my  own  feelings  as  an  author,  do- 
ing as  I  would  be  done  by. 


\o.  CXLIX. 
TO  MR.  MURDOCH, 

TEACHER  OF  FRENCH,  LONDON. 

MV  DEAR  SIR,         Ellisland,  July  16,  1790. 
I    iiECEivED  a  letter  fiom   you  a  long  time 

I  ago,  but  unfortunately  as  it  was  in  the  time  ol 
my  peregrinations  and  journey  ings  throogh  Scot- 
land, I  mislaid  or  lost  it,  aud   by  consequence 

;  your  direction  along  with  it.  Luckily  my  good 
star  brought  me  acquainted  with  Mr.  Kennedy, 
who,  I  understand,  is  an  acquaintance  of  yours  ; 
and  by  his  means  and  med'iation  I  hope  to  re- 
|)lace  that  link  which  my  unibitunate  negli- 
gence Iwd  so  unluckily  broke  in  the  chain  of 
our  correspondence.  I  was  tiie  more  vexed  at 
the  vile  ace  dent,  as  my  brother  William,  a  jour- 
neyman saddler,  ha<  beer,  for  some  time  in  Lnn- 
don  ;  and  wished  above  all  things  for  your  di- 
rection,  that  he  might  have  paid  his  resjiects  to 

his   FArHEll's   FKIENI). 

His  last  address  he  sent  me  was,  "  Wm. 
Hiiiris,  at  Mr.  Ijarber's.  Saddler,  No.  181, 
.Strand  "  I  write  him  by  Mi.  Kennedy,  but 
uegiected  t    a>k  hun  for  your  adilre^s  ;  so,  if  you 


Sni]  a  spare  half  minute,  p1ea«e  let  my  hrotlier 
kiiuw  1)V  a  crnl  where  and  when  he  will  find 
you,  and  th«  poor  fellow  will  joyfully  «  iit  on 
you,  as  one  of  the  few  suivivins;  friends  of  the 
ni:;n  whose  name,  and  Christian  name  too,  he 
has  the  hoaJU'  to  bear. 

The  neit  jtter  I  write  you  shall  be  a  long 
3iie.  1  have  much  to  ttll  you  of  "  hair-breadth 
'scapes  in  th'  imminent  deadly  breach,  with 
ail  the  eventful  history  of  a  life,  the  early  years 
of  which  owed  so  much  to  your  kind  tutorage  ; 
but  this  at  an  hour  of  leiNure.  My  kindest 
compliments  to  Mrs.  Murdoch  and  family. 
I  am  ever,  my  dear  Sir, 

Your  obliged  friend.* 


CORRESPONDEXCE. 

No.  CL. 
TO  MRS.  DUxNLOP. 


347 


PEAR  jiAPAM,  Sth  August.  1790. 

Akter  a  Ions;  day's  toil,  plague,  and  care, 
sit  down  to  write  to  you.  .'Vsk  me  not  why  I 
have  delayed  it  so  long?  It  was  owing  to  luirry^ 
indolence,  and  fifty  other  things  ;  in  short,  tc 
any  thing — but  forgetfulness  of  Ai  plus  ainuible 
de  son  sexe.  By  the  bye,  you  are  indebted  your 
best  courtesy  to  me  for  this  last  compliment  ; 
as  I  pay  it  from  sincere  conviction  of  it:<  trutb 
— a  quality  rather  rare  in  coiiipliments  of  these 
grinning,  bowing,  scraping  times. 

Well,  I  hope  writing  to  ynii,  will  ease  a  little 
•    Ibis  letter  was  communicated  to  the  Editor  by  a'  '"y  '''""''''^^''   *'""'•      Sorely   his  it  been   bruised 

A  ci-<levant  friend  of  mine,  and  an  in- 
timate acqaintance  of  yours,  has  given  my  feel- 
ings a  wound  that  I  perceive  will  gangrene  dan- 
gerously ere  it  cure.    He  has  wounded  my  pride  ! 


pcntlcman  to  whose  liberal  advice  and  information  he    to-day  ! 
13  much   indebted,   Mr.  Jolm  Murdoch,   the  carlv  in- 
structor of  the  poet;  aceonipanied  by  the  following 
interesting  note : — 


London,  Hart-Street,  Dloomsbury,  2Stt  Dtc.  ISO?. 

DE4II  SIX, 

Thi'.  following  letter,  which  I  lately  found  among 
my  |i:ipor>i,  I  copy  for  your  perusal,  partly  because  it 
is  Riirns's,  pnnly  because  it  m^ikcs  himoiirnble  men- 
tion of  my  rational  Christian  friend,  his  father;  and 
likewise  because  it  is  rathei  flattering  to  myself.  I 
gliiry  in  no  one  thing  so  much  as  an  ii  tiniacy  with 
pood  men  ; — tlie  fi  lendship  of  others  reflects  no  ho. 
nour.  When  I  recollect  the  pleasure,  (and  I  hope  be- 
nelii;,  I  received  from  the  conversation  of  William 
BUKNS,  especially  when  on  the  Lord's  day  «.■  walked 


ne  assured,  my  dear  friend,  that  I  cordially  sympa- 
thize with  you  all,  and  partie\darly  with  Mrs.  \V. 
liiirns,  w!io  is  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  tender  and 
aRlctionate  mothers  that  ever  livid.  Hemember  me 
to  her  in  tlie  most  friendly  manner,  when  yon  see  her, 
or  write. — Please  present  my  best  complini'ents  to  Mrs. 
R.   Unrns,  and  to  vour  brother  and  sisters.- 


There  is 
togellier  fur  about  two  miles,  to  the  liouse  of  pravcr,    no  occasion  forme  to  exhoit  you  to  filial  dutv,  and 
tliere   publiclv  to  .adoie  and  praise  the  (liver  of  all    to  use  your  united  endeavours  in  rendering  the  even- 
ooit,  I  entertain  an  ardent  hope,  that  togcilier  we  shall    '"g  of  iife  as  ?omfnrt.able  as  po->ible  to  a  mother,  wh-; 


E'  .  „ 

•'  renew  the  glorious  iheine  in  distant  worlds,"  with 
powers  more  adequate  to  ihe  mighty  subject,  i  iik  kx- 
I;bi:11ANT  BKNI  l-'ltl-.NCE  of  the  CUliAT  crlator. 
But  to  the  letter:— 

FROM  MR.  MURnOCH  TO  THE  BARD, 

CIVI.VG  HIM  AN  ACCOI'NT  OF  Till'.  UliATII  OF 
HIS   BliOTIIi  It  WILLIAM. 

Hurt-Street,  B  oumsbtr-i/.S'j'inre,  Lrnidnn, 
MV  DFAa  F»IIM>,  Si-pt.     -l/A,   17-0. 

\  ol  Its  iif  ihe  ICtli  of  July,  I  received  on  the  '-Tth, 
in  th  afiernoon,  per  favour  of  in v  friend  Mr.  Ken- 
nedv.  and  at  the  same  time  was  informed  that  your 
brother  was  ill  Heing  cnt;ageil  in  biisir.ess  till  lite 
that  evcninc,  I  set  out  next  morning  to  see  him,  and 
h.id  thought  of  three  or  f  ur  medic  d  gentl  -men  of  my 
acquaint  in  e,  to  one  or  other  of  whom  I  might  apply 
for  ad>  ice,  provi  'ed  it  should  be  necessary,  lint  when 
1  went  to  Mr.  Harb  r'  ,  to  my  urea  astonishment  and 
hcart-relt  grief,  I  found  ihat  my  young  friend  had,  on 
Saturday,  bi  '  an  overcast  ng  f  aeweli  to  all  sublunary 
things.— It  was  about  a  fortnight  liefore  that  he  had 
founil  me  out.  by  Mr.  .Stevcvson's  aeciik-ntally  calling 
at  my  shop  to  buy  something  We  had  only  one  in- 
terview, and  that  ws  liighK  entertaining  to  me  in  se- 
veral re-pects.  He  nieir.ioned  some  ins  ruction  I  had 
given  him  when  very  young,  to  whieh  he  said  h'; 
owed,  !n  a  gre.il  measure,  th<-  philanthropy  he  [lOsscs- 
.  setl. —  He  ai-o  t  'ok  noace  of  my  exhortin;;  vou  all, 
irheii  I  wrote,  alK)ut  tight  \earsago,  to  the  man  who, 
of  all  mankind  that  1  ever  knew,  stood  high'  st  in  my 
esteem,  "  not  to  et  go  your  inlegrity." — \  ou  may  ea. 
sliy  conceive  that  SHcli  conversation  was  both  pleasing 
anil  cue  in  ago  g  tome:  1  antieipated  a  de.il  of  ratio- 
nal hai>pinessfroin  fmuiecouvers^iions. — Vain  arc  our 
expectations  an.,  dopes  Tlu  y  are  so  almost  always — 
Perhaps,  (nav,  ecrtainly),  for  our  good.  Were  it  not 
foi  di-appom  ed  hopes  we  could  haolly  spend  a  thought 
on  anoiher  state  of  existen.  e,  or  be  in  any  degree  re- 
oonciled  to  the  quitting  of  this  j 

1  ki  ovv  of  no  one  source  of  consolaiion  to  those  who  ' 
have  lost  young  rel.itives,  equal  U)  that  of  their  being 
»f  a  good  disposition,  and  ot  a  promising  character. 


has  dedicated  so  great  a  part  of  it  in  promoting  youl 
temporal  and  spiritual  welfare. 

\o\\T  letter  to  V>\  Moore,  I  ch'livered  at  his  house, 
and  shall  most  likely  know  voiir  opinion  of  Zeleueo, 
the  first  lime  I  meet  with  him.  1  wish  and  hope  for 
a  long  letter.  Uc  particular  about  \onr  mother's 
health  1  liopc  she  is  too  much  a  Christian  to  be  af. 
fiicted  above  measure,  or  to  soirow  as  those  viho  have 
no  hope. 

One  of  the  most  pleasing  hopes  I  have  is  to  visit 
you  all;  but  I  am  commonly  disappointed  in  vthat  I 
inost  ardently  wish  for. 

1  am,  dear  Sir, 

\'ours  sincerely, 

JOHN  MURDOCH. 

I  promised  myself  a  deal  of  happiness  in  the  con. 
vcrsatii  n  of  my  dear  voung  friend;  but  my  promises 
of  this  nature  generally  jirove  fallacious.  Two  visits 
were  Ihe  uiniost  that  1  received.  \t  one  of  them, 
however,  he  rejicated  a  lesson  which  I  hid  given  hiia 
about  twentv  years  before,  when  he  was  a  merechiM, 
concerninq  the  pity  and  tenderness  due  lo  animals. 
To  that  lesson,  (which  it  seems  was  !  roughl  to  the  le- 
vel of  his  capacity  i,  he  declared  himself  indebted  for 
almost  all  the  philanthropy  he  doss,  ssed 

Let  not  (larcnts  and  te.ieliers  imagine  Ihat  it  is  need- 
less to  talk  -erionsly  to  children.  Tney  are  sooner  fit 
to  be  reasoned  vvith  tli.an  is  generally  thon^'ht.  .Strong 
and  indelible  impressions  are  to  l)c  made  before  th« 
mind  be  agitated  and  ruffled  by  Ihe  numenu.s  train  of 
distractii  g  cares  and  unruly  passions,  whereby  it  ii 
frequently  rendered  almost  unsusceptible  of  the  prin- 
ciples ana  precepts  of  rational  religion  and  sound  mo- 
rality. 

Hut  I  find  myself  digressing  again.  Poor  William 
then  in  the  bloom  and  vigour  of  youth,  caught  a  pu 
trid  fever,  and,  in  a  few  days,  as  real  chief  mourner 
I  foUowL^  hii>  remoius  lo  the  land  of  forgetfulness. 

JOl  N  MURDOCH. 


CaoHsi 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Ko.  CLI. 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

EUisland,  8th  jiugvst,  1 790. 

Forgive  me  my  once  dear,  and  ever  dear 
friend,  my  seeming  negligence.  You  cannot 
sit  down,  and  fancy  the  busy  life  I  lead. 

I  l.iid  down  my  s^oose  feather  to  beat  my 
biains  for  an  apt  simile,  and  had  some  thoughts 
of  a  country  grannam  at  a  family  christening  : 
a  bride  on  the  market-day  before  her  marriage  ; 


a  tavern-keeper  at  an  election  dinner ;  &c.  &c. 
—but  the  resemblance  that  hits  my  fancy  best 
is,  that  blackguard  miscreant,  Satan,  who  roams 
about  like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking,  searching 
whom  ho  may  devour.  However,  tossed  about 
as  I  am,  if  I  choose  (and  who  would  not  choose) 
to  bind  down  with  the  crampets  of  attention, 
the  brazen  foundation  of  integi  ity,  I  mav  rear 
up  the  superstructure  of  Independence,  and  from 
its  daring  turrets,  bid  defiance  to  the  storms  of 
fate.  And  h  not  this  a  "  consummation  de- 
voutly to  be  wished  ?" 

"  Tl.y  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share  ; 

Lord  of  the  lion-heart,  and  eagle-eve! 
Thy  steps  I  follow  with  my  bosom  bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky  '" 

Are  not  these  noble  verses?  They  are  the  in- 
troduction of  Smi>llill^s  Ode  to  Independence  : 
If  yiu  h,:ve  not  seen  the  poem,  I  will  send  it  to 
you.  How  wretched  is  the  man  that  hangs  on 
by  the  favours  of  the  j;ivat.  To  shrink  fronr 
every  dignity  of  man,  at  the  approach  of  a  lor-d- 
y  piece  ot  self-consequence,  who,  amid  all  his 
tinsel  glitter,  and  stately  hauteur,  is  but  a  crea- 
ture forn>>-d  as  thou  art — and  perhajjs  not  no 
well  formed  as  thou  art — came  into  the  world 
a  puling  infant  as  thou  didst,  and  must  go  out 
jf  it  ab  all  men  must,  a  naked  corse*. 


No.  CLIL 
FROM  DR.  BLACKLOCK. 

ndinhnrgh,  \st  Stpteml-er,  1700. 


With  love  of  the  IMuses  so  strongly  still  smitten. 

I  meant  this  epistle  iri  verse  to  have  written ; 

But  from  age  and  infirmity,  indolence  flows. 

And  this,  much  I  fear,  will  restore  me  to  prose. 

Anon  to  my  business  I  wish  to  proceed, 

Dr.  Anderson  guides  and  provokes  me  to  speed 

A  man  of  integrity,  genius  and  worth. 

Who  soon  a  peiformance  intends  to  set  forth  ; 

A  work  miscellaneous,  extensive,  and  free. 

Which  will  weekly  appear,  by  the  name  of  the 

Bee. 
Of  this  from  himself  I  enclose  you  a  plap 
And  hope  you  will  give  what  assistance  you  can 
Entangled  with  business,  and  haunted  with  care, 
In  which  more  or  less  human  nature  must  shai-e, 
Some  moments  of  leisure  the  Muses  will  claim, 
A  sacrifice  i\ue  to  amusement  and  fame. 
The  Bee,  which  sucks  honey   from   ev'ry  gay 

bloom, 
With  some  rays  of  your  genius  her  work  may 

illume. 
Whilst  the  flower  whence  her  honey  spontane- 
ously flows, 
.\s  fragrantly  smells,  and  as  vig'rously  grows. 

Now  with  kind  gratulations  'tis  time  to  con- 
clude. 

And  add,  your  promotion  is  here  understood  ; 

Thus  free  from  the  servile  employ  of  excise.  Sir, 

We  liope  soon  to  hear  you  connnence  supervisor  ; 

You  then  more  at  leisure,  and  free  from  control, 

Jlay  indulge   the  strong  passion  that  reigns  in 
your  soul. 

But  I,  feeble  I,  must  to  nature  give  way  ; 

Devoted  cold  death's  and  longevity's  prev. 

From  verses  tho'  languid  my  thoughts  must  un- 
bend, 

Tho*  still  I  remain  your  affectionate  friend, 
THO.  BLACKLOCK 


No.  CLIII. 

EXTEACT  OF  A    LETTER 

FROM  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

Edinburgh,  Mth   October,  1790. 
I  LATELY  received  a   letter   from    our   friend 

E , — what  a  i-harming  fellow  lost  tc 

society — born  to  great  exjiectations — with  su- 
perior abilities,  a  jiure  heart  and  untainted  mo- 
rals, his  fate  in  life  has  lieen  hard  indeed — still 
I  am  persuaded  he   is  hapjiy  ;   not  like  the  gal- 


How  does  my  dear  friend  ?— much   I  languish    '""''.  "";  '-'''y  Lothario,   but  in  the  si,„plici,y  of 

to  hear, 
His  fortune,  relations,  and  all  that  are  dear; 


ruial  enjoyment,  unmixed  with  regret  at  the  re- 
membrance of  "  the  diys  of  other  years." 

I  saw  Mr.  Dunbar   put,    under   the  cover  of 

' ^'your  newspaper,  Mr.  Mood's  Poem  on  Thom- 

•  Ihc- jircccdine  loftcr  evplnint  Ihc  fcflmRk  unilcr  *on.  This  poem  lias  .sugge-ted  an  idea  to  me 
which  this  w;,s  wntnn.  The  Mr.nn  nf  indipiw.nt  m.  which  vou  alone  are  capable  to  execute  :— a 
vective  fi(ic>  on  Minn- tune  lciii(>eriii  ihe   siylc  which  i'    .    i  i  c     ■  rr-, 

cur  haul  was  too  apt  to  iii.l'ilge,  and  of  which  Uie   *'""K  '""'I'''"'!  to  eacit  season   o(   tiie  year.      The 
wadtr  hasaheiuly  siea  soiiiuc.i.  ,  task   is  difficult,   but    the   theme   is  c  barmjm?  • 


CtJRRESPONDENCE. 


349 


«liould  you  succeed,  I  will  undertake  to  get  new 
music  worthy  of  tli','  sulijcct.  What  a  fine  fiflil 
for  your  iuKiijination,  ami  who  is  there  alive  can 
draw  so  many  beauties  from  Nature  and  j)ast<u'al 
iinajjerv  as  yourself?  It  is,  by  the  way,  sur- 
prising that  there  does  not  exist,  so  f.ir  as  I 
know,  a  proper  son/7  for  each  season.  Wt  \ave 
songs  on  huiiting,  fishing,  skaiting,  and  ont  au- 
tuuuiil  song.  Harvest  Home.  As  your  muse 
is  neither  spavied  nor  rusty,  you  may  mount 
the  hill  of  Parnassus,  and  return  with  a  sonnet 
in  your  pocket  for  every  season.  For  my  sug- 
gestions, if  I  he  rude,  correct  me  ;  if  imperti- 
nent, chastise  me  ;  if  presuming,  despise  me. 
But  if  you  blend  all  my  weaknesses,  and  pound 
out   one  graiu   of  insincerity,   then  am   I  not 


thy 


Faithful  friend,  &c. 


place  the  capital  letters  properly  ;  »s  to  the 
punctuation,  the  printers  do  that  themselves. 

I  have  a  copy  of  Tarn  o*  Shanter  ready  to 
senil  yon  by  the  first  opportunity ;  it  is  too 
heavy  to  send  l)y  post. 

1  heard  of  ftlr.  Corbet  lately.  lie,  in  con- 
sequence of  your  reccMUUiendation,  is  most  zeal- 
ous to  serve  nie.  Please  favour  me  soon  with 
an  account  of  your  good  folks ;  if  Mrs.  II. 
is  recovering,  and  the  young  gentleman  doing 
well. 


No.  CLIV. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Novemher,  1790. 

"  As  cold  waters  to  a  thirsty  soul,  so  is  good 
news  fmm  a  far  country." 

Fate  has  long  owed  me  a  letter  of  good  news 
from  you,  in  return  for  the  many  tidings  of  sor- 
row which  I  have  received.  In  this  instance 
I  most  cordially  obey  the  apostle — "  Rejoice 
with  them  that  do  rejoice" — for  me  to  slnff  for 
joy  is  uo  new  thiug ;  but  to  preach  for  joy,  as  I 
have  done  in  the  cominenceuietit  of  this  epistk, 
is  a  pitch  of  extravagant  rapture  to  which  I  n-'- 
ver  rose  before. 

I  read  your  letter — I  literally  jumped  for  joy 
— How  could  such  a  mercurial  creature  as  a  poet, 
lumpishly  keep  his  seat  on  tiie  receipt  of  the 
best  news  from  his  best  fi  lend.  I  seized  my 
gilt-headed  Wangee  rod,  an  instrument  indis- 
pensably necessary,  in  my  left  hand,  in  the  mo- 
ment of  inspiiation  and  rapture;  and  stride, 
stride — fjuick  and  quicker — out  sklpt  I  among 
the  broomy  banks  of  Nith,  to  muse  over  my 
'oy  liy  retail.  To  keep  within  the  bounds  of 
prose  was  impossible.  Mrs.  Little's  is  a  more 
elegant,  but  not  a  more  sincere  compliment  to 
the  sweet  little  fellow  than  I,  extempore  al- 
most, poured  out  to  him  in  the  following  verses. 

(See  the  poem —  On  the  Birth  of  a  Posthumous 
Child.) 


I  am  much  flattered  by  your  approbation  of 
my  Tarn  o'  Shunter,  which  you  express  in  your 
former  letter,  though,  by  the  Oye,  you  load  me 
in  that  8aid  letter  with  accusations  heavy  and 
many  ;  to  all  which  I  plead  not  r/viltj/  !  Your 
book  is,  I  hear,  on  the  road  to  reach  me.  As 
to  piinting  of  poetry,  when  you  prejiare  it  for 
the  press,  you  have  only  to  spell  it  right,  and 


No.  CLV. 
TO  CRAUFORD  TAIT,  Esq.  Edikburoh. 

DEAR  SIR,  EIHshnd,   Oct.  15,  1730. 

Allow  me  to  introduce  to  your  accpiaintanca 
the  bearer,  Mr.  Wm.  Duncan,  a  friend  of  mine, 
whom  I  have  long  known  and  long  loved.  His 
father,  whose  only  son  he  is,  has  a  decent  little 
property  in  Ayrshire,  and  has  bred  the  young 
man  to  the  law,  in  which  department  he  comes 
up  an  adventurer  to  your  good  town.  I  shall 
give  you  my  friend's  character  in  two  words  : 
as  to  his  head,  he  has  talents  enough,  and  more 
than  enough  for  common  life  ;  as  to  his  heart, 
when  nature  had  kneaded  the  kindly  clay  that 
composes  it,  she  saiil,   "  I  can  no  more." 

You,  my  good  Sir,  were  Iwirn  under  kinder 
stars  ;  but  your  fraternal  syini'.atliy,  1  well  know, 
can  enter  into  the  feelings  of  the  young  man, 
who  goes  into  life  wn,  .  the  laudable  ainUilion  to 
do  something,  and  to  be  something  among  his 
fellow  creatures  ;  but  whom  the  consciousness 
of  friendless  obscurity  presses  to  the  earth,  and 
wounds  to  the  soul  ! 

Even  the  fairest  of  his  virtues  are  against 
him.  That  independent  spirit,  and  that  inge- 
nuous modesty,  qualities  inseparable  from  a  no- 
ble mind,  ace,  with  the  million,  circumstances 
not  a  little  disqualifying.  What  pleasure  is  in 
the  i)ower  of  the  fortunate  and  the  happy,  bj 
their  notice  and  patronage,  to  brighten  the 
countenance  and  glad  the  heart  of  such  depress- 
ed youth  !  I  am  not  so  angry  with  mankind 
for  their  deaf  economy  of  the  purse :— The 
goods  of  this  world  cannot  be  divided,  without 
being  lessened — but  why  be  a  niggard  of  that 
which  bestows  bliss  on  a  fellow-creature,  ye^ 
takes  nothing  from  our  own  means  of  enjo)- 
ment?  We  wrap  ourselves  up  in  the  (loak  of 
our  own  better-fortune,  and  turn  away  our 
eyes,  lest  the  wants  and  woes  of  our  brother- 
mortals  should  disturb  the  selfi-sh  apathy  of  our 
souls  ! 

1  am  the  worst  hand  in  the  world  at  asking  a 
favour.  That  indirect  address,  that  insinuating 
implication,  which,  without  any  positive  re- 
quest, plainly  expresses  yc.ur  wish,  is  a  talent 
not  to  be  acquired  at  a  plough-tail.  Tell  m. 
then,   for  you  can,   in  what  periphrasis  •»!  laa 


35C 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


guaje,  in  what  circumvc  '.ition  of  phrase,  I  shall 
envelope  yet  not  conceal  this  plain  story. — 
"  My  dear  Mr.  Tait,  my  friend  Mr.  Duncan, 
whom  I  have  the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  you, 
5S  a  young  lad  of  your  own  profession,  and  a 
gentleman  of  much  modesty  and  great  worth. 
Perhaps  it  may  be  in  your  power  to  assist  iiim 
in  the,  to  him,  important  consideration  of  get- 
ting a  place  ;  but  at  all  events,  your  notice  and 
acquaintance  will  be  a  very  great  acquisition  to 
him  ;  and  1  dare  pledge  myself  that  he  will  ne- 
ver disgrace  your  favour." 

You  may  possibly  be  surprised.  Sir,  at  such 
a  letter  from  me ;  'tis,  1  own,  in  the  usual  way 
of  calculating  these  matters,  more  than  our  ac- 
qu;iJutance  entitles  me  ta ;  but  my  answer  is 
short  :  Of  al!  the  men  at  your  time  of  life,  whom 
I  knew  in  Edinburgh,  you  are  the  most  acces- 
sible on  the  side  on  which  I  have  assailed  you. 
You  are  very  much  altered  indeed  from  what 
you  were  when  I  knew  you,  if  generosity  point 
the  path  you  will  not  tread,  or  humanity  call  to 
you  \n  vain. 

As  to  myself,  a  being  to  whose  interest  I  be- 
lieve you  are  still  a  well-wisher ;  I  am  here, 
breathing  at  all  times,  thinking  sometimes,  and 
rhyuiing  now  and  then.  Every  situation  has  its 
share  of  the  cares  and  pains  of  life,  and  my  situ- 
atiun  I  am  persuaded  has  a  full  ordinary  allow- 
ance of  its  pleasures  and  enjoyments. 

My  best  compliments  to  your  father  and  Miss 
Tait.  If  you  have  an  opportunity,  please  re- 
member me  in  the  solemn  league  and  covenant 
of  friendship  to  IMrs.  Lewis  Hay.  I  am  a 
wretch  for  not  writing  her;  but  I  am  so  hack- 
neyed with  self-accusation  in  that  way,  tlut 
my  consi.'.encu  lies  in  my  bosom  with  scarce  the 
sensibility  of  an  oyster  in  its  shell.  Where  is 
Lady  M'Kenzie?  wherever  slie  is,  God  bless 
her  !  I  likewise  beg  leave  to  trouble  you  with 
compliments  to  Mr.  Wm.  Hauiihon  ;  Mrs.  Ha- 
milton and  family  ;  and  ]\Irs.  Chalmers,  wl.en 
you  are  in  that  country.  Should  you  meet 
with  Miss  Kimmo,  please  remember  me  kindly 
to  ht^r. 


No.   CLVL 


TO 


■>Ear  sir, 

WiiETHSR  in  the  way  of  my  trade,  I  can  be 
of  any  service  to  the  Uev.  Doctor,*  is  I  fear  very 
doubtful.  Ajax's  shield  consisted,  I  think,  of 
seven  i)ull-hi(les  and  a  plate  of  brass,  which  al- 
together set  Hector's  utmost  force  at  defiance. 
Alas  !  I  am  not  a  Hector,  and  the  worthy  Doc- 
tor's foes  are  as  securely  armed  as  Ajax  was. 
Ignorance,  superstition,  bigotry,  stupidity,  ma- 
levolence, self-conceit,  envy — all  strongly  bound 
in  a  massy  frame  of  brazen  impudenc*;.  Good 
God,  Sir  !   to  such  a  shield,  humour  is  the  peck 


of  a  sparrow,  and  satire  ':.«  pep-gun  of  a  sctcoi 
boy.  Creation-disgracing  se'erats  such  as  ther 
God  only  can  mend,  and  the  devil  only  can  pii- 
nish.  In  the  comprehending  way  of  Caligula,  ] 
wish  they  had  all  but  one  neck.  J  £"«1  impoten-j 
as  a  child  to  the  ardour  of  my  wishes  !  O  for  a 
withering  curse  to  blast  the  gcrmins  of  their 
wicked  machinations.  O  for  a  poisonous  torna- 
do, winged  from  the  torrid  zone  of  Tartarus,  to 
sweep  the  spreading  crop  of  their  villainous  con- 
trivances to  the  lowest  hell ! 


LETTERS,  1791. 

No.  CLVII. 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

EUhland,  23d  January,  1791. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  to  you, 
my  dear  friend  !  As  many  of  the  good  things  of 
this  life,  as  is  consistent  with  the  usual  mixture 
of  good  and  evil  in  the  cup  of  Being  ! 

I  have  just  finished  a  poem,  which  you  will 
receive  enclosed.  It  is  my  first  essay  in  the  way 
of  tales. 

I  have,  these  several  months,  been  hammer 
isg  at  an  elegy  on  the  amiable  and  accomplish 
ed  Miss  Burnet.  I  have  got,  and  can  get,  no 
farther  than  the  following  fragment,  on  which, 
please  give  me  your  strictures.  In  all  kmds  o: 
poetic  composition,  I  set  great  store  by  your 
opinion  ;  l)ut  in  sentimental  verses,  in  the  jioe- 
try  of  the  heart,  no  Roman  Catholic  ever  set 
more  value  on  the  infallibility  of  tlie  Holy  Fa- 
ther than  I  do  on  yours. 

I  mean  the  introductory  couplets  as  text  ver- 
ses. 


•  Dr.  M'Gill  of  Ayr. 


ELEGY 

OX  THE  LATE  MISS  BURNET  OF  MONBODDO 

Life  ne'er  exulted  in  so  rich  a  prize. 
As  Burnet,  lovely  from  her  native  skies  ; 
Nor  envious  death  so  triumph'd  in  a  blow. 
As  that  which  laid  th'  accomplish'd  Burnet  low 

Thy  form  and  mind,  sweet  maid,  can  I  forget  ; 
In  richest  ore  the  brightest  jewel  set  ! 
lu  thee,  high  Heaven  above  was  tiuest  shown, 
As  by  his   noblest   work   the   Godhead   best  :« 
known. 

In  vain  ye  flaunt  in  summer's  pride,  ye  groves  , 
Thou  crystal  streamlet  with  thy  3owery  shore ; 

Ye  woodland  choir  tliat  chauut  ytur  idle  loves, 
Ye  cease  to  charm  ;   Eliza  is  nc  more. 

Ye  heathy  wastes  ininix'd  with  reedy  fens. 
Ye   mossy   streamj,    with   se<ige    and   jushe» 
stor'd, 

Ye  rugged  cliffs  o'erhanging  dreary  glens. 
To  you  I  fly,  ye  witii  my  soul  accord 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


351 


Ffirccs  wli(>«e  cjmb'rous  pride  was  all   tlicir 
worth, 

Shall  vcn;il  lays  their  pompous  exit  hail  ; 
And  tliDU,  sweet  excelleuce  !   forsake  our  earth, 

And  not  a  muse  in  honest  grief  bewail. 

Wc  saw  thee  shine  in  youth  ami  beauty's  pride, 
And    virtue's   light   that   beams   beyond    the 
spheres  ; 

But  like  the  sun  cclipsM  at  mornin;^  tide. 
Thou  left'st  us  darkling  in  a  world  of  tears. 


Let  me  hear  from  you  soon.     Adieu  ! 


No.  CLVIII. 
TO  MR.  PETER  HILL. 

17M  January,  1701. 
Take  these  two  guineas,  and  place  tl.^        ver 

against  that  account  of  yours  I      iuch 

has  gagged  my  mouth  these  five  or  six  months  ! 
I  can  as  little  write  good  things  as  apologies  to 
the  man  I  owe  money  to.  O  the  supreme  curse 
of  making  three  guineas  do  the  business  of  five  ! 
Not  all  tl'.e  labours  of  Hercules  ;  not  all  the  He- 
brews' three  centuries  of  Egyptian  bondage  were 
such   an  insuperable   business,  such  an 


task!!  Poverty!  thou  half-sister  of  death,  thou 
cousin-gcrman  of  hell  !  where  shall  I  find  force 
of  execration  equal  to  the  amj)litude  of  thy  de- 
merits ?  Oppressed  by  thee,  the  venerable  an- 
cient, growu  hoary  in  the  practice  of  every  vir- 
tue, laden  with  years  and  wretchedness,  im- 
ploi"es  a  little — little  aid  to  support  his  exist- 
ence, from  a  stony-hearted  son  of  IMammon, 
whose  sun  of  prosperity  never  knew  a  cloud  ; 
and  is  by  him  denied  and  insulted.  Oppiosed 
by  tlieo,  the  man  of  sentiment,  whose  heart 
glows  with  independence,  and  melts  with  sensi- 
bility, inly  pines  under  tlie  neglect,  or  writhes 
in  bitterness  of  soul,  under  the  contumely  of  ar- 
rogant, unfeeling  wealth.  Oppressed  by  thee, 
the  son  of  genius,  whose  ill-starred  ambition 
plants  him  at  the  tables  of  the  fashionable  and 
polite,  must  see,  in  suffering  silence,  his  rem  irk 
neglected,  arid  his  person  despised,  while  shal- 
low greatness,  in  his  idiot  attcni|)ts  at  wit,  shall 
meet  with  countenance  and  applause.  Nor  is  it 
only  the  family  jf  worth  that  have  reason  to 
coiiiplam  of  thee  ;  the  children  of  folly  and  vice, 
though  in  common  with  thee,  the  olfspring  of 
evil,  smart  equally  under  thy  rod.  Ovving  to 
thee,  the  man  of  unfortunate  disposition  and  ne- 
glected educatiiin,  is  condemned  as  a  fool  for  his 
dissipation,  desoised  and  shunned  as  a  needy 
wretch,  when  his  follies,  as  usual,  bring  him  to 
waat  :  and  when  his  unprincipled  necessities 
drive  him  to  dishonest  practices,  he  is  ablmrred 
as  a  miscreant,  and  perishes  by  the  justice  of  his 


country.  Hut  fir  otherwise  is  the  k  '"of  the  man 
of  family  and  fortune.  His  ea'ly  fillies  and  ex- 
travagance, are  s|)iiit  and  fire  ;  his  consequent 
wants,  are  the  embarrassments  of  an  honest  fel- 
low ;  and  when,  to  remedy  tlu  matter,  he  has 
gained  a  legal  commission  to  plunder  distant 
provinces,  or  massacre  peaceful  nations,  he  re- 
tiirns,  perhaps,  laden  with  the  spoils  of  rapine 
and   murder  ;  lives  wicked    and   respected,  and 

dies  a and  a  lord. — Nay,  worst  of  all. 

alas  fjr  helpless  v/oman  !  the  needy  prostitute 
who  has  shivered  at  the  corner  of  the  street, 
waiting  to  earn  the  wages  of  carnal  ])rostitutiiin, 
is  left  neglected  and  insulted,  ridden  Jown  by 
the  chariot-wheels  of  the  coroneted  rip,  hurry- 
ing on  to  the  guilty  assignation  ;  she,  who, 
without  the  same  necessities  to  plead,  riots 
nightly  in  the  same  guilty  trade. 

V/ell  !  divines  may  say  of  it  what  they  please, 
but  execration  is  to  the  mind,  what  phlebotomy 
is  to  the  body  ;  the  vital  sluices  of  both  art 
wonderfully  relieved  by  their  respective  evacu»- 
tions. 


No.  CLIX. 

FROM  A.  F.  TYTLER,  Esq. 

DEAR  SIR,  Edinburgh,  I2th  March,  1791 

Mr.  Hii.l  yesterday  put  into  my  hands  b 
sheet  of  Gioses  Antiquities,  containing  a  poem 
of  yours,  entitled  Turn  o'  Shajiler,  a  tale.  Ths 
very  high  pleasure  I  have  received  from  the 
perusal  of  this  admirable  piece,  I  feel,  demands 
the  warmest  acknowledgments.  Hill  tells  me 
he  is  to  send  off  a  packet  for  you  this  day  ;  1 
cannot  resist  therefore  putting  on  paper  what  I 
must  have  told  you  in  person,  had  1  met  with 
you  after  the  recent  perusal  of  your  tale,  which 
is,  that  I  feel  I  owe  you  a  debt,  which,  if  un- 
discharged, would  reproach  me  with  ingrati- 
tude. I  have  seldom  iu  my  life  tasted  of  liighei 
enjoyment  from  any  work  of  genius,  than  I  have 
received  from  this  composition  ;  and  lam  much 
mistaken,  if  this  poem  alone,  had  you  never 
written  another  syllable,  would  not  have  been 
sufliiient  to  have  transmitted  your  name  down 
to  posterity  with  high  reputation.  In  the  in- 
troductory pait,  where  you  paint  the  character 
of  your  hero,  and  exhibit  him  at  the  ale-house 
ingle,  with  his  tippling  cronies,  you  have  deli- 
neated nature  with  a  humour  an(i  naivete,  that 
would  do  h(niour  to  Jlatthew  Prior  ;  but  when 
you  describe  the  unfortunate  orgies  of  the 
witches'  sabbath,  and  the  hellish  scenery  in 
which  they  are  exhibited,  you  display  a  power 
of  imagination,  that  Shakspeaiu  himself  could 
not  have  exceeded.  I  kno,v  not  tliat  I  have 
ever  met  with  a  picture  of  more  horribJe  fan''.y 
than  the  following  : 

"  Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  showed  the  dead  in  their  last  drecsca  : 


S53 


BURNS    WORKS. 


And  by  some  devilish  cintrip  sliglit, 
Each  in  his  cault!  hanii  held  a  light." 

But  when  I  c.ime  to  the  succeeding  lines,   my 
blood  ran  cold  within  me  : 

'*  A  knife  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  of  life  bereft  : 
Tite  grey  hair?  uet  stuck  to  the  heft." 

And  here,  after  the  two  following  lines,  "  Wi' 
maJr  o'  horrible  and  awfu',"  &c.  the  descrijitive 
part  might  perhaps  have  been  better  closed,  than 
the  four  lines  which  succeed,  which,  though 
good  in  themselves,  yet  as  they  derive  all  their 
merit  from  the  satire  they  contain,  are  here 
rather  misplaced  among  the  circumstances  of 
pure  horror.*  The  initiation  of  the  young 
witch  is  most  happily  described — the  effect  of 
her  charms,  exhibited  in  the  dance,  on  Satan 
hiraseif — the  apostrophe—"  Ah,  little  thought 
thy  reverend  grannie  !" — the  transport  of  Tarn, 
who  forgets  his  situation,  and  enters  completely 
into  tke  spirit  of  the  scene,  are  all  features  ot 
high  merit,  in  this  excellent  composition.  The 
only  fault  it  possesses,  is,  that  the  winding  up, 
or  conclusion  of  the  story,  is  not  commensurate 
to  the  interest  which  is  excited  by  the  descrip- 
tive and  characteristic  painting  of  the  preceding 
parts. — The  preparation  is  fine,  but  the  result 
is  not  adeouate.  But  for  this,  perhips,  you 
have  a  good  apology — you  stick  to  the  popular 
tale. 

And  now  that  1  have  got  out  my  mind,  and 
feel  a  little  relieved  of  the  weight  of  that  debt 
I  owed  you,  let  me  end  this  desultory  scroll  by 
an  aiivice  :  —  You  have  proved  your  talent  for 
a  species  of  composition,  in  which  but  a  very 
few  of  our  own  poets  have  succeeded — Go  on 
— write  more  tales  in  the  same  style  ;  you  will 
eclipse  Prior  and  La  Fontame  ;  for,  with  equal 
wit,  equal  power  of  numbers,  and  equal  naivete 
of  expression,  you  have  a  bolder,  and  more  vi- 
gorous imagination. 

I  am,  dear  Sir,  with  mucli  esteem. 
Yours,  ike. 


ho.  CI.X. 

TO  THE  SAME. 
sin, 

NoTHiNO  less  than  the  unfortunate  accident 
I  have  met  v.'ith,  could  have  prevented  my 
giateful  acknowledgments  foi-  your  letter.  His 
own  favourite  poem,  anil  that  an  essay  in  a 
walk  of  the  muses  entirely  new  to  him,  where 
consequently  his  liopes  and  fears  were  in  the 
most  anxious  alaim  for  his  success  in  the  at- 
tchipt ;  to  have  that  poem  so  much  ajiplauded 
ay  one  of  the  first  judges,  was  the  most  delici- 
3US  vibration  that  ever  trilled  along   the  heart- 


•  Chir  bat  J  profiled  by  Mr.  I'ytler's  criticism,  and 
.fxyuuged  tiie  lowr  lines  aocoidingly. 


strings  of  a  poor  poet.  However,  prov'denc* 
to  keep  up  the  proper  proportion  of  evil  witL 
the  good,  which,  it  seems  is  necessary  in  tliin 
sutilunary  state,  thought  proper  to  cheek  my 
exultation  by  a  very  serious  misfi)rtune.  A 
day  or  two  after  1  received  your  letter,  my 
horse  came  down  with  me  and  broke  my  ri:^ht 
arm.  As  this  is  the  first  service  mv  arm  has 
done  me  since  its  disaster,  I  find  myself  unable 
to  do  more  than  just  in  general  terms  to  thank 
you  for  this  additional  instance  of  your  patron- 
age and  friendship.  As  to  the  faults  you  de- 
tected in  the  piece,  they  are  truly  there  :  one 
of  them,  tlie  hit  at  the  lawyer  and  priest,  I  shall 
cut  out ;  as  to  the  filling  off  in  the  catastrophe, 
for  tiie  reason  you  justly  adduce,  it  cannot  easily 
be  remedied.  Your  approbation.  Sir,  has  given 
me  such  additional  s))irits  to  persevere  in  this 
species  of  poetic  composition,  that  I  am  already 
revolving  two  or  three  itories  in  my  fancy.  If 
I  can  bring  these  floating  ideas  to  bear  any  kind 
of  embodied  form,  it  will  give  me  an  additional 
opportunity  of  assuring  you  how  much  1  have 
the  honour  to  be,  &c. 


No.  CLXI. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

ElUsland,  7th  February,  179!. 

When  I  tell  you,  Madam,  that  by  a  fall,  not 
from  my  horse,  but  with  my  horse,  I  have  been 
a  cripple  some  time,  and  that  this  is  the  first 
day  my  arm  and  hand  have  been  able  to  scrva 
me  in  writing  ;  you  will  allow  that  it  is  too 
good  an  apology  for  my  seemingly  ungrateful 
silence.  I  am  now  getting  better,  and  am  able 
to  rhyme  a  little,  which  implies  some  tolerable 
ease  ;  as  I  cannot  think  that  the  most  poetic 
genius  is  able  to  compose  on  the  rack. 

I  do  not  remember  if  ever  I  mentioned  to  you 
my  having  an  idea  of  composing  an  elegy  on 
the  lite  Aliss  Burnet  of  Monboddo.  1  had  the 
honour  of  being  pretty  well  acquiiinted  with 
her,  and  have  seldom  felt  so  much  at  the  loss  ol 
an  acquaintance,  as  when  I  heard  that  so  amia- 
ble and  accomplished  a  piece  of  God's  works 
was  no  more.  I  have  as  yet  gone  no  farther 
than  the  following  fragment,  of  which  please  lei 
me  have  your  opinion.  You  know  that  elegy 
IS  a  subject  so  much  exhausted,  that  any  new 
idea  on  the  business  is  not  to  be  expected  ;  *tii 
well  if  we  can  place  an  old  idea  in  a  new  light. 
How  far  I  have  succeedeil  as  to  this  last,  yoi; 
will  judge  from  what  follows: — {See  j).  3i7, 
then  this  additional  verse), 

The  parent's  heart  that  nestled  foml  in  thee. 
That   heart  how  sunk,   a  piey  to   grief  anil 
care  ! 

So  dcckt  the  woodbine  swecf  yon  aged  tree, 
So  from  it  ravaged,  leaves  it  bleak  and  bars. 

I  have  proceeded  no  further 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


Four  kind  letter,  with  your  kind  remem- 
btartee  of  your  goil-son,  oaiue  sifo.  Tliis  last, 
Rlailam,  is  scarciiy  what  my  pride  can  bear. 
As  to  the  little  fcllnvv,  he  is,  partiality  apart, 
the  fiiH'st  hoy  I  have  of  a  long  time  si-en.  Ik- 
is  now  seventeen  months  old,  has  the  sniall-pox 
and  measles  over,  has  eut  several  teeth,  and  yet 
never  had  a  grain  of  doctor's  drugs  in  his 
bowijls. 

I  am  truly  happy  to  hear  that  the  "  little 
floweret"  is  hloomiiig  so  fresh  and  fair,  and  that 
the  ''  mother  plant"  is  rather  recovering  her 
drooping  head.  Soon  and  well  may  her  "  cruel 
wounds"  be  healed  !  I  have  written  thus  far 
with  a  good  deal  of  dlfF.culty.  When  I  get  a 
little  abler  you  shall  hear  farther  from. 

Madam,  yours,  &c. 


No.  CLXII. 
TO  LADY  W.  51.  CONSTABLE, 

ACKNOWLEDGING  A  PRESENT  OF  A  VALUABLE 
SNUFF-BOX*  WITH  A  FINF.  riCTURE  OF  >IARV, 
QUEEN  OF  SCOTS,  ON  THE   LID. 

MY  LADY, 

Nothing  less  tnau  the  unlucky  accident  of 
having  lately  broken  my  right  arm,  could  have 
prevented  me,  the  moment  I  received  your  lady- 
ship's elegant  present  by  Mrs.  IMiller,  from  re- 
turning you  my  warmest  and  most  grateful  ac- 
knowledgments. I  assure  your  ladyshij),  I  shall 
set  it  apart  ;  the  symbols  of  religion  shall  only 
be  more  sacred.  In  the  moment  of  poetic  com- 
position, the  box  shall  be  my  inspiring  genius. 
When  1  would  breathe  the  comprehensive  wish 
of  benevolence  for  the  happiness  of  others,  I 
shall  recollect  your  ladyship  ;  when  I  would  in- 
terest my  fancy  in  the  distresses  incident  to  hu- 
Biauity,  I  shall  remember  the  unfoituuate  Mary. 


iir.portancp,  Mr.  (i.   ran  dc  mc  MTvIce  oi  im 

utmost  iniporVince  in  time  to  ciune.  1  Nva* 
born  a  poor  lii  g  ;  and  however  1  may  occasion- 
ally pick  a  better  boiie  than  I  used  to  do,  I 
know  I  must  live  and  die  poor  ;  but  I  will  in- 
dulge the  flattering  faith  that  my  poetry  will 
considerably  outlive  my  poverty  ;  and  withou 
any  Uistain  affectatiou  of  spirit,  I  can  piomise  and 
atfirni,  tliut  it  must  be  no  oidiiiary  cr.iviiig  o. 
the  latter  shall  ever  make  me  do  any  tliiii'^  ii"* 
jurious  to  the  honest  fame  of  the  former.  \\'hat- 
ever  may  be  my  failings,  for  failings  are  a  i)ar< 
of  human  nature,  may  they  ever  be  those  of  a 
generous  heart,  and  an  independent  mind.  It 
is  no  fault  of  mine  that  I  was  boin  to  depen- 
dence ;   nor  is  it  ]\Ir.  G 's  chiefest  praise 

that  he  can  command  influence  ;  but  it  his  me- 
rit to  bestow,  not  only  with  Jic  kindness  of  4 
brother,  but  with  thcr  politeness  of  a  gentleman  , 
and  I  trust  it  shall  be  mine,  to  receive  with 
thankfulness  and  retiiember  with  uudiininishecl 
gratitude. 


No.  CLXIIL 
TO  MRS.   GRAHAM,  OF  FINTRY. 

MADAM, 

Whether  it  is  that  the  story  of  our  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  has  a  peculiar  effect  on  tiie 
feelings  of  a  poet,  or  whether  1  have,  in  the  en- 
closed ballad,  succeeded  beyond  my  usual  poetic 
success,  I  know  not  :  but  it  has  i)leased  me  be- 
yond any  effort  of  my  muse  for  a  good  while 
past ;  on  that  account  I  enclose  it  particularly 
to  youi  It  is  true,  the  purity  of  my  motive* 
may  be  suspected.  I  am  already  deeply  indebt- 
ed to  Mr.  G 's  gooilne<«  ;   anil,   what   in 


No.  CLXIV. 

FROM  THE  REV.   (NOW  PRINCIPAL) 
BMRD. 

SIR,  Londor.\,  Sf/i  Frhrunrtj,  1791. 

I  TROUBLE  you  with  this  letter,  to  inform 
you  that  I  am  in  hopes  of  being  able  very  soon 
to  bring  to  the  press  a  new  edition  (long  since 
talked  of)  of  Michad  JJnice's  Pnems.  The 
profits  of  the  edition  are  to  go  to  his  mother — 
a  woman  of  eighty  years  of  age — ])oor  and  help- 
less. The  poems  are  to  be  puUished  by  sub- 
scri|)tion  ;  and  it  may  lie  possible,  I  think,  to 
make  out  a  2s.  6d.  or  8s.  volume,  with  the  as- 
sivtance  of  a  few  hitherto  unpublished  verses, 
which  I  have  got  fiom  ths  mother  of  the  T)oet. 

IJut  the  design  I  have  in  view  in  writini;  to 
yon,  is  not  merely  to  inform  you  of  these  facts, 
it  is  to  solicit  the  aid  of  your  name  and  pen  in 
sujipiirt  of  the  scheme.  Tlie  reputation  of  Hruce 
is  already  high  with  every  reader  of  classical 
taste,  and  I  shall  be  anxious  to  guard  against 
tarnishing  his  character,  by  allowing  any  new 
])oems  to  appear  that  may  lower  it.  For  thii 
purpose,  the  JISS.  I  am  in  ))ossession  of,  have 
beva  submitted  to  the  revision  of  some  wlios* 
critical  talents  I  ran  trust  to,  and  1  uieaa  still  to 
submit  them  to  others.  < 

May  1  beg  to  know,  therefore,  if  you  will 
take  the  trouble  of  jitrusing  the  MSS. — of  giv- 
ing your  opinion,  and  suggesting  what  curlail- 
nunts,  alterations,  or  amendments,  occur  to  you 
as  advisable  ?  An(i  will  you  allow  us  to  let  it  ht 
known,  that  a  few  lines  by  yruwiU  be  a;ldsil 
to  the  volume  ? 

1   know    the   extent   of  this    request,— It    ii 


bold  to  make  it.     But   I  have  this  consolation, 
the  uiual  wavs  of  men,  is  of  iufinlttly  greater  |  that  thout;h  yo»«  see  it  j)iopt;r  to  refuse  it,  yoa 


354 


BURNS'  WORKS. 

you  will 


will  not  blame  me  for  having  mauv, . 
K^  my  apology  in  the  nintivg. 

May  1  just  adii,  that  Michael  Bruce  is  one  in 
whose  com)>atiy5  from  his  past  appearance,  you 
would  not,  I  am  convinced,  l)lush  to  be  found  ; 
and  as  I  would  submit  every  line  of  his  that 
should  now  be  published,  to  Jour  own  criti- 
cisms, you  would  be  assured  that  nothing  dero- 
gatory either  to  him  or  you,  would  be  admitted 
in  that  appearance  he  may  make  in  future. 

You  have  already  paid  an  honourable  tribute 
to  kindred  genius  in  Fergussnn — I  fondly  hope 
that  the  mother  of  Bruce  will  experience  your 
patronage. 

I  wish  to  have  the  subscription  papers  circu- 
lated by  the  1  -tth  of  March,  Bruce's  birth-day  ; 
which,  I  understand,  some  friends  in  Scotland 
talk  this  year  of  observing — at  that  time  it  will 
be  resolved,  I  imagine,  to  place  a  plain,  liumble 
stone  over  his  grave.  This,  at  least,  I  trust 
you  will  agree  to  do — to  furnish,  in  a  few  coup- 
lets, an  ijiscriptlon  for  it. 

On  those  points  may  I  solicit  an  answer  as 
early  as  possible  ;  a  short  delay  might  disap- 
point us  in  procuring  that  relief  to  the  mother, 
which  is  the  object  of  the  whole. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  address  for  me  under 
cover  to  the  Duke  of  Athole,  London. 


P.  S. — Have  you  ever  seen  an  engraving 
published  here  some  time  ago  frcjn  one  of  your 
poems,  "  O  thou  Pale  Orb."  If  you  have 
not,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  sending  it   to 

rou. 


No.  CLXV. 
TO  THE  REV.  G.  BAIRD, 

IK  ANSWER  TO  THE  FOREGOING. 

Wkt  did  you,  my  dear  Sir,  write  to  me  in 
such  a  hesitating  style,  on  the  business  of  poor 
Bruce  ?  Don't  1  know,  and  have  I  not  felt, 
the  many  ills,  the  peculiar  ills  that  poetic  flesh 
is  heir  to  ?  You  shall  have  your  choice  of  all 
the  unpublished  poems  I  have  ;  and  had  your 
letter  had  my  direction  s»  as  to  have  reached 
me  sooner  (it  only  came  to  n,y  hand  this  mo- 
ment), I  should  have  directly  put  you  out  of 
suspense  on  the  subject.  I  only  ask,  that  some 
prefatory  advertisement  in  the  book,  as  well  as 
the  subscription  bills,  may  bear,  that  the  publi- 
cation is  solilv  for  the  benefit  of  Bnice's  mo- 
ther. I  would  not  put  it  in  the  ))o\ver  of  igno- 
rance to  suinii^e,  or  malice  to  insinuate,  that  I 
clubbed  a  share  in  the  work  from  mercenary 
motives.  Nor  need  you  give  me  credit  for  any 
remarkable  generosity  in  my  part  of  the  busi- 
ness. I  have  such  a  host  of  peccadilloes,  fail- 
ings, follies,  and  l)ack»lidings  (any  bo<ly  but  my- 
self miglit  jicrliaps  give  some  of  tliem  a  vvorie 


appellation),  that  by  way  of  some  balance,  how  ■ 
ever  trifling,  in  the  account,  I  am  fain  to  do  anj 
good  that  occurs  in  my  very  limited  power  to  a 
fellow-creature,  just  for  the  selfish  purpose  oi 
clearing  a  little  the  vista  of  retrospection. 


No.  CLXVI 
TO  THE  REV.   ARCH.  ALISON. 

Ellisland,  near  Dumfries,  lUh  Feb.  1791 

SIR, 

You  must,  by  this  time,  have  set  me  down 
as  one  of  the  most  ungrateful  of  men.  You 
did  me  the  honour  to  present  me  with  a  book 
which  does  honour  to  science  and  the  intellectual 
powers  of  man,  and  I  have  not  even  so  much  as 
acknowledged  the  receipt  of  it.  The  fact  is, 
you  yourself  are  to  blame  for  it.  Flattered  as 
I  was  by  your  telling  me  that  you  wished  to 
have  my  opinion  of  the  woik,  the  old  spiritual 
enemy  of  mankind,  who  knows  well  that  vanity 
is  one  of  the  sins  that  most  easily  beset  me,  put 
it  into  my  head  to  ponder  over  the  performance 
with  the  look-out  of  a  critic,  and  to  draw  up 
forsooth  a  deep  learned  digest  of  strictures  on  a 
composition,  of  which,  in  fact,  until  I  read  the 
book,  I  did  not  even  know  the  first  principles. 
I  own.  Sir,  that  at  first  glance,  several  of  your 
propositions  startled  me  as  paradoxical.  That 
the  martial  clangor  of  a  trumpet  had  something 
in  it  vastly  more  grand,  heroic,  and  sublime, 
than  the  twingle  twangle  of  a  Jews'  harp  ;  that 
the  delicate  flexure  of  a  rose-twig,  when  the 
half-blown  flower  is  heavy  with  the  tears  of  ihe 
dawu,  was  infinitely  more  beautiful  and  elegant 
than  the  upright  stub  of  a  burdock  ;  and  that 
from  something  innate  and  independent  of  all 
association  of  ideas  ; — these  1  had  set  down  as 
irrefragible,  orthodox  truths,  until  perusing  your 
book  shook  my  faith. — In  short,  Sir,  except 
Euclid's  Elements  ofGeomttry.  which  I  mule 
a  shift  to  unravel  by  my  father's  fire-side,  in  the 
winter  evening  of  the  first  season  I  held  the 
plough,  1  never  read  a  book  which  gave  me 
such  a  quantum  of  information,  and  added  so 
much  to  my  stock  of  ideas  as  your  "  Essaijs  (;?i 
the  Prijtci/.les  of  Taste."  One  thing.  Sir,  you 
must  forgive  my  mentioning  as  an  uncoiuuion 
nu-rit  in  the  woik,  I  mean  the  language.  To 
clothe  abstract  jjhilosophy  in  elegance  of  styls, 
sounds  something  like  a  contradiction  in  tci  ms  ; 
but  you  have  convinced  me  that  they  are  quite 
compatible. 

I  enclose  you  some  poetic  bagatelles  of  my 
late  com))()sition.  The  one  in  print  is  my  fiisl 
essay  in  the  way  oi  telling  a  tale. 

I  am,  Sir,  &c 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


355 


No.  CI.XVII. 
TO  DR.  MOORE. 

EUisland,  2Sth  Ftbruari/,  1791. 

I  no  not  know,  Sir,  wlifther  you  are  a  sub- 
icrilier  to  Grose's  Antiquities  of  Scotland.  If 
»'nu  are,  the  enclosed  poem  will  not  be  altoc;e- 
ther  new  to  you.  Captain  Grose  did  me  the 
favour  to  send  me  a  dozen  copies  of  the  ]iroi)f- 
sheet,  of  which  this  is  one.  Should  you  have 
read  the  piece  before,  still  this  will  answer  the 
principal  end  I  have  in  view  :  it  will  give  me 
another  opportunity  of  thanking  you  for  all  your 
goodness  to  the  rustic  hard  ;  and  also  of  show- 
ing you,  that  the  abilities  you  have  been  pleas- 
ed to  commend  and  patronize  are  still  employed 
in  the  way  you  wish. 

The  Elegy  on  Captain  Henderson,  is  a  tri- 
bute to  the  memory  of  a  man  I  loved  much. 
Poets  have  in  this  the  same  advantage  as  Ro- 
man Catholics  ;  they  can  be  of  service  to  their 
friends  after  they  have  past  that  bourne  where 
all  other  kindness  ceases  to  be  of  any  avail. 
Whether,  after  all,  eitlwr  the  one  or  the  other 
be  of  any  real  service  to  the  dead,  is,  I  fear,  very 
problematical ;  but  I  am  sure  they  are  highly 
gratifying  to  the  living  :  and  as  a  very  orthodox 
text,  I  forget  where  in  Scripture,  says,  "  what- 
soever is  not  of  faith,  is  sin  ;"  so  say  I,  wliat- 
Boever  is  not  detrimental  to  society,  and  is  of 
pn^itive  enjoyment,  is  of  God,  the  giver  of  all 
good  things,  and  ought  to  be  received  and  eii- 
••ycd  by  his  creatures  with  thankful  delight. 
As  almost  all  my  religious  tenets  originate  from 
mv  heart,  I  am  wonderfully  pleased  with  the 
idea,  that  I  can  still  keep  up  a  tender  inter- 
course with  the  dearly  beloved  friend,  or  stih 
more  dearly  beloved  mistress,  who  is  gone  to 
the  world  of  spirits. 

The  ballad  on  Queen  ]\Iary  was  begun  while 
I  was  busy  with  Percy's  Reliques  of  Emjliih 
Pottry.  By  the  way,  how  ranch  is  evei'y 
honest  heart,  whiih  has  a  tincture  of  Caledonian 
prejudice,  obliged  to  you  for  your  glorious  story 
of  Buchanan  and  Targe.  'Twas  an  unequivocal 
proof  of  your  loyal  gallantry  of  soul,  giving  Targe 
the  vii'tory.  I  should  have  been  mortified  to 
the  grouhd  if  you  had  not. 


/  have  just  read  over,  once  more  of"  many 
times,  your  Ztluco.  1  marked  with  my  pen- 
cil, as  I  went  along,  every  passage  that  pleased 
me  particularly  above  the  rest ;  and  one,  or 
two,  I  think,  which,  with  humble  deference,  I 
am  disposed  to  think  unequal  to  the  merits  of 
the  bonk.  I  have  sometiEiies  thought  to  tran- 
icribe  these  marked  passages,  or  at  least  so  much 
of  them  as  to  point  where  they  are,  and  send 
them  to  you.  Original  strokts  that  strongly 
depict  the  huJi'an  heart,  is  your  and  Fielding's 
province,  bvyond  any  other  novelist  I  have  ever 
perused.  Richard>on  indeed  might  perh  ips  be 
ixcepted  ;    but,   unhappily,  his  drai'\itis  per- 


sona: are  beings  of  some  other  world  ;  and  horj-- 
ever  they  may  captivate  the  une.\perienced,  ro- 
mantic fancy  of  a  boy  or  a  girl,  they  will  ever, 
in  |)roi)orti()n  as  we  have  made  human  naturs 
our  studv,  dissatisfy  our  riper  minds. 

As  to  my  private  concerns,  I  am  going  on,  a 
mighty  tax-gatherer  before  the  Lord,  and  have 
lately  hid  the  interest  to  get  myself  ranked  on 
the  list  of  excise  as  a  supervisor.  I  am  not  yet 
employed  as  such,  but  in  a  few  years  I  shall  fa'l 
into  the  file  of  supervisiuship  Viy  seniority.  I 
have  had  an  immense  loss  in  the  death  of  the 
Earl  of  Glencairn  ;  the  patron  from  whom  al. 
my  fame  and  good  fortune  took  its  rise.  Itide- 
pendent  of  my  grateful  attachment  to  him, 
which  was  indeed  so  strong  that  it  pervaded 
my  very  soul,  and  was  entwined  with  the  thread 
of  my  existence  ;  so  soon  as  the  prince's  friends 
had  got  in  (and  every  dog,  you  know,  has  hia 
day),  my  getting  forward  in  the  excise  wculd 
have  been  an  easier  business  than  otherwise  it 
will  be.  Though  this  was  a  consummation  de- 
voutly to  be  wished,  yet,  thank  Heaven,  I  can 
live  and  rhyme  as  1  am  ;  and  as  to  my  boys 
poor  little  fellows  1  if  I  cannot  place  them  on 
as  high  an  elevation  in  life  as  I  could  wish,  I 
shall,  if  I  am  favoured  so  much  of  the  Disposer 
of  events  as  to  see  that  period,  fix  them  on  as 
broad  and  independent  a  basis  as  possible.  A- 
mong  the  many  wise  adages  which  have  been 
treasured  up  by  our  Scottish  ancestors,  this  is 
one  of  the  best.  Bitter  be  the  head  of  the  com 
nionulty,  as  the  tail  o'  the  gentry. 

But  I  am  got  on  a  subject,  which,  however 
interesting  to  me,  is  of  no  manner  of  conse- 
quence to  you  ;  so  I  shall  give  you  a  short  poem 
on  the  other  page,  and  close  this  with  assuring 
you  how  sincerely  1  have  the  honour  to  be, 
yours,  &c. 

(^Beauteous  liose-Bud,  p.  56.) 


No.  CLXVIII. 

EXTRACT  OF   A    LETTER 

TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM 

}2th  March,  1791. 
If  the  foregoing  piece  be  worth  your  stric 
tures,  let  me  have  them.  For  my  own  part,  a 
thing  that  I  have  just  composed,  always  appears 
through  a  double  portion  of  that  partial  medium 
in  which  an  auth.  r  will  ever  view  his  own 
works.  I  believe,  in  general,  novelty  has  some- 
thing in  it  that  inebriates  the  fancy,  and  not 
unfrequently  tlissipates  and  fumes  away  like 
other  intoxication,  and  leaves  the  poor  patient, 
as  usual,  with  an  aching  heart.  A  striking 
instance  of  this  might  be  adduced,  in  the  rsvo. 
lution  of  many  a  hymeneal  honcvuicou.     But 


S56 


BURNS    WORKS. 


lest  I  8:nk  into  stupid  prose,  and  so  sacrilegious- 
'y  intrude  on  the  offic-e  of  my  parish  piiest,  I 
shall  fill  up  the  piire  in  my  own  xviiy,  and  p;ive 
you  another  song  of  my  kte  composition,  which 
will  apjjcar,  perhaps,  in  Johnson's  work,  as  well 
as  the  formei'. 

You    must   know  a  beautiful    Jacobite   air. 
There  II  never  he  peace  till  Jumie  comes  home. 
When   political  combustion  ceases  to  be  the  ob- 
ject of  princes  and  patriots,   it  then,  you  know, 
becomes  the  kwful  prey  of  historians  and  poets. 

(See  Songs,  p.  236). 


If  you  like  the  air,  and  if  the  stanzas  hit  your 
fancy,  you  cannot  imagine,  my  dear  friend,  how 
much  you  would  oblige  me,  if,  by  the  charms 
of  your  delightful  voice,  you  would  give  my 
honest  effusion  to  "  the  memory  of  joys  that  are 
past,  to  the  few  friends  whom  you  indulge  in 
that  pleasure.  But  I  have  scribbled  on  'till  I 
hear  the  clock  has  intimated  the  near  approach 
of 

"   That  hour  o'   night's  black  arch  the  kcy- 
stane." — 

So  good  night  to  you  !  Sound  be  your  sleep, 
and  delectable  your  dreams  !  Apropos,  how  do 
you  like  this  thought  in  a  ballad,  1  have  just 
now  on  the  tapis  ? 

I  look  to  the  west,  when  I  gae  to  rest, 

That  happy  my  dreanis  and  my  slumbers  may 
be  : 

For  fir  in  the  west  is  he  I  lo'e  best — 
The  lad  that  is  dear  to  my  baby  and  me  ! 


which  I  send  you ;  and  God  knows  you  may 
perhaps  pay  dear  enough  for  it  if  you  read  i 
through.  Not  that  this  is  my  own  opinion  ;  but 
an  author,  by  the  time  he  has  composed  and 
corrected  his  work,  has  quite  pored  away  all 
his  powers  of  critical  discrimination. 

I  can  easily  guess  from  my  own  heart,  what 
you  have  felt  on  a  late  most  melancholy  event. 
God  knows  what  I  have  suffered,  at  the  loss  ol 
my  best  friend,  my  first,  my  dearest  patron  and 
benefactor  ;  the  man  to  whom  I  owe  all  that  I 
am  and  have  I  I  am  gone  into  mourning  for 
him,  and  with  more  sincerity  of  grief  than  I 
fear  some  will,  who  by  nature's  ties  ought  to 
feel  on  the  occasion. 

I  will  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  you  indeed, 
to  let  me  know  the  news  of  the  noble  family, 
how  the  poor  mother  and  the  tws  sisters  sup- 
port their  loss.  1  had  a  packet  of  poetic  baga- 
telles ready  to  send  to  Lady  Betty,  when  I  saw 
the  fatal  tidings  in  the  newspaper.  I  see  bv  the 
same  channel  that  the  honoured  remains  of  my 
noble  patron,  are  designed  to  be  brought  to  the 
family  burial  place.  Dare  I  trouble  you  to  let 
me  know  privately  before  the  day  of  interment, 
that  I  may  cross  the  country,  and  steal  among 
the  crowd,  to  pay  a  tear  to  the  last  sight  of  my 
ever  revered  benefactor  ?  It  will  oblige  me  be- 
yond expression. 


Good  night,  once  more,  and  God  bless  you 


No.  CL. 


No.  CXLIX. 
TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  DALZIEL.* 

FACTOR,   FINDLAYSTON. 

ElUsland,  March  19,  1791. 

Mr   DEAR  SIR, 

I  HAVK  taken  the  liberty  to  frank  this  letter 
to   you,   as    it   encloses  an   idle  jjoeui  of  niir.e, 

•  This  B  nilcman,  the  factor,  or  steward,  of  Biirns's 
nol.le  friend.  I^onl  (Jlenrairn,  with  a  view  toeiicourapc 
a  second  eilitiiin  (if  the  |>ofnis,  l;\id  the  vohiiiic  bifcue 
his  lordship,  with  such  an  acfoiint  of  the  niitio  h;ird's 
uluation  and  prospects  .is  from  his  slender  ac(]uaiiit. 
ance  with  him  he  co  dd  lurnish  The  rcsidt,  as  com 
iHimicatcd  to  llunishv  Mr.  Dalziid,  is  hit;lily  creditable 
to  the  character  of  Lord  CIcncairn.  After  ro.Khng  the 
book,  his  liirdsliiii  declared  that  Its  merits  Rieatiy  ex- 
ceeded his  cxpeelalioii,  and  he  iciok  it  witli  him  .is  a 
Mterary  curiusilj/  to   Echnburyli.      He  repeated  hit 


FROM  DR.  MOORE. 

DEAR  SIR,  London,  29th  March,  1791. 

Your  letter  of  the  28th  of  February  I  recei- 
ved  only  two  days  ago,  and  this  day  I  I;ad  the 
pleasure  of  waiting  on  the  Rev.  Mr.  Baird,  at 
the  Duke  of  Athole's,  who  had  been  so  obliging 
as  to  transmit  it  to  ire,  with  the  printed  verses 
on  Allowaij  Church,  the  Elegy  on  Captain 
Hcnrierson,  and  the  Epitaph.  There  are  many 
poetical  beauties  in  the  former  :  what  [  particu- 
larly admiie  are  the  three  striking  similes  trom 

"  Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river," 

and  the  eight  lines  which  begin  with 

"  By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford  ;" 

so  exquisitely  expressive  of  the  superstitious  im- 
pressions of  the  country.  And  the  twenty-two 
lines  from 

"  CofRiis  stood  round  like  open  presses," 

wishes  to  he  of  service  to  Burns,  and  dcjircd  Mr.  Dal. 
niel  to  oiform  him,  that  ni  patronizing  the  iKiok,  ush- 
erinf?  it  with  effect  imo  the  world,  or  treating  with 
the  l)ook>ellcrs,  he  would  most  willingly  give  every 
;ud  ill  his  power ;  adihiig  his  request  that  Hums  woulj 
take  the  earliest  O|iportuiiitv  of  letting  him  know  in 
what  way  or  manner  he  eonld  best  further  his  interislJi 
He  also  expressed  a  wish  to  see  some  of  the  unpiiU 
lished  maniiscri|its,  with  a  view  to  establishing  Ins  eha 
lacttr  Willi  the  world. — Cro-mlk. 


CORRESPOMDENTE 


35? 


which,  in  rr.y  opinidn,  are  equal   to  the   ingre- 
dients of  Sliakspeaie's  cauMrnii  in  Mdcl/ft/i. 

As  fur  the  Elegij,  tlie  cliief  merit  of  it  con- 
fists  in  the  very  graphical  description  of  the  ob- 
jects belonging  to  the  country  in  which  the  poet 
writes,  and  which  none  but  a  Scottish  jioet 
could  hive  described,  and  none  but  a  re.il  poet, 
and  a  close  observer  of  Nature,  could  have  «o 
described. 


3MDENTE. 

land,  I  will  let  you  know,  that  you  may  meet 
me  at  your  own  house,  or  my  friend  Mrs.  Ha- 
milton's,  or  botii. 


There  is  something  original,  and  to  me  wonder- 
fully pleising,  in  the  Epitn/ih. 

I  remember  you  once  hinte<l  before,  what  you 
"■poit  in  your  last,  that  you  had  made  somt  'e- 
ui  irks  on  Ztluco,  on  the  margin.  I  should  be 
very  glad  to  see  them,  and  regret  you  did  not 
send  tliem  before  the  last  edition,  which  is  just 
published.  Pray  transcribe  them  for  me,  I  sin- 
cerely value  your  opinion  very  highly,  and  pray 
do  not  siippiess  one  of  those  in  which  you  ctn- 
Hire  the  sentiment  or  expression.  Trust  me  it 
will  break  no  squares  between  us — I  am  not 
ikin  to  t!ie  Bishop  of  Grenada. 

I  must  now  mention  what  has  been  on  my 
mind  for  some  time :  I  cannot  help  thinking 
you  imprudent  in  scattering  abroad  so  many 
(•o|)ies  of  your  veises.  It  is  most  natural  to 
give  a  few  to  confidential  friends,  particularly 
to  tho-'e  who  are  connected  with  the  subject, 
or  who  are  perhaps  themselves  the  subject,  but 
tkis  ought  to  be  done  under  promise  not  to  give 
other  copies.  Of  the  poem  you  sent  me  on 
Queen  IMary,  I  refused  every  solicitation  for 
copies,  but  I  lately  saw  it  in  a  newspaper.  My 
motive  for  cautioning  you  on  this  subject  is, 
that  I  wish  to  engage  you  to  collect  all  your 
fugitive  jiieces,  not  alreidy  printed,  and  after 
they  have  been  re-considered,  and  polished  to 
the  utmost  of  your  power,  I  would  have  you 
publish  them  by  another  subscription  ;  in  pro- 
m<iling  of  which  I  will  exert  myself  with  plea- 
*ure. 

In  your  future  compositions,  I  wish  you 
would  use  the  modern  English.  You  have 
shown  your  powers  in  Scottish  sufficiently. 
Although  in  certain  subjects  it  gives  additional 
zest  to  the  humour,  yet  it  is  lost  to  the  Eng- 
lish ;  and  wliv  should  you  write  onlv  for  a  part 
of  the  island,  when  you  can  command  the  ad- 
miration of  the  whole.         • 

If  you  chance  to  write  to  my  friend  Mrs. 
Dunlop  of  Dunlop,  I  beg  to  be  affectionately 
remembered  to  her.  Slve  must  not  judge  of  ti* 
warmth  of  my  sentiments  respecting  her,  by  the 
number  of  my  letters  ;  I  hardly  ever  write  a  line 
but  on  business :  and  I  do  not  know  that  I 
should  hive  scribbled  all  this  to  you,  but  for  the 
business  part,  that  is,  to  instigate  you  to  a  new 
|)ubltcation  ;  and  to  tell  you  that  when  you 
think  you  h  ive  a  sufficient  number  to  make  a 
vwUinie,  you  shouiil  set  your  friends  on  getting 
subscriptions.  I  wish  I  could  have  a  few  liours 
conversation  with  you — I  have  many  things  to 
•iV  vvhi'di  I  cannot  write.    If  I  ever  go  to  Scot- 


Adieu,  my  dear  Sir,  kc 


No.  CLI. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOI'. 

Ellisland,  Wtli  April,  1791. 
I  AM  once  more  able,  my  honoured  friend,  to 
return  you,  with  my  own  hand,  thanks  for  the 
many  instances  of  your  friciidship,  atid  particu- 
larly for  your  kind  anxiety  in  this  last  disaster 
that  my  evil  genius  had  iu  store  for  me.  How- 
ever, life  is  chequered — ;joy  and  sorrow — for 
on  Saturday  morning  last,  Mrs.  IJurns  made 
me  a  present  of  a  fine  boy  ;  rather  htouter  but 
not  so  handsome  as  your  goil-son  w;is  at  his  time 
of  life.  Indeed  I  look  on  your  little  namesake 
to  be  my  chef  d'asuvre  in  that  species  of  manu- 
facture, as  I  look  on  Tain  o'  Sliunter  to  be  my 
standard  perfiirmance  in  the  poetical  line.  'Tia 
true,  both  the  one  and  the  other  discover  a  spic* 
of  roguish  waggery,  that  might,  perhaps,  be  as 
Well  spared  ;  but  then  they  also  show,  in  my  3- 
piiiion,  a  force  of  genius,  and  a  finishing  polish, 
that  I  despair  of  ever  excelling.  Mis.  IJurni 
is  getting  stout  again,  and  laid  as  lustily  about' 
her  to-<lay  at  breakfast,  as  a  reaper  from  the 
corn-ridge.  That  is  the  peculiar  privilege  and 
blessing  of  our  hale,  sprightly  damsels,  that  are 
bred  among  the  hay  and  hcatlier.  We  cannot 
hope  for  that  highly  polished  m:nd,  that  charm- 
ing delicicy  of  soul,  which  is  found  among  the 
female  world  in  the  more  elevated  stations  of 
life,  and  which  is  certainly  by  far  the  most  be- 
witching charm  in  the  famous  cestus  of  V^enus. 
It  is  iudeed  such  an  inestimab'e  treasure,  that 
where  it  can  be  had  iu  its  native  he.ivenly  ])u- 
rity,  unstained  by  some  one  or  other  of  the 
many  shades  of  affectation,  and  unalloyed  by 
some  one  or  other  of  the  many  speci .s  of  ca- 
[)rice,  I  declare  to  Heaven,  1  should  think  it 
cheaply  purchased  at  the  expense  of  every  other 
eiithly  gooil  !  But  as  this  angelic  creature  is, 
I  am  afraid,  extiem 'ly  rare  in  any  station  and 
rank  of  life,  and  totally  denied  to  such  an  hum- 
ble one  as  mine  ;  we  meaner  mortals  must  put 
U])  with  the  next  rank  of  female  excellence— 
as  fine  a  figure  and  face  we  can  produce  as  any 
rank  of  life  whatever  ;  rustic,  native  grace  ;  un- 
affected modesty,  and  unsullied  purity  ;  nature* 
mother-wit,  and  the  rudiments  of  taste  ;  a  sim- 
plicity f.f  soul,  unsusjiicious  of,  because  unac- 
quainted with,  the  crooked  ways  of  a  selfisl^ 
interested,  disingenuous  world  ; — and  the  dear- 
est charm  of  all  the  rest,  a  yielding  sweetiiest 
of  disposition,  and  a  generous  warmth  of  heart, 
gratctul  for  love  on  our  part,  and  ardently  glow- 
ing with  a  more  than  equal  return  ;  these, 
wit/-  a  healthy  frame,  a  sound  vigorous  consci 


358 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


tution,  v/liich  jour  Tiigh  ranks  can  scarcely  ever 
hope  to  enjoy,  are  tlie  charms  of  lovely  woman 
in  my  l.umble  walk  of  life. 

This  is  the  greatest  effort  my  broken  arm  has 
vet  made.  Do,  let  me  hear  by  first  post,  how 
cher  petit  Monsieur  comes  on  with  his  small- 
pox. May  Almighty  Goodness  preserve  and  re- 
store Lim  J 


No.   CLII, 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

]\th  June,  1791. 

Let  me  interest  you,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
in  behalf  of  the  gentleman,  who  waits  on  you 
with  this.  He  is  a  I^Ir.  Clarke,  of  Moffat, 
principal  schoolmaster  there,   and  is  at    present 

suffering  severely  under  the of 

one  or  two  powerful  individuals  of  his  em- 
ployers.     He  is   accused  of  harshness  to 

that  were  |)lace(l  under  his  care. 
God  help  the  teacher,  if  a  man  of  sensibility 
and  genius,  and  such  is  my  friend  Clarke, 
when  a  booby  father  presents  him  with  his 
booby  son,  and  insists  on  lighting  up  the  rays 
of  science,  in  a  fellow's  head  whose  skull  is  im- 
pervious and  inaccessible  by  any  other  way 
than  a  positive  fracture  with  a  cvidgel  ;  a  fellow 
whom,  in  fjct.  it  savours  of  impiety  to  attempt 
making  a  scholar  of,  as  he  has  been  marked  a 
blockhead  in  the  book  of  fate,  at  the  almighty 
fiat  of  his  Creator. 

The  patrons  of  Moffat  school  are,  the  mi- 
nisters, magistrates,  and  town-council  of  Edin- 
burgh, and  us  the  business  comes  now  before 
them,  let  me  beg  my  dearest  friend  to  do  every 
tiling  in  his  ])ower  to  serve  the  interests  of  a 
man  of  genius  an<l  worth,  and  a  man  whom  1 
particularly  respect  and  esteem.  You  know 
Bome  good   fellows   among   the    magistracy  and 

council, but 

particularly,  you  have  much  to  say  with  a  re- 
verend ge  .tleuian  to  whom  you  have  the  ho- 
nour of  being  very  nearly  related,  and  whom 
ills  country  and  age  have  hid  the  honour  to 
produce.  1  need  not  name  tl-.e  historian  of 
Charles  V'.'  I  tell  him,  tluough  the  medium 
of  his  nephew's  itifluence,  thit  Mr.  Clarke  is  a 
gentleman  wlio  will  not  disgrace  even  his  pa- 
tronage. I  know  the  merits  of  the  cause  tbo- 
rouglily.  and  say  it,  thit  my  friend  is  falling 
a  sacriticc   to   iirejudiced   ignorance,    and 

God  help  the  chi. (hen  of  dependence! 
Hated  and  persecuted  by  their  enemies,  and  too 
often,  alas  !  alnio-^t  nnexceplionably,  received  by 
their  friends  with  disrespect  and  reproach,  under 
the  thin  disguise  ot  cold  civility  and  liumiliating 
advice.  O  to  be  a  stu  iy  savage,  stalking  iu 
the  pride  of  his  independence,  amid  the  solitary 


•  Dr.  RoU'rtion  was  uncle  to  Mr.  Cunnincham. 


wilds  of  his  deserts,  rather  than  in  civilized  ilfe, 
helplessly  to  tremble  for  a  subsistence,  precari- 
ous as  the  caprice  of  a  fellow-creature  !  Every 
man  has  his  virtues,  and  no  man  is  without  hia 
failings ;  and  curse  on  that  privileged  plain- 
dealing  of  friendship,  which  in  the  hour  of  my 
calamity,  cannot  reach  forth  the  helping  hand 
without  at  the  same  time  pointing  out  those 
failings,  and  apportioning  them  their  share  in 
procuring  my  present  distress.  My  friends,  for 
such  the  world  calls  ye,  and  such  ye  think  your- 
selves to  be,  pass  by  virtues  if  you  please,  but 
do,  also,  spare  my  follies  :  the  first  will  witness 
in  my  breast  for  themselves,  and  the  last  will 
give  pain  enough  to  the  ingenuous  mind  with- 
out  you.  And  since  deviating  more  or  less  from 
the  paths  of  piopriety  and  rectitude,  must  be 
incident  to  human  nature,  do  thou,  fortune, 
put  it  in  my  power,  always  from  myself,  and 
of  myself,  to  bear  the  consequences  of  those 
errors.  1  do  not  want  to  be  independent  that 
I  may  sin,  but  I  want  to  be  independent  in  my 
sinning. 

To  return  in  this  rambJing  letter  to  the  sub- 
ject I  set  out  with,  let  me  recommend  my  friend, 
Mr.  Clarke,  to  your  acquaintance  and  good  of- 
fices ;  his  worth  entitles  him  to  the  one,  and 
his  gratitude  will  merit  the  other.  I  long  much 
to  hear  from  you.     Adieu. 


No.  CLIII. 

FROM  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN. 

Dryhurgh  Abbey,  \lth  June,  1791. 
Lord  Buchan  has  the  pleasure  to  invite  Mr 
Bui  IIS  to  make  one  at  the  corotiation  of  the  bust 
of  Thomson,  on  Ediiam  Hill,  on  the  22d  of  Sep- 
tember ;  for  which  day  jierhaps  his  muse  may 
inspire  an  ode  suited  to  the  occasion.  Suppose 
Mr.  Burns  should,  leaving  the  Nith,  go  across 
the  country,  and  meet  the  Tweed  at  the  nearest 
point  from  his  faim — and,  wandering  along  the 
pastoral  banks  of  Thomson's  puic  parent  stream, 
catch  inspiration  on  the  devious  walk,  till  he 
finds  Lord  Buchan  sitting  on  the  ruins  of  Dry- 
burgh.  Tlieie  the  commendator  will  give  him 
a  he  irty  welcome,  and  try  to  light  his  lamp  at 
the  pure  flame  of  native  genius,  upon  the  altar 
of  Caledonian  virtue.  This  poetical  perambu- 
lation of  the  Tweed,  is  a  thought  of  the  lata 
Sir  Gilbert  Elliot's  and  of  Loril  Minto's,  follow- 
ed out  by  his  accL  Mplished  grandson,  tlie  pre- 
sent  Sir  Gilbert,  who,  having  been  with  I  onJ 
Buchan  lately,  th(  project  was  renewed,  an* 
will,  tliey  hope,  be  executed  in  the  uianner  pro 
posed. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


359 


No.  CLIV. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

MT    lORD, 

Language  sinks  under  the  ardour  of  itiy 
ffcliiig!',  when  I  would  thank  your  lordship  for 
the  lionour  you  have  done  me  in  inviting  uie 
to  make  one  at  the  coronation  of  the  hust  of 
Thomson.  In  my  first  enthusia!«n  in  reading 
file  card  you  did  me  the  honour  to  write  me,  I 
ovei  looked  every  ohstacle,  and  determined  to  go  ; 
but  I  tear  it  will  not  be  in  my  power.  A  week 
or  two's  dbsenee,  in  the  very  middle  of  my  har- 
vest, is  what  I  mueh  doubt  I  dare  not  venture 
on. 

Your  lordship  hints  at  an  ode  for  the  occa- 
sion :  l)ut  who  would  write  after  Collms  ?  I 
nad  over  his  verses  to  the  memory  of  Thomson, 
and  despaired. — I  got  indeed  to  the  lenstli  of 
thiee  or  four  stanzas,  in  the  way  of  address  to 
the  shade  of  the  burd,  on  crowning  his  bust. 
I  shall  trouble  your  lordship,  with  the  subjoin- 
ed copy  of  them,  whieh,  I  am  afraid,  will  be 
but  too  convincing  a  proof  how  unequal  I  am 
tu  the  task.  However,  it  affords  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  approaching  your  lordship,  and  declar- 
iiig  how  sincerely  aud  gratefully  I  have  the  ho- 
cuur  to  be,  &c. 


(  See  p.  55.) 


No.   CLV. 
TO  JIR.  THOMAS  SLOAN. 

CAR*  OF  \VM.  KENNEDY,  ESQ.    MANCHESTER. 

Ellhland,  Sept.  1,  1791. 

»IV  DFAR  SLOAN, 

Suspense  is  worse  than  disappointment,  for 
that  reason  I  hurry  to  tell  you  that  1  just  now 
learn  that  Mr.  Ballantine  does  not  chouse  to  in- 
terfere more  in  tlie  l)usiness.  I  am  tiuly  sorry 
for  it,  but  cannot  help  it. 

You  blame  me  lor  not  writing  you  sooner, 
but  you  will  please  to  recollect  that  you  omit- 
ted one  little  necessary  piece  of  information  ; 

your  address. 

However  you  know  equally  well,  my  hurried 
life,  indolent    temper,   and   strength   of  attach- 
ment.    It    must   be   a    longer   period   than   the 
ongcst  life   "  in  the  world's   hale  and   undegc- : 
Derate  days,"  that  will  make  mc  forget  so  dear  I 
a  frien  J  as  Mr.  Sioan.     1  am   prodigal  enough  ' 
tt  times,  but  I  will  not  part  with  such   a  trea- 
sure as  that. 

I  t:an  easily  enter  into   the  embarras  of  your 
present  situation.     You  know  mv  favouiite  quo 
tation  from  Young — . 

-"  On  Reason  build  Resolvk 


And  that  other  favourite  one  from  Thomson* 
Alfred— 

"  MHiat  proves  the  hero  truely  great, 
Is,  never,  never  to  despair." 

Or,  shall  I  quote  you  an  author  of  your  ac- 
quaintance ? 

"  — Whether  doing,  suffering,  or  forbear- 
ing, 
You  may  do  miracles  by — persevering." 

I  have  nothing  new  to  tell  you.  The  few 
friends  we  have  are  going  on  in  the  olrl  way.  I 
sold  my  crop  on  this  day  se'night,  and  sold  it 
very  well.  A  guinea  an  acre,  on  an  average, 
above  vaue.  IJut  such  a  scene  of  drunkenness 
was  hardly  ever  seen  in  this  country.  After 
the  roup  was  over,  about  thirty  peo|,le  engaged 
in  a  battle,  every  man  for  his  own  hand,  and 
fought  it  out  for  three  hours.  Nor  was  tlie 
scene  much  better  in  the  liouse.  No  fighting, 
iadeed,  but  folks  lying  drunk  on  the  floor,  and 
decanting,  until  both  my  dogs  got  so  drunk  by 
attending  them,  that  they  could  not  stand. 
You  will  easily  guess  how  I  enjcyed  the  scene  ; 
as  I  was  no  farther  over  than  )ou  used  to  see 
me. 

Mrs.  B.  and  family  have  been  in  Ayrshita 
these  many  weeks. 

Farewell !  and  God  bless  you,  my  dear  Friend ! 


sir. 


That  eoluiim  of  true  majesty  in  man." 1 


Nn.  CLVL 
FROM  THE  EARL  OF  BUCHAN 
Dryhurgh  Ahhey,  \Qth  September,  179L 

Your  address  to  the  shade  of  Thomson  has 
been  well  received  by  the  puMic  ;  and  though  I 
should  di>aiiprove  of  your  allowing  l\-.;asus  to 
riile  with  you  off  the  field  of  your  lioiiourdile 
and  useful  profession,  yet  I  cannot  resist  an  ioi. 
pul.se  which  I  feel  at  thi.s  moment  to  suggest  tc 
your  niiise,  Jhiivcut  Hume,  as  an  excellent  fnih- 
ject  for  hei  grateful  song,  in  whieh  the  peculiar 
aspect  and  manners  of  our  country  might  fur- 
nish  an  excellent  portrait  and  la^d,^cape  of  Scot- 
land, lor  the  employment  of  happy  moments  ot 
leisure  and  reeess,  fioni  your  more  important 
oceiip.itions. 

Your  Ilullmeen,  jnd  Saturdai/  Niylit,  will 
remain  to  distant  posterity  as  interesting  jiic- 
tures  «f  rural  innocence  and  hapjiiness  in  yout 
native  country,  and  were  happily  written  in  tht, 
dialect  of  the  people  ;  but  ILirieat  IJome  bt-it^g 
suited  to  descriptive  poetr\.  except  where  collo- 
quial, may  escape  disguise  of  a  dialect  which  ad- 
mits of  no  elegance  or  dignity  of  expression. 
Without  the  assistance  of  any  god  or  goddess, 
ind  without  the  invocation  of  any  foreign  muse, 
you  may  convey  in  epistolary  form  the  de»criu' 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CLVirr. 
TO  MR.  AINSLIE. 

MT  DEAR  AINSLIE, 

Can  you  minister  to  a  mint!  diseased  ?  Csa 
you,  amid  the  honors  of  penitence,  regret,  re. 
morse,  head-ache,  nausea,  ami  al)  the  rest  of  the 
d — d  hoimds  of  hell,  that  beset  a  poor  wretch, 
who  has  been  guilty  of  the  sin  of  drunkenness— — 
can  you  speak  peace  to  a  tioulileil  soul  ? 

Miserable  perdu  that  I  am,  1  have  tried  every 
thing  that  used  to  amuse  me,  but  in  vain  :  here 
must  I  sit  a  monument  of  the  ven^;eanc«  laid  up 
in  store  for  the  wicked,  slowly  counting  every 
ihick  of  the  clock  as  it  slowly — sloulv  numbers 
over  these  lazy  scoundrels  of  hours,  who,  d — n 
them,  are  ranked  up  before  me,  every  one  at  his 
neighbour's  backside,  and  every  one  with  a  bur- 
then of  anguish  on  his  back,  to  pour  on  my  de- 
voted head — and  there  is  none  to  pity  me.  My 
wife  scolds  me  !  my  business  torments  me,  and 
my  sins  come  staring  tne  in  the  face,  every  one 
telling  a  more  bitter  talc  thau  his  fellow.— 
Wheii  I  tell  you  even  ....  has  lost  its 
i  power  to  please,  you  will  guess  something  of 
Kr  LAlvV,  my  l\ell   within,   and   all  around   me — I   began 

I  wouT.n,  as  usual,  have  availed  myself  of  the    EUlanks  and  Elibraes,   but  the  stanza  fell  un- 


{Scn  of  a  scene  sn  pl.iddcnirg  nnd  picturesque, 
urith  all  the  ioncomitant  local  position,  land- 
•cape  and  costume  ;  contrasting  the  peace,  im- 
provement, and  ha|ipiness  of  th.e  borders  of  the 
once  hostile  nations  of  Britain,  with  their  former 
oppression  and  misery,  and  showing,  in  lively 
and  beiutiful  colours,  the  beauties  and  joys  of  a 
rural  lite.  .\nd  as  the  unvitiated  heart  is  na- 
turally disposeil  to  overflow  in  giatitude  in  the 
moment  of  [)rosperity,  such  a  subject  would  fur- 
nish you  with  an  amiable  opportunity  of  perpe- 
tuating the  names  of  G.-ncairn,  Aliller,  and 
your  other  eminent  benefactors ;  which  from 
what  I  know  of  your  spirit,  and  have  seen  of 
your  poems  and  letters,  will  not  deviate  from 
the  chastity  of  ])raise,  that  is  so  uniformly  unit- 
ed tu  true  t;iste  and  genius. 

I  am,  Sir,  8cc. 


No.  CLVII. 
TO  LADY  E.  CUNNINGHAM 


privilege  your  gnodness  has  alloweil  nie,  of  send 
leg  you  any  tliirig  1  compose  in  my  poetical 
way  ;  but  as  1  had  resolved,  so  soon  as  the 
Vjck  ot  Miy  ii  reparable  loss  would  allow  me,  to 
Dav  a  trib'ite  to  mv  late  benefactor,  1  determined 
M  make  t'li.it  the  fiist  piece  I  should  do  myself 
the  honour  of  sending  von.      Mad    the   wing  of 


enjoyed,  and  unfinished  from  my  listless  tongue  ; 
at  last  1  luckily  thought  of  reading  over  an  old 
letter  of  yours,  that  lay  by  nie  In  my  book-case, 
and  I  felt  something  lor  the  first  tune  since  I 
opened  my  eyes,  of  pleasurable  existence. 
Well — 1  begin  to  breathe  a  little,  siiu:e  1  began 
j  to  write  you.      How  aie  you,  and  wbat  are  vou 


my  fancy  Iict  ecpial  to  the  ardour  of  my  heart,    doing  ?    How  goes  law  ?   Apropos,   for  connec- 


tion's sake  do  not  address  to  me  sujjervisor,  for 
that  is  an  honour  I  cannot  pretend  to — I  am  on 
the  list,  as  we  call  it,  lor  a  supervisor,  and  will 
be  called  out  by  and  bye  to  act  one;  but  at 
to  show   as  ojienly  that   my  heart    giows,  j  |,resent,  I  am  3  simp'e  ganger,  tho'  t'other  diy  I 

got  an  appointment  to  an  cxci-e  division  of  L.5i5 
jier  uiin.  better  than  the  rest.      My  present  in 
come,  down  money,  is  L.70  jier  ann. 


the  enclosed  bad  been  nuich  more  worthy  your 
piTUsal  ;  as  it  is,  1  beg  leave  to  lay  it  at  your 
ladv?hip's  feet.  As  all  the  world  knows  my 
oliliiiations  to  the  late  Karl  of  Glencairn,  I  would 
wish 

ami  shall  ever  glow,  with  the  most  gratelul 
wnse  and  reineniloance  of  his  lordship's  good- 
aess.  'I'he  sables  1  did  m\self  the  honnur  to 
wear  to  his  lordship's  memory,  were  not  the 
"niocktiy  of  woe.''  Nor  shail  my  gratitude 
perish  with  lue  :  —  If,  among  my  children,  I 
t!i,ill  have  a  son  tliat  has  a  heart,  he  sli.ill  band 
it  iliiwn  to  his  child  as  a  family  honour,  and  a 
family  debt,  that  my  dearest  existence  1  owe  to 
the  uolile  house  oi  (ileiuMirn  ! 

I  was  aliont  to  say,  my  Inly,  th.it  if  you  thuk 
the  poem  may  venluie  to  see  the  light,  I  wonM, 
in  some  way  or  other,  give  it  to  the  world.* 


•    t  lip  p.<-m  eniloiitil.  Is  'MiC   Ul'Htni  for  Jamtt, 


I  h  ive  one  or  two  good  fellows  here  whoa 
you  would  be  .;lad  to  know. 


No.  CLIX. 

FROM  S.R  JOHN  M'HITEFOORD. 

SIR,  AViir  Miv/Uile,  in/ A  Oct.  1T91 

Accept  of  my  thanks  for  your  favour  with 
the  Lamrnl  on  tl.c  death  of  my  much  esteemeii 
fi  lend,  and  y(uirwoitliy  patron,  the  perusal  of 
which  pleased  and  .dfei'te<l  me  much.  The  line« 
aillressed  to  me  are  very  llittiring. 

t  have  always  tnou^ht  it  most  natural  to  s'lp 
>Mie,  (uiid  a  Htruag  uigunu'ut  iri  favour  of  i  fu 


yei 


ture  existence)  tnat  wYfTi  we  see  an  lionoiinible 
aiitl  viitiioiis  man  labouring  under  boilily  iiilir- 
niitie<,  :inil  oppre-sed  by  the  fiowns  of  torluin' 
in  tills  world,  that  thore  was  a  happier  state  be- 
yond tlie  grave  ;  where  that  worth  and  b(  nour 
wiiieh  weie  negUcted  heie,  would  meet  with 
tiii'ir  just  reward,  and  where  temporal  misfor- 
loiies  would  reeeivu  an  eternal  recompense.  Let 
us  cherish  this  hope  for  our  departed  friend  ; 
and  moderate  our  grief  for  that  loss  we  have 
fu>tait.ed  ;  knowing  that  he  cannot  return  to 
us,  but  we  n-.ay  go  to  liiin. 

Hcinenibcr  nie  to  your  wife,  and  with  every 
good  wish  for  the  prosperity  of  you  and  your 
family,  believe  me  at  all  times, 

Your  most  sincere  friend, 

JOHN  WIIITEFOORD. 


No.  CLX. 
FROM  A.   F.   TYTLER,  Esq. 

Erlinhurgh,  27th  Nov.  1791. 

You  bnve  much  reason  to  blame  me  for  ne 
gli'cting  till  now  to  acknowledge  the  receipt  of 
B  most  agreeable  packet,  cnnt.iining  The  W/ii^- 
tle,  a  baihul  ;  and  I'lie  Linneut ;  which  reached 
nie  about  six  weeks  auo  in  London,  from  whence 
I  am  just  returned.  Your  letter  was  forwarded 
to  me  there  from  Edmhurgh,  where,  as  I  ob- 
served by  the  date,  it  had  lain  for  some  days. 
This  wys  an  additional  reason  for  me  to  have 
answered  it  immeiliately  on  receiving  it  ;  but 
the  truth  wa«,  the  bu-lle  of  business,  engage- 
ments and  confusion  of  one  kind  or  anotl.er,  in 
which  I  found  myself  immersed  all  the  time  I 
was  in  London,  ubsoluttly  put  it  out  of  my 
power.  ]5iit  to  have  done  with  apologies,  let 
me  now  endeavour  to  prove  myself  in  some  de- 
gree deserving  of  the  very  flattering  compliment 
you  pay  me,  by  giving  you  at  leist  a  frank  and 
candid,  if  it  should  not  be  a  judicious  criticism 
on  the  poems  you  sent  me. 

The  ballad  of  The  Whiit/e  is,  in  my  opinion, 
trulv  excellent.  The' old  tiadition  which  you 
have  taken  up  is  the  best  adapted  for  a  Biccha- 
nalian  ci'm])osition  of  any  I  have  ever  met  with, 
and  you  have  done  it  foil  justice.  In  the  first 
place,  the  strokes  of  wit  arise  naturally  from 
the  subject,  and  ar«  uncommonly  happy.  For 
example, — 

"  The   bands  grew  the  tighter  the  more  they 
were  wet." 

'*  Cyuthia  'linted  she'd  find  them  next  morn." 

*  Thnigh  Fate  said  a  hero  should  perish  in  light. 
So  up  rose  bright  Pl.iebus  and  down  fell  the 
kni,:;ht." 

mh  the  celt  place,  you  are  singularly  happy  in 


the  diRcrimlnation  of  your  here  es,  and  in  givinj; 
e.ich  the  sentiments  and  language  suitable  to  his 
character.  And,  lastly,  you  have  much  merit 
ill  the  delicacy  of  the  paiii'u'yric  which  you  have 
contrived  to  throw  on  eich  of  the  dniinntis  per- 
soncr,  jierfectly  ajipinpri ate  to  his  iharacter. 
The  compliment  to  .Sir  Hubert,  the  blunt  sol- 
dier, is  peculiarlv  line.  In  short,  this  composi- 
tion, in  my  opinion,  does  you  great  honour,  and 
I  see  not  a  line  or  a  word  in  it  which  1  couid 
wish  to  be  altered. 

As  to  7he  Lament,  I  suspect,  from  scime  ex- 
pressions in  your  letter  to  me,  that  yu  are  more 
doubtful  with  respect  to  the  merits  of  this  piece 
than  of  the  other,  anil  I  own  I  think  you  lune 
reason  ;  for  although  it  contains  some  beautihil 
stanzas,  as  the  first,  "  The  wind  blew  Imllow," 
&c.  the  fifih,  "  Ye  scatter'd  birds  ;"  the  thir- 
teenth, "  Awake  thy  la>t  s.id  voice,"  Sic.  Yet 
it  appears  to  me  faulty  as  a  whole,  and  inferior 
to  several  of  tho-e  yon  have  already  pulilislied 
in  the  same  strain.  My  principal  olyecMon  lies 
against  the  plan  of  the  piece.  I  think  it  was 
unnecessary  and  improper  to  put  the  lamenta- 
tii'n  in  the  mouth  of  a  fictitious  character,  au 
ayed  burd. — It  had  been  much  better  to  hsve 
l.iiiiented  your  patron  in  your  own  person,  to 
have  expressed  your  genuine  feilings  for  liis  loss, 
and  to  have  spoken  the  Iai.i;u.ige  of  nature  rather 
than  that  of  fiction  on  the  subject.  Compare 
this  with  your  poem  of  the  same  title  in  your 
])rinted  volume,  which  begins,  ()  ihou  /-ti/e 
Orb  !  and  oliserve  what  it  is  that  forms  the 
charm  of  that  composition.  It  is,  that  it  speaks 
the  language  of  truth  and  ci  nature.  The  change 
is,  in  my  opinion,  injudicious  too  in  this  respect, 
that  an  agtd  bard  has  much  less  need  of  a  pa- 
tron and  protector  than  a  yoimy  one.  I  have 
thus  given  you,  with  much  freedom,  my  opinion 
of  both  the  pieces.  I  should  have  made  a  very 
ill  return  to  the  comjihment  you  paid  nie,  if  1 
had  given  you  any  olher  than  my  genuine  sen- 
tiiiieiits. 

It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  from 
you  when  you  find  leisure,  and  I  beg  you  will 
lielieve  me  ever,  dear  Sir,  yours,  &c. 


No.  CLXI. 

TO  MISS  DA  VIES.- 

It  is  impossible.  Madam,  that  the  generout 
warmth  and  angelic  purity  of  your  youthful 
mind,  can  have  iny  de.i  of  that  mural  ili>e.i»e 
uniier  which  I  uanappily  must  rank  a>  tlie  chief 
of  sinners  ;  I  mean  a  turpitmle  of  the  mora' 
powers  that  may  be  called,  a  lethargy  of  con- 
science.— In  vain  remorse  rears  her  horrent 
crest,  and  routes  all  lier  snakes ;  benea'h  the 
di-adly  tixed  eye  and  le.iden  hand  of  induJenct, 
their  wildest  ire  iicharniid  Intci  the  torpor  of  ih« 
bat,  slumliNiing  out  tin- ri;;ours  of  ^viiiter  in  thi 
VV 


862 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


chink  of  a  rained  wall.  Nothing  less.  Madam, 
could  have  inadt  me  so  long  neglect  your  oblig- 
ing commands.  Indeed  I  had  one  apology — the 
bagatelle  was  not  worth  presenting.      Besides, 

10  strongly  am  I  iiterc-ted  in  INIiss  D 's  fate 

and  welfare  in  the  serious  business  of  life,  amid 
its  chances  and  changes  ;  that  to  make  her  the 
subject  of  a  silly  ballad,  is  downright  mockery  of 
these  ardent  feelings  ;  'tis  like  an  impertinent 
jest  to  a  dying  friend. 

Gracious  Heaven  !  why  this  disparity  be- 
tween our  wishes  and  our  powers  ?  Why  is  the 
most  generous  wish  to  make  others  blest,  impo- 
tent and  ineffectual — as  the  idle  breeze  that 
crosses  the  pathless  desert  ?  In  my  walks  of  life 
I  have  met  with  a  few  people  to  whom  how 
gladly  would  I  hive  said — "  Go,  be  happy  !  I 
know  that  your  hearts  have  been  wounded  by 
the  scorn  of  the  proud,  whom  accident  has  plac- 
ed above  you — or  worse  still,  in  whose  hand  are, 
perhaps,  ])laced  many  of  the  comforts  of  your 
life.  But  there!  ascend  that  rock,  Indepen- 
dfnce,  and  look  justly  down  on  their  littleness 
of  soul.  Make  the  worthless  tremble  under  your 
indignation,  and  the  foolish  sink  before  your  con- 
tempt ;  and  largely  impart  that  happiness  to 
othei  s,  which,  I  am  certain,  will  give  yourselves 
so  much  ])leasure  to  bestow  !" 

Why,  dear  Madam,  must  I  wake  from  this  de- 
lightful reverie,  and  find  it  all  a  dream  ?  Why, 
amid  my  generous  enthusiasm,  must  I  find  my- 
self poor  and  poweiless  incapable  of  wiping  one 
tear  from  the  eye  of  pity,  or  of  adding  one  com- 
fort to  the  friend  I  love  ! — Out  upon  the  world  ! 
say  I,  that  its  affairs  are  administered  so  ill  .' 
They  talk  of  reform  ;— good  Heaven  !  what  a 
reform  would  1  make  among  the  sons,  and  even 
the  daughters  of  men  ! — Down,  immediately, 
should  go  fools  from  the  high  places  where  mis- 
begotten chance  has  peiked  them  up,  and  through 
life  should  they  skulk,  ever  haunted  by  their  na- 
tive insignificance,  as  the  body  marches  accom- 
panied by  its  shadow. — As  for  a  much  more  for- 
midable class,  the  knaves,  I  am  at  a  loss  what  to 
do  with  them  :  Had  1  a  world,  there  should  not 
be  a  knave  in  it. 


But  the  hand  that  coulil  give,  I  wou/d  liberally 
Sll  ;  and  I  would  pour  delight  on  the  heart  that 
?ould  kindly  forgive,  and  generously  love. 

Stdl  the  inequalities  of  his  life  are,  among 
men,  comparatively  tolerable — but  theie  is  a  de- 
licacy, a  tindernext,  accompanying  erery  view 
in  which  we  can  place  lovely  Woman,  that  are 
grated  and  shocked  at  the  rude,  caj)riciuus  dis- 
tinctions of  fortune.  Woman  is  the  blourl-royal 
'>f  life  ;  let  there  be  slight  ilcgrees  of  precedency 
•mong  them — but  let  them  be  all  sacred. 
Whether  this  last  sentiment  be  right  or  wrong, 
I  am  not  accountable  ;  it  is  un  origiual  compo- 
Miat  feature  of  my  mind. 


No.  CLXn. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP 

ElUdand,  11  th  December,  »79) 
Many  thanks  to  you,  Madam,  for  your  gooi 
news  respecting  the  little  floweret  and  the  mo- 
ther plant.  I  hope  my  poetic  prayers  have 
been  heard,  and  will  be  answered  up  to  tht 
warmest  sincerity  of  their  fullest  extent ;  and 
then  Mrs.  Henri  will  find  her  little  darling  the 
representative  of  his  late  parent,  in  every  thing 
but  his  abridged  existence. 

I  have  just  finished  the  following  song,  which, 
to  a  lady  the  descendant  of  Wallace,  and  many 
heroes  of  his  truly  illustrious  line,  and  herseli 
the  mother  of  several  soldiers,  needs  neither  pre  ■ 
face  nor  apology. 

{Death  Song.      Seep.  230) 


The  circumstance  that  gave  rise  to  the  fore- 
going verses  was,  looking  over,  with  a  musicai 
friend,  IM'Donald's  collection  of  Highland  airs 
I  was  struck  with  one,  an  Isle  of  Skve  tune 
entitled  Or  an  an  Aoig,  or.  The  SoJig  of  Death 
to  the  measure  of  which  I  have  adapted  mj 
stanzas.  I  have  of  late  composed  two  or  thref 
other  little  pieces,  which  eie  yon  full  orbed 
moon,  whose  broad  impudent  face  now  stares  at 
old  mother  earth  all  night,  shall  have  shrunk 
into  a  modest  crescent,  just  peejiing  forth  at 
dewy  dawn,  I  shall  find  an  hour  to  transcribt 
tor  you.     jI  Dieuje  vous  commende  ! 


LETTERS,  1792. 

No.  CLXin. 

TO  FRANCIS  GROSE,  Esq.  F.A.S. 

SIR,  1792. 

I  BELIEVE  among  all  our  Scots  literati  you 
have  not  met  with  Professor  Dugald  Stewart, 
who  fills  the  moril  philosojihy  chair  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Edinbi  rgh.  To  say  that  he  is  a  man 
of  the  first  pattt,  and  what  is  more,  a  man  o, 
the  first  worth,  to  a  gentleman  of  your  general 
acquaintance,  and  who  so  mi;ch  enjoys  the  lux- 
ury of  unencumbered  freedom  and  undisturbed 
privacy,  is  not  perhaps  retomniendatlon  enough  : 
— but  when  I  inform  you  that  ]\lr.  Stewart'a 
principal  characterisMc  is  v(.nr  favourite  fea 
tore  ;  Mu^  sterling  indepeiiilciu-e  of  miiul,  which, 
though  every  man's  right,  so  tew  men  have  the 
courage  to  claim,  and  fewer  st;ll  the  m.ignani- 
mity  to  support  ; — When  I  till  you,  that  unse- 
iluced  by  sjflenilour,  and  undisguste<l  by  wretclv- 
edncss,  he  appreciates  the  merits  of  the  varioui 
actors  in  the  great  drama  of  life,  merely  as  tho 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


363 


perfinii  tlu-ir  parts — in  short,  he  is  a  man  after 
your  own  heart,  and  1  comply  with  his  earnest 
re<iue>t  in  letting  you  know  that  he  wishes 
above  all  things  to  meet  with  you.  His  house, 
Catrine,  is  within  less  than  a  mile  of  Sorn  Cas- 
tle, whieh  you  proposed  visiting  ;  or  if  you 
eiuil.l  transmit  him  the  enclosed,  he  would  with 
the  gri'atest  pleasure,  meet  you  any  where  in  the 
neiglil)OurhooH.  I  write  to  Ayrshire  to  inform 
I\Ir.  Stewart  tliat  I  have  acquitted  myself  of  my 
promise.  Should  your  time  and  spirits  permit 
your  meeting  with  Mr.  Stewart,  'tis  well  ;  if 
not,  I  hope  you  will  forgive  this  liberty,  and  I 
have  at  least  an  opportunity  of  assuring  you 
with  what  truth  ar><l  respect, 
I  am.  Sir, 

Your  great  admirer. 

And  very  humble  servant. 


No.  CLXIV. 
TO  THE  SAAIE. 

Among  the  many  witch  stories  I  have  heard 
relating  to  Alloway  kirk,  I  distinctly  remember 
only  two  or  three. 

Upon  a  stormy  night,  amid  whistling  squalls 
of  wind,  and  bitter  blasts  of  hail  ;  in  short,  on 
Buch  a  night  as  the  devil  would  choose  to  take 
the  air  in  ;  a  farmer  or  farmer's  servant  was 
plo<]ding  and  plashing  homeward  with  his  plough 
irons  on  his  .shoulder,  having  been  getting  some 
repairs  on  them  at  a  neighbouring  smithy.  His 
way  l.iy  by  the  kii  k  of  Alloway,  and  being  ra- 
ther on  the  anxious  look  out  in  approaching  a 
place  so  well  known  to  be  a  favourite  haunt  of 
the  devil  and  the  devil's  friends  and  emissaries, 
he  was  struck  aghast  by  discovering  tlirough 
t!ie  hcrrora  of  the  storm  and  stormy  night,  a 
Huht,  which,  on  his  nearer  approach,  plainly 
jnowcd  itself  to  proceed  from  the  haunted  edi- 
fice. Whether  he  had  been  fortified  fiom  above 
on  his  ilevout  supplication,  as  is  customary  with 
people  when  they  suspect  the  inmiediate  pre- 
.sence  of  Satan  ;  or  whether,  according  to  ano- 
ther custom,  he  had  got  courageously  drunk  at 
t.Se  smithy,  I  will  not  pretend  to  determine  ; 
b.it  so  it  was  that  he  ventured  to  go  up  to,  nay 
into  the  very  kirk.  As  good  luck  would  have 
it  his  temerity  came  off  unpunished. 

The  members  of  the  infernal  junto  were  all 
out  on  some  midnight  business  or  other,  and  he 
saw  nothing,  but  a  kind  of  kettle  or  caldron,  de- 
pending liom  the  roof,  over  the  (ire,  simmering 
tome  heads  of  unchristened  childien,  limbs  of 
executed  malefactors,  &c.  for  the  business  of  the 
night. — It  was,  in  foi  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound, 
witli  the  honest  plooghmin:  so  without  cere- 
mony he  unhooked  the  caldron  from  off  the  fire, 
itid  pouring  out  the  damnable  ingredients,  in- 
veiti^i  *  on  his  he.ui,  ami  carried  it  fairly  home, 
»'h»"-e  it  remained  long  in  the  family,  a  liv  iig 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  ston'. 


Another  story  which  .  can  prove  to  be  tqi'dU 
ly  authentic,  was  as  follows  •. — 

On  a  market  day  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  a  farBi- 
er  from  Carrick,  and  consequently  whose  way 
lay  by  the  very  .gate  of  Alloway  kiik-yird,  in 
order  to  cross  the  river  Doon  at  the  old  bi  idge, 
which  is  about  two  or  three  hundred  yanis  fur- 
ther on  than  the  said  gate,  had  been  iKtained 
by  his  business,  tdl  by  the  time  he  reached  Al- 
loway i>  was  the  wizard  hour,  between  night 
and  morning. 

Though  he  was  terrified,  with  a  blaze  stream- 
ing from  the  kirk,  yet  as  it  is  a  well-known  fact 
that  to  turn  back  on  these  occasions  is  ruiming 
by  far  the  greatest  risk  of  mischief,  he  prudent- 
ly advanceil  on  liisroad.  When  he  had  reached 
the  gate  of  the  kirk-yard,  he  was  surprised  and 
entertained,  through  the  ribs  and  arches  of  ao 
old  gothic  window,  which  still  faces  the  high- 
way, to  see  a  dance  of  witches  merrily  footing  it 
round  their  old  sooty  blackguard  master,  who 
was  keeping  them  all  alive  with  the  power  of 
his  bagpipe.  The  farmer  stop})ing  his  horse  to 
observe  them  a  little,  could  plainly  descry  the 
faces  of  many  old  women  of  his  acquaintance 
and  neighbourhood.  How  the  gentleman  was 
dressed,  tradition  does  not  say  ;  but  the  ladies 
were  all  in  their  smocks  :  and  one  of  them  hap- 
pening urduckily  to  have  a  smock  wliich  wai 
cimsiderably  too  short  to  answer  all  the  purpose 
of  that  piece  of  dress,  our  faimer  was  so  tickled, 
that  he  involuntarily  burbt  out,  with  a  loud 
laugh,  "  Weel  luppen,  Maggy  wi'  the  short 
sark!"  and  recollecting  himself,  instantly  spur- 
red his  horse  to  the  top  of  his  speed.  I  need 
not  mention  the  universally  known  fact,  that  no 
diabolical  power  can  pursue  you  beyond  the 
middle  of  a  running  stream.  Lucky  it  was  for 
the  poor  farmer  that  the  river  Doon  was  so  near, 
for  notwithstanding  the  speed  of  his  horse,  which 
was  a  good  one,  against  he  reached  the  midille 
of  the  arch  of  the  bridge,  and  consequently  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  the  pursuing,  vengeful  hags, 
were  so  close  at  his  heels,  that  one  of  them  actual- 
ly sprung  to  seize  him  ;  but  it  was  too  late,  no- 
thing was  on  her  side  of  the  stream  but  the 
horse's  tail,  which  immediately  gave  way  at  her 
infernal  grip,  as  if  blasted  by  a  stroke  of  light- 
ning ;  but  the  farmer  was  beyond  her  reacK, 
However,  the  unsightly,  tail-less  conditum  ot 
the  vigorous  steed  was  to  the  last  hour  of  the 
noble  creature's  life,  an  awful  warning  to  the 
Carrick  farmers,  not  to  stay  too  late  in  Ayr 
maikets. 

The  last  relation  1  shall  give,  though  eijua'lj 
true,  is  not  so  well  identified  as  the  two  forme--, 
with  regard  to  the  scene  ;  but  as  the  best  autho- 
rities give  it  for  Alloway,  I  shall  relate  it. 

On  a  summer's  evening,  about  the  time  that 
nature  puts  on  her  sables  to  mourn  the  expiiy 
of  the  chearful  day,  a  shepherd  boy  belonging 
to  a  farmer  in  the  immediate  neighbouihoo;!  of 
Alloway  kirk,  had  just  folded  his  ch.4rge,  aiid 
was  returning  home.  Ashe  passed  the  klik. 
in  the  adjoining  field,  he  fell  in  with  a  cre«  e 


SG4 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


men  and  women,  wno  were  busy  pulling  stems 
of  the  plant  ragwort.  He  observed  tbat  us 
eacb  person  (lulled  a  ragwort,  he  or  sbe  got 
astride  of  it,  and  called  out,  "  up  borsie!"  on 
wliich  the  ragwort  flew  off,  like  Pegasus, 
through  the  air  with  its  rider.  Th.e  foolish  boy 
likewise  pulled  his  ragwort,  and  crieii  with  the 
rest,  "  up  borsie !"  and,  strange  to  tell,  away 
be  flew  with  the  company.  The  first  stage  at 
wh.ich  the  cavalcade  stopt,  was  a  merchant's 
wine  cellar  in  Dourdeaux,  where,  without  say- 
ing by  your  leave,  they  quaffed  away  at  the  best 
the  cellar  could  afford,  until  the  morning,  foe  to 
the  imps  and  works  of  darkness,  threatened  to 
throw  light  on  the  matter,  and  frightened  them 
from  their  carousals. 

The  poor  shepherd  Idd,  being  equally  a 
stranger  to  the  scene  and  the  liquor,  heedlessly 
got  himselt  drunk ;  and  when  the  rest  took 
horse,  he  fell  asleep,  and  was  found  so  next  day 
by  some  of  the  peojile  belonging  to  the  merchant. 
Somebody  that  understood  Scotch,  asking  him 
what  he  was,  he  said  he  was  such-a-one's  herd 
in  Alloway,  and  by  some  means  or  other  getting 
home  again,  he  lived  long  to  tell  the  world  the 
wondrous  tale. 

I  am,  &c.  &c.* 


No.  CLXV. 
TO  MRS.  DUXLOP. 

bth  Jamtary,  1792. 

You  «ce  my  hurried  life,  Madam  :  I  can  only 
eoinniaiid  starts  of  time ;  h(iwe\er,  I  am  glad 
of  one  thing  ;  since  1  finished  the  other  sheet, 
the  politici!  blast  that  threatened  my  welfare 
is  overblown.  I  have  correspomleil  with  Com- 
niissiiiuer  Cirahani,  for  the  Hoard  had  made 
me  the  subject  of  their  animadversions;  ami 
now  I  lu've  the  pleasure  of  informing  you,  that 
all  is  set  to  rights  in  that  quarter.  Now,  as  to 
these   informers,    may  the   ('evil   be  let   loo-ie  to 

but   bold  !    I  was  prayitig   most  fervently 

in  my  last  slieet,  and  I  must  not  so  soon  fall  a 
swearing  in  this. 

Alas  !  how  little  do  the  wantonly  or  idlv  of- 
fwiiiuH  think  what  mischief  they  do  by  their 
lualiiioMs  insinuations,  indirect  impertinence, 
or    tbonghtlcKs    blabbings.      M  hat   a   difference 


*  This  letter  wa'  topic  d  from  the  Cmswa  Litcruria, 
l7Kfi.  Ii  was  coiiiinuriio^iteil  to  tile  editor  of  that  w'ork 
Ov  Mr.  Gilchrist  of  SUunford,  with  the  following  re- 
mark. 

"  In  a  collection  of  miscellaneous  ptipcrs  of  the  An- 
tiiiii  oy  (■<ri>vc  vvhoh  I  pilrchascd  C  few  years  since, 
I  (■iiinil  ihc  followiiif;  letter  written  to  him  by  Hums, 
t»licii  the  former  was  collecting  the  Nntiquitics  of  Scot- 
land ;  When  I  premise  it  was  on  the  second  tradition 
that  he  aflerw.irils  formed  tlic  inimllah'e  Ia!e  of  "  Tarn 
ONhaiitcr,"  I  cannot  <l"ubtof  its  I>ciM)J  read  with  yreat 
interest.  It  were  "  hiiriiilii,'  d.iy-li(;ht"  to  |>  liiit  ciut  to 
I  leader,  (and  wh(>  is  not  a  icailcr  ol  liMrns?/  the 
(hoiif^hts  he  iftcrwarus  iianiiiiUntcd  iiit^  tiic  rhythini- 
<ial  narr;<   ve." 

O.  G. 


there  is  in  intrinsic  worth,  candour,  benevor 
lence,  generosity,  kindness — in  all  the  charitieg 
and  all  the  virtues,  between  one  class  of  human 
beings  and  another.  For  instance,  the  amiable 
circle   I  so  lately  mixed  with  in  the  hospitable 

hall  of  D ,  their  generous  hearts — their  un- 

contaminated  dignified  minds — their  informed 
and  polished  understandings — what  a  contrast, 
when  compared — if  such  comparing  were  not 
downright  sacrilege — with  the  soul  of  the  mis- 
creant who  can  deliberately  plot  the  destruc- 
tion of  an  honest  man  that  never  offended  him, 
and  with  a  grin  of  satisfaction  see  the  unfortu- 
nate being,  his  faithful  wife,  and  prattliitg  inno- 
cents, turned  over  to  beggary  and  ruin  ! 

Your  cup,  my  dear  Madam,  arrived  safe.  I 
had  two  worthy  fellows  dining  with  me  the 
other  day,  when  I,  with  great  formality,  pro- 
fluced  my  whigmelcerie  cup,  and  told  them  that 
it  had  been  a  family-piece  among  the  descend- 
ants of  Sir  William  Wallace.  This  roused  such 
an  enthusiasm,  that  they  insisted  on  bumpering 
the  punch  round  in  it ;  and  by  and  bye,  never 
did  your  great  ancestor  lay  a  Southron  more 
completely  to  rest  than  for  a  time  did  your 
cup  my  two  friends.  Apropos,  this  is  the  sea- 
son of  wishing.  May  God  bless  you,  my  dear 
friend,  and  bless  me  the  humblest  and  sincerest 
of  your  friends,  by  granting  you  yet  many  re- 
turns of  the  season  !  May  all  good  things  at- 
tend }ou  and  yours  wherever  they  are  scattered 
over  the  earth  ! 


No.  CLXVL 

TO  MR.  WILLIAM  SMELLIE, 
PRINTER. 

Dumfries,  22d  Januari/,  1792. 
I  SIT  down,  my  dear  Sir,  to  introduce  a  voung 
lady  to  you,  and  a  lady  in  the  first  ranks  of 
fashion  too.  What  a  task  !  to  you — who  cara 
no  more  for  the  held  of  animals  called  young 
ladies,  than  you  do  for  the  herd  of  animals 
called  young  gentlemen.  To  you — who  despisi? 
and  detest  the  groti])ings  and  combinations  of 
fashion,  as  an  idiot  painter  that  seems  indus- 
trious to  place  siaritig  fools  and  unprincipled 
knaves  in  the  foreground  of  his  picture,  while 
men  of  sense  and  honesty  are  too  often  thrown 
in  the  dimtnest  shades.  BIrs.  Uiddel,  who 
will  take  this  letter  to  town  with  her  and  send 
it  to  you,  is  a  character  that,  even  in  your  own 
w»y,  as  a  naturalist  and  a  philosopher,  would 
be  an  acquisition  to  your  acquaintance.  The 
lady  too  is  a  votary  of  the  muses  ;  and  as  I 
think  myself  somewlwt  of  a  judge  in  my  own 
trade,  I  assure  you  that  her  verses,  always  cor- 
rect, and  often  elegant,  are  much  beyond  the 
common  run  of  the  iiili/.poetessvs  of  the  day 
She  is  a  great  admirer  of  your  book,  and  hear- 
ing me  say  that  I  was  acquainted  with  you,  slu 


CORKESPOXDENCE. 


365 


Beg;,'e(l  to  be  known  t)  you,  as  she  is  just  fjoirii? 
U)  jiiy  liiT  first  visit  to  our  Caledonian  capital. 
I  tii!(l  licr  that  her  best  way  was  to  desire  lier 
near  relation,  and  your  intimate  friend,  Crais^- 
d  irrocli,  to  have  you  at  liis  liouse  while  she  was 
theie  ;  and  lest  you  might  think  of  a  lively  West 
Indian  f^irl  of  eighteen,  as  girls  of  eighteen  too 
often  deserve  to  be  thought  of,  I  should  take 
care  to  remove  that  prejudice.  To  be  impar- 
tial, however,  in  appreciating  the  lady's  merits, 
slie  has  one  unlucky  fiiling,  a  failing  which 
you  will  easily  discover,  as  she  seems  rather 
pleased  with  indulging  in  it  ;  and  a  failing  that 
you  will  as  easily  ])irdon,  as  it  is  a  sin  which 
very  much  besets  yourself; — where  she  dislikes 
or  despises,  she  is  apt  to  make  no  more  a  se- 
cret of  it,  than  where  she  esteems  and  respects. 
I  will  not  present  you  with  the  unmeaning 
eumpliments  of  the  season,  but  I  will  send  you 
my  warmest  wishes  and  miist  ardent  prayers, 
that  lORTUNE  may  never  throw  your  suusisT- 
ENCE  to  the  m°"'y  of  a  knave,  or  set  your 
CHARACTER  On  the  judgment  of  a  fool,  but 
that,  upright  and  erect,  you  may  walk  to  an 
honest  grave,  where  men  of  letters  shall  say, 
here  lies  a  man  who  did  honour  to  science  ;  and 
men  of  w(m  th  shall  say,  here  lies  a  man  who  did 
konour  to  human  nature  ' 


No.  CLXVII, 
TO  MR.  W.  NICOLL. 

20th  Fdirunnj,  1792. 

O  TTioir,  wisest  among  the  wise,  meridian 
bhize  of  prudence,  full  moon  of  discretion,  and 
chief  of  many  counsellors  !  How  infinitely  is 
thy  puddle- headed,  rattle-headed,  wrong-head- 
ed, round-headed  slave  indehted  to  thy  sujier- 
eniinent  goodness,  that  from  the  luminous  jiath 
of  thy  own  right-lined  rectitude,  tliou  lookest 
benignly  down  on  an  erring  wretch,  of  whom 
the  zig-zag  wanderings  defy  all  the  powers  of 
calculation,  from  the  simple  co[)ul  ition  of  units, 
up  to  the  hidden  mysteries  oi  fiuxions  !  May 
one  feeble  rav  of  that  light  of  wislom  which 
darts  from  thy  sensoriuni,  straight  as  the  arrow 
of  lieaven,  and  bright  as  the  meteor  of  inspira- 
tion, may  it  be  my  portion,  so  that  I  may  be 
less  unw(rrthy  of  the  face  and  favour  of  that  fa- 
ther of  proverbs  aci'I  master  of  maxims,  that 
antipode  of  fa'ly,  and  magnet  among  the  sages, 
tlie  wise  and  witty  Willie  NicoU  !  Amen  !  Amen ! 
Yea,  so  be  it  ! 

For  me  !  I  am  a  beast,  a  reptile,  and  know 
nothing  '  Fiom  the  cave  of  my  ignorance, 
imid  the  fogs  of  my  dulness,  and  pestilential 
fumes  of  my  political  heresies,  I  look  up  to 
thee,  as  doth  a  toad  through  the  iron-barred 
lucerne  of  a  pestiferous  dungeon,  to  the  cloud- 
less glory  of  a  summer  sun  !  Sorely  sighing 
ii  bitterness  of  soul    I  say,  when  ihall  mv  u»nie 


be  the  q  notation  of  tne  wise,  and  my  counte- 
nance be  the  delight  of  the  godly,  like  the  illus 
trious  lord  of  Laggan's  many  hills.'*  As  foi 
him,  his  works  are  perfect  ;  never  did  the  pen 
of  calumny  blur  the  fiir  page  of  his  reputation, 
nor  the  bolt  of  hatred  fly  at  his  dwelling. 


Thou  mirror  of  puritv,  when  shall  the  clfine 
lamp  of  my  glimnierous  understanding,  purged 
from  sensual  appetites  and  gross  doires,  shine 
like  the  constellation  of  thy  intellectual  powers. 
— As  fur  thee,  thy  thoughts  are  pure,  ami  thy 
lips  are  holy.  Never  did  the  unhdiowed  breiih 
of  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  the  pleasures  o. 
darkness,  pollute  the  sacred  flame  of  thy  sky- 
descended  and  heaven-bound  desires  ;  never  did 
the  vapours  of  impurity  stain  the  unclouded 
serene  of  thy  cerulean  imaginatiim.  O  that 
like  thine  were  the  tenor  of  my  life,  like  thiue 
the  tenor  of  my  conversation  !  then  should  no 
friend  fear  for  my  strength,  no  enemy  rejoice  :n 
my  weakness  !  Then  should  1  lie  down  and 
rise  up,  and  none  to  make  me  afraid. — May  thy 
pity  and  thy  prayer  be  e.vercised  fur,  O  thou 
lamp  of  wisdom  and  mitror  of  morality  !  thy 
devoted  slave.f 


No.  CLXVIir. 
TO  MR.  CUNNING  H.\M. 

3(/  March,  1792. 

SiKCE  I  wrote  to  you  the  last  higuhrious 
sheet,  I  have  not  had  time  to  write  you  farther. 
When  I  say  that  I  had  not  time,  that,  as  usual, 
means,  that  the  three  demons,  indolence,  busi- 
ness, and  ennui,  have  so  completely  shared  my 
hours  among  them,  as  not  to  leave  me  a  five 
minutes  fragment  to  tike  up  a  pen  in. 

Thank  heaven,  I  feel  my  spirits  hunting  up- 
wards with  the  renovating  year  Now  I  shall 
in  good  earnest  take  up  Thomson's  songs.  I 
dare  say  he  thinks  I  have  used  him  unkindly, 
and  I  must  own  with  too  much  a])pearauce  of 
truth.  Apropos,  do  you  know  the  much  admir- 
ed old  Highland  air  called  The  Sulor's  Duch- 
ter  ?  It  is  a  first-rate  favourite  of  mine,  and  1 
have  written  what  I  reckon  one  of  my  bestsongg 
to  it.  I  will  send  it  to  you  as  it  was  sung  with 
groat  a])plause  in  some  fashionable  circles  by 
Major  Robertson,  of  Lude,  who  was  here  with 
his  corps. 


There  is  one  commission  that  I  must  trouble 
you  with.     I  lately  lost  a  valuable  seal,  a  |ire- 


•  Mr.  Nicoll. 

t  This  strain  of  irony  w«s  excited  ly  a  letter  of  Mr 
Nicoli's  containing  good  advice. 


%6 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


«eiit  from  a  departed  frienJ,  which  vexes  me 
much.  I  lave  gotten  one  of  your  Highland 
pelmles,  which  I  fancy  would  make  a  very  de- 
cent one  ;  and  I  want  to  cut  my  armorial  bear- 
ing on  it  ;  wL  you  be  so  obliging  as  inquire 
what  will  be  the  expense  of  such  a  business?  I 
do  not  know  that  my  name  is  matriculated,  as 
the  heralds  call  it,  at  all ;  but  I  have  invented 
arms  for  myself,  so  you  know  I  shall  be  chief  of 
the  name ;  and  by  courtesy  of  Scotland,  will 
likewise  be  entitled  to  supporters.  These,  how- 
evpr,  I  do  not  intend  having  on  my  seal.  I  am 
a  bit  of  a  herald  ;  and  shall  give  you,  iecundian 
artcm,  my  arms.  On  a  field,  azure,  a  holly 
bush,  seedfd,  proper,  in  base  ;  a  shepherd's  pipe 
and  crook,  saltierwise,  also  proper,  in  chief.  On 
a  wreath  of  the  colours,  a  wood-lark  perching 
on  a  sprig  of  bay-tree,  proper  :  for  crest,  two 
mottoes,  round  the  top  of  the  crest,  Wi/od-nntes 
wild.  At  the  bottom  of  the  shield,  in  the  usual 
place,  Bttter  a  tvee  bush  than  nae  bicld.  By 
the  shepiierd's  pipe  and  crook  I  do  not  mean  the 
nonsense  of  painters  of  Arcadia  ;  but  a  Stock 
anil  Horn,  and  a  Club,  such  as  you  see  at  the 
head  of  Allan  Ramsay,  in  Allan's  quarto  edition 
of  the  Gentle  Shepherd.  By  the  bye,  do  you 
know  Allan?  He  must  be  a  njan  of  very  great 
geniu-i. — Why  is  he  not  more  known? — Has  he 
no  patrons  ?  or  do  "  Poverty's  cold  wind  and 
crushing  rain  beat  keen  and  heavy"  on  him  ? 
1  once,  and  but  once,  got  a  glance  of  that  noble 
edition  of  the  noblest  pastoral  in  the  world,  and 
dear  as  it  was,  I  mean  dear  as  to  my  pi)';ket,  I 
would  hive  bought  it  ;  but  I  was  told  that  it 
Wis  printed  and  engraved  for  subscribers  only. 
He  is  the  only  artist  who  has  hit  genuine  pas- 
toral costume.  What,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
is  there  in  riches,  that  they  narrow  and  harden 
the  heart  so?  I  think  that  were  1  as  rich  as  the 
sun,  I  should  be  as  generous  as  the  day  ;  but 
as  I  have  no  reason  to  imagine  my  soul  a  nobler 
one  than  any  other  man's,  I  must  conclude  that 
wealth  imparts  a  bird-lime  quality  to  the  pos- 
sessor, at  which  the  man,  in  his  native  poverty, 
widild  have  revolted.  What  has  led  me  to  this, 
is  the  idea  of  such  merit  as  Mj-.  Allan  possesses, 
and  such  riches  as  a  nabob  or  governor-contrac- 
tor possesses,  and  why  they  do  not  form  a  mu- 
tual league.  Let  wealth  shelter  and  cherish  un- 
orotected  merit,  and  the  gratitude  and  celebrity 
:£  that  merit  will  richly  repay  it. 


No.  CLXIX. 

TO  l\m.  T.  CLARKE,  Edinburgh. 

July  IG,  1792. 
Mr.  Burns   liegs  leave  to  present  his  most 
respectful  comjjliments  to  ]\L-.  Clarke. — Mr.  B. 
(ouie  time  ago  diil   himself  the  honour  of  writ- 
ing M     C.  rcs'jecting  :oming  out  to  the  coun- 


try to  give  a  little  musical  iwstruction  in  ahi|h 
ly  respect.ible  family,  where  Mr.  C.  may  have 
his  own  terms,  and  may  be  as  happy  as  indo- 
lence, the  Devil,  and  the  gout  will  permit  him. 
iVIr.  B.  knows  well  how  Jlr.  C.  is  engaged  with 
another  family ;  but  cannot  Mr.  C.  find  two  or 
three  weeks  to  spare  to  each  of  them  ?  Mr.  B. 
is  deeply  impressed  with,  and  awfully  conscious 
of,  the  high  importance  of  ]Mr.  C's  time,  whe- 
ther in  the  winged  moments  of  symphonious 
exhibition,  at  the  keys  of  harmony,  while  list- 
ening Seraphs  cease  their  own  less  delightful 
strains  ; — or  in  the  drowsy  hours  of  slumberous 
repose,  in  the  arms  of  his  dearly-beloved  elbow- 
chair,  where  the  frowsy,  but  potent  power  of 
indolence,  circumfuscs  her  vapours  round,  and 
sheds  her  dews  on.  the  head  of  her  darling  sou. 
— But  half  a  line  convcvinjj  half  a  meacin" 
from  Mr.  C.  would  make  iMr.  B.  the  very  hap- 
piest of  mortals. 


No.   CLXX. 

TO  IMRS.  DUNLOP. 

Annnn  Water  Font,  22d  August,  1793. 
Do  not  bl.inie  nie  for  it.  Madam — my  own 
conscience,  hackneyed  and  weather-beaten  as  it 
is,  in  watching  and  reproving  my  vagaries,  fol- 
lies, indolence,  &c.  has  continued  to  blame  aDd 
punish  me  sufficiently. 


Do  you  think  it  possible,  my  dear  and  hoa. 
oured  friend,  that  I  could  be  so  lost  to  gratitude 
for  many  favours ;  to  esteem  for  much  worth, 
and  to  the  honest,  kind,  pleasurable  tie  of,  now, 
old  acquaintance,  and  I  hope  and  am  sure  of  pro- 
gressive increasing  friendship — as,  for  a  single 
(lay,  not  to  think  of  you — to  ask  the  F.itis  what 
they  are  doing  and  about  to  do  with  niv  uiuch 
loved  friend  and  her  wide-scattered  connexions, 
and  to  beg  of  them  to  be  as  kind  to  you  and 
yours  as  they  possibly  can. 

Apropos  (though  how  it  is  apropos,  I  have 
not  leisure  to  e.\plain),  do  you  know  that  ]  am 
ahnost  in  love  with  an  acquaintance  of  yours? 
— Almost  !  said  I — I  am  in  love,  souse  !  over 
head  and  ears,  deep  as  the  most  unfathomable 
abyss  of  the  boundless  ocean  ;  but  the  word, 
Love,  owing  to  the  inltrmingledoms  of  the  good 
and  the  bail,  the  pure  and  the  ini])ure,  in  this 
world,  being  rather  an  equivocal  term  for  ex- 
pressing one's  sentiments  and  sensations,  I  must 
do  justice  to  the  sacred  purity  of  my  attachment 
Know  then,  that  tlie  heart-struck  awe  ;  he  dls- 
tarit  hundile  approach  ;  the  delight  we  should 
have  in  gazing  upon  and  listening  to  a  Mess'^'U- 
ger  of  Heaven,  appearing  in  all  the  unspotted 
purity  of  his  celestial  home,  among  the  coar>e, 
polluted,  far  inferior  sons  of  men,  to  deliver  to 
them  tidings  tliat  make  their  hearts  swim  in  joy 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


36' 


ind  their  imaginations  soar  in  transport — such, 
go  clulitihtin;;;,  and  so  [nirc,  wore  the  emotions  of 
my  soul   on    meeting   the    other  day  with  Miss 

L —  J? — ,  yotir  neighbour  at  M Mr.  B. 

with  his  two  daughters,  accompanied  by  iMr.  H. 
of  G.  passing  through  Dumfries  a  few  days  ago, 
on  tlieir  way  to  England,  did  me  the  honour  of 
calling  on  me  ;  on  which  I  took  my  horse 
(though  God  knows  I  could  ill  spare  the  time), 
hjhI  accompanied  thcni  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles, 
and  disied  and  spent  the  day  with  them.  'Twas 
about  nine,  I  think,  when  I  left  them  ;  and  rid- 
ing home,  I  composed  the  following  ballad,  of 
which  you  will  probably  think  you  have  a  dear 
bargain,  as  it  will  coast  you  another  groat  of 
postage.  You  must  know  that  there  is  an  old 
ballad  beginning  witli 

"  ]\Iy  bonnie  Lizzie  Baillie 

I'll  row  thee  iu  my  plaidie,"  &c. 

So  I  parodied  it  as  follows,  which  is  literally  the 
first  copy,  "  unanointcd  unannealed,"  as  Kam- 
let  says. —  See  p.  IQ^. 

So  much  for  ballads.  I  regret  that  you  arc 
gone  to  the  east  country,  as  I  am  to  be  in  Ayr- 
shire in  about  a  fortnight.  This  world  of  ours, 
notwithstanding  it  has  many  good  things  in  it, 
yet  it  has  ever  h:id  this  curse,  that  two  or  three 
people  who  would  be  the  happier  the  ofiener  they 
met  togttner,  are,  almost  without  exception,  al- 
ways so  placeil  as  never  to  meet  but  once  oi 
twice  a-year,  which,  considering  the  few  years 
of  a  man's  life,  is  a  very  great  "  evil  under  tiie 
sun,"  which  I  do  not  recollect  that  Solomon  h.iis 
mentioned  in  his  catalogue  of  the  miseries  of  man. 
I  hope  and  believe  that  there  is  a  state  of  exist- 
ence beyond  the  grave,  where  the  worthy  of  this 
life  will  renew  their  former  intimacies,  with  this 
endearing  addition,  that  "  we  meet  to  part  no 
more." 


"  Tell  us,  ye  dead. 
Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret 
What  'tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be  !" 

A  thousand  times  have  I  made  this  apostrophe 
to  the  departed  sons  of  men,  but  not  one  of  them 
lt<is  ever  thought  fit  to  answer  the  question. 
'  O  that  some  courteous  ghost  would  blab  it 
oiit  !" — but  it  cannot  be  ;  you  and  I,  my  friend, 
must  make  the  experiment  by  eurselves  and  for 
ourselve-i.  Ilov.-ever,  I  am  so  convinced  that  an 
unshaken  faith  in  tiie  doctrines  of  religion  is  not 
only  necessary,  by  making  us  better  men,  but  al- 
so by  making  us  happier  men,  that  I  shall  take 
every  care  that  your  little  god-son,  and  every 
little  creature  that  shall  ca2l  me  father,  shall  be 
taught  them. 

So  ends  this  heterogeneous  letter,  written  at 
this  wild  place  of  the  world,  in  the  intervals  of 
my  l.ihiiur  of  discharging  a  vessel  of  rum  from 
Ar.tii;ua. 


No.  CLXVII 
TO  MR.  CUNMNGIIAM. 

Dumfries,  \Oth  September,  1792. 

No!  I  will  not  attempt  an  apology. — An  id 
all  my  hurry  of  business,  grinding  the  face  ol 
the  publican  and  the  sinner  en  the  merciless 
wheels  of  the  excise  ;  making  ballads,  and  then 
drinking,  and  singing  them  ;  and,  over  and 
above  all,  the  correcting  the  press-work  of  two 
different  publications ;  still,  still  I  might  have 
stolen  five  minutes  to  dedicate  to  one  of  the  first 
wf  my  friends  and  fellow-creatures,  I  might 
have  done,  as  I  do  at  present,  snatched  an  hour 
near  "  witching  time  of  night" — and  scrawled 
a  page  or  two.  I  might  have  congratulated  my 
friend  on  his  marriage  ;  or  I  might  have  thank- 
ed the  Caledonian  archers  for  the  honour  they 
have  done  me  (though  to  do  myself  justice,  I 
intended  to  have  done  both  in  rhyme,  else  I  had 
done  both  long  ere  now.  )  Well,  then,  here  is 
to  your  good  health  !  for  you  must  know,  I 
have  set  a  nipperkin  of  toddy  by  me,  just  by 
way  of  spell,  to  keep  away  the  meikle  horneo 
Deil,  or  any  of  his  subaltern  imps  who  may  be 
on  their  nightly  rounds. 

But  what  shall  I  write  to  you  ?— "  The  voice 
said  cry,"  and  I  said,  "  what  shall  1  cry?" — O, 
thou  spirit  !  whatever  thou  art,  or  wherever 
thou  makest  thyself  visible  !  be  thou  a  bogle  by 
the  eerie  side  of  an  auld  thorn,  iu  the  dreary 
glen  through  which  the  herd  callan  m  lun  bicker 
in  his  gloamin  route  frae  the  faulde  !  Be  thou  a 
brownie,  set,  at  dead  of  night,  to  thy  task  by 
the  blazing  ingle,  or  in  the  solitary  barn  where 
the  repercussions  of  thv  iron  fliil  affi  ight  thy- 
self, as  thou  performest  the  work  of  twenty  of 
the  sons  of  men,  ere  the  cock-crowing  summon 
thee  to  thy  ample  tog  of  substantial  brose. — Be 
thou  a  kelpie,  haunting  the  ford  or  ferry,  in  the 
starless  night,  mixing  thy  laughing  yell  with  the 
howling  of  the  storm,  and  the  roaring  of  the 
flood,  as  thou  viewest  the  perils  and  miseries  of 
man  on  the  foundering  horse,  or  in  the  tumb- 
ling boat  ! — Or,  lastly,  be  thou  a  ghost,  paying 
thy  nocturnal  visits  to  the  hoai  y  ruins  of  decay- 
ed grandeur  ;  or  performing  tliy  mystic  rites  in 
the  shadow  of  thy  time-worn  church,  while  the 
moon  looks,  without  a  cloud,  on  the  silent, 
ghastly  dwellings  of  the  dead  around  thee  ;  or 
taking  thy  stand  by  the  bedside  ot  tne  villain, 
or  the  murderer,  pourtraying  on  his  dreaming 
fancy,  pictures,  dreadful  aa  the  hoirors  of  un- 
veiled hell,  and  terrible  as  the  wrath  of  incensed 
Deity  ! — Come,  thou  spirit,  but  not  in  thesa 
horrid  forms ;  come  with  the  milder,  gentle, 
easy  inspirations,  which  thou  breathest  round 
the  wig  of  a  prating  advocate,  or  the  tete  of  a 
tea-sipping  gossip,  while  their  tongues  run  at 
the  light-horse  gallop  of  clishmaclaver  for  ever 
and  ever — come  and  assist  a  poor  devil  who  is 
quite  jaded  in  the  attempt  to  share  half  an  idea 
among  half  a  hundred  words;  to  till  up  four 
quarto  pages,  while  be  has  not  got  one  single 


S63 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


•entence  of  recollection,  inforrnation,  or  remark 
worth  putting  pen  to  paper  for, 

I  feel,  I  feel  tl  e  presence  of  supernatural  as- 
sistance !  circleil  in  the  embrace  of  my  elhow- 
chair,  my  liiejst  labours,  like  the  bloated  Sybil 
on  her  three-footed  stool,  and  like  her  too,  la- 
bours   with    Nonsense Nonsense,    au>picious 

name  !  Tutor,  friend,  and  finger-post  in  the 
mystic  niiizes  of  Lw  ;  the  cadaverous  paths  of 
physic  ;  and  particularly  in  the  sightless  soar- 
ings of  SCHOOL  niviMTV,  who,  leaving  Com- 
mon Sen»e  ccmfurnded  at  his  strength  of  pinion, 
Reason  delirious  with  eyeing  his  gidily  flight, 
and  Truth  creeping  back  into  .the  bottom  of  her 
well,  cuising  the  hour  that  ever  she  offered  her 
loomed  alliance  to  the  wizard  power-of  Theolo- 
gic  Vision — raves  abioad  on  all  the  win<ls.  "  On 
earth  Discord  !  a  gloomy  Heaven  above,  open- 
ing her  jealous  gates  to  the  nineteen  thousandth 
pait  of  tlie  tithe  of  mankind  !  and  below,  an  in- 
escapable and  inexorable  hell,  expanding  its  le- 
viathan jaws  for  the  vast  residue  of  mortals  !  !  !" 
— O  doctrine  !  comfortable  aud  healing  to  the 
weary,  wounded  soul  of  a  man  !  Ye  sons  aiui 
daughters  of  affliction,  ye  pauvres  miserables,  to 
whom  day  brings  no  pleasure,  and  night  yielils 
no  rest,  be  couiforted  !  "  'Tis  but  <me  to  niue- 
teen  hundred  tliousand  that  ycur  situaticm  will 
mend  in  this  world  ;"  so,  alas  I  the  experience 
of  the  poor  and  the  needy  too  often  affirms  ;  anil 
'tis   nineteen  hundred   thousand   to  one,   by  the 

dogmas  of  ,    that  you  will  be  damned 

eternally  iu  tlie  world  to  come  ! 

But  of  all  Nonsense,  Religious  Nonsense  is 
the  most  nonsensical  ;  so  enough,  and  more 
than  enough  of  it.  Only,  by  the  bye,  will  you, 
or  can  you  tell  me,  my  dear  Cunningham,  why 
a  sectarian  turn  of  mind  has  always  a  tendency 
to  narrow  and  illibcralize  the  heart  ?  They  are 
orderly;  they  may  be  just;  nay,  I  have  known 
them  merciful  :  but  still  your  children  of  sanc- 
tity move  among  their  fellow-creatures  with  a 
nostril  snuffing  putrescence,  and  a  foot  spurning 
filth,    in    short,   with   a   conceited   dignity  that 

your    titled 

.  .  .  or  any  other  of  your  Scottish  lordlings 
of  seven  centuries  standing,  display  when  they 
accidentally  mix  among  the  many-aproned  sons 
of  iiu'clnnical  life.  I  remember,  in  my  plough- 
boy  (lays,  I  could  not  conceive  it  possible  that  a 
noble  lord  could  be  a  fool,  or  a  godly  man  could 

be  a  knave How  ignorant  are  ])lough-boys  ! — 

Nay,  I  have  since  discovered  that  a  fjod/y  ifo- 

vian  may  be  a I — But  hold — Here's  t'ye 

again — this  rum  is  generous  Antigua,  so  a  very 
unfit  inensrruum  for  scauilal. 

Apropos,  how  do  you  like,  I  mean  really  like 
the  married  life  !  Ah,  my  friend  !  matrimony  is 
quite  a  different  thing  from  what  your  love-sick 
youths  and  sighing  girls  take  it  to  be  !  But 
marriage,  we  are  told,  is  ajipointed  by  God,  and 
I  siiall  ni  ver  quarrel  with  any  of  his  institutions, 
I  am  a  husband  of  older  standing  than  you,  and 
ihall  c\wa  you  iity  ideas  of  the  conjugal  state — 
i»n  yanscint,  ,vou  know  I  am  no  Lutiuist,  in  not 


con;«^a/ derived  from  jf«i7Mm,  a  jtikt'')  Well 
then,   the  scale  of  goud-wifeship  I  divide  intc 

ten    parts Good-nature,    four  ;    Good    Sense. 

two  ;  Wit,  one  ;  Personal  Charms,  viz.  a  sweet 
face,  eloquent  eyes,  fine  limb?,  graceful  carriage, 
(I  would  add  a  fine  waist  too,  but  that  is  sc 
?oon  spoilt,  you  know),  all  these,  one  ;  as  for 
the  other  qualities  belonging  to,  or  attending  on, 
a  wife,  such  as  Fortune,  Connections,  Educa- 
tion, (I  mean  education  extraordinary),  FamiW 
Blood,  8cc.  divide  the  two  remaining  degree* 
among  them  as  you  please  ;  only,  remember 
that  ail  these  minor  properties  must  be  express- 
ed  by  fractions,  for  there  is  not  any  one  of 
them,  ill  the  aforesaid  scale,  entitled  to  the  dig- 
nity of  an  integer. 

As  for  the  rest  of  my  fancies  and  reveries-— 
liow  1  lately  met  with  Miss  Lesly  Baillle,  th' 
most  beautiful,  elegant  woman  in  the  worl' 
—  hov/  I  accompanied  her  and  her  father's  fa- 
mi!y  fifteen  miles  on  their  journey,  out  of  pure 
devotion,  to  admire  the  loveliness  of  tl;e  works 
of  God,  in  such  an  unequalled  display  of  thenr 
— how,  in  galloping  hone  at  night,  I  made  r, 
ballad  on  her,  of  which  these  two  stanzas  make 
a  part — 

Thou,  bonnie  Lesly,  art  a  queen, 
Thv  subjects  we  before  thee  ; 

Thou,  bonnie  Lesly,  art  divine, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  very  Deil  he  could  na  scaith 

Whatever  wad  belang  thee  I 
He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face 

And  say,  '•  I  canna  wrang  thee. 

— behold  all  these  things  are  written  in  the 
chronicles  of  my  imagination,  and  shall  be  read 
by  thee,  my  dear  frienil,  and  by  thy  beloved 
spouse,  my  other  dear  friend,  at  a  more  conve- 
nient season. 

Now,  to  thee,  and  to  thy  Jefore-designed  ho- 
som-companion,  be  given  the  precious  things 
brought  forth  by  the  sun,  and  the  precious 
things  brought  forth  by  the  moon,  and  the  be- 
nignest  influence  of  the  stars,  and  the  living 
streams  which  flow  from  tlie  fountains  of  life, 
and  by  the  tree  of  life,  for  ever  and  ever  !— 
Amen  ! 


No.  CLXVHL 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

Dumfries,  24-fh  September,  1792. 
I  HAVE  this  moment,  my  dear  Madam,  yoiiri 
of  the  twenty-third.  All  yjur  other  kind  re- 
proaches, your  news,  &c.  are  out  of  my  head 
when  I  read  and  think  on  Mrs.  H 's  situa- 
tion. Good  God!  a  heart- wcninde  1  helpless 
young  woman — in  a  strange,  foreign    at.'d,  aud 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


369 


th»t  hti  convulsed  with  even*  hormr,  that  ran 
harrow  the  liiini  in  fcL-lin'^s — >.ick — Umkinj;, 
loui;ini»  fur  a  conit'ortcr,  but  fiiuliiifj  nouu — :i 
motlicr's  iVflin^^*,  toi) — liut  it  is  too  much  :  he 
who  nuumlfJ  (he  only  ciin)  may  He  heal  !* 


T  wish  the  firmpv  Ejreat  joy  of  his  new  ac- 

quisitiiin  to    his    family 

I  catinot  say  that  1  give  him  joy  of  his  life  as  a 
farmer.  'Tis,  as  a  farmer  p^iying  a  dear,  un- 
conscionable rent,  a.  cursed  lift.'  As  to  a  laird 
farminsr  his  own  property;  sowins^  his  own 
corn  in  hope  ,  aad  reapin<;  it,  in  spite  of  brittle 
weather,  in  gUdness;  knowing  th;it  none  can 
say  uuto  him,  "  what  <l(>st  thou  V" — fattenin;,' 
his  heids  ;  shewinR  his  flocks  ;  rcjoicinij  at 
Christmas  ;  and  l)et;>'tting  sons  and  daii!;hters, 
unt  1  he  be  tlie  venerated,  grey-haired  lea<ler  ol 
a  little  tribe — 'tis  a  heavenly  life'  but  Devil 
take  the  life  of  reaiinig  the  fruits  that  another 
niu-t  e.it. 

Wfll,  your   kind   wishes  will   he  gratified,  as 
to  seeing  me  when  1   make  my   Ayrshire  visit. 

I    cannot    leave    Mrs.  15 ,   until    her    nine 

nioiitlis'  race  is  run,  which  may  perhaps  he  in 
three  or  four  v.eeks.  Slie,  too,  seems  determin- 
ed to  nuke  me  the  patriarchal  leader  of  a  band 
However,  if  Heaven  will  lie  so  obliging  as  let 
me  have  them  on  the  proportion  of  three  boys 
to  one  girl,  I  shall  be  so  much  the  more  pleased. 
I  hope,  if  I  am  spared  with  them,  to  show  a  set 
of  buys  that  will  do  honour  to  my  cares  and 
name  ;  but  I  am  not  equal  to  the  task  of  rear- 
•ng  girls.  Besides,  I  a:n  too  poor  ;  a  girl  should 
always  have  a  fortune.  Apropos,  your  little 
god-son  is  thriving  charmingly,  but  is  a  very 
devil.  He,  though  two  years  younger,  has  com- 
pletely mastered  hi>  brother.  Robert  is  indeed 
the  mildest,  gentlest  creature  1  ever  saw.  He 
has  a  most  surprisii-.g  memory,  and  is  quite  the 
pride  of  his  schoohnastii. 

You  knuw  how  readily  we  get  into  jirattle  up- 
on a  subject  dear  to  our  heart :  you  can  excuse 
t.      God  bless  vou  and  vouis  ! 


cept  that  wl'.ich  religion  holds  out  to  the  vhlV. 
■  lien  of  afflic'ion — ihihircn  of  n^iction  '— 
bow  just  the  cxpressiini  !  and  like  every  e»her 
fimily,  they  have  matters  among  them  whiek 
they  hear,  see,  and  feel  in  a  seiious,  all-impor- 
tant manner,  of  which  the  world  bus  not,  nor 
cares  to  have,  any  idea.  The  woild  looks  in» 
dltrerently  on,  makes  the  jiassing  remark,  and 
proceeds  to  the  next  novel  oeciirreiice. 

Alas,  Midam  !  who  would  wi-h  for  many 
vears  !  What  is  it  but  to  drag  existence  until 
our  jo\s  gradually  expire  and  leave  us  in  a  nio;ht 
of  misery  ;  like  the  gloom  which  blots  out  the 
stars  one  by  one,  from  th.e  f ice  of  night,  and 
leaves  us,  withol;^a  ray  of  comfo;t,  in  the  howl- 
irig  waste  ! 

I  am  interrupted,  and  must  leave  off.  You 
shall  soon  hear  from  me  agini. 


No.  CLXIX. 
TO  THE  SA.ME. 

iCFPOSED    TO     HAVE    BEEN     WRlfTEH     ON    THE 
DSATH   OF  MUS.   K ,   HEil   I>  «  IJG  IITEII. 

I  HAD  been  from  home,  and  did  not  receive 
your  letter  until  my  return  the  other  day. 
\Vl'at  shall  I  sty  to  cmnfort  you,  my  much-va- 
lued, muLh-atllicted  friend  !  I  can  but  grieve 
with  you  ;   consolation  I  have  none  to  o"er,  ex- 

»  This  much-lamenteil  ladv  was  gone  to  the  south 
of  France  wiih  her  uifaiit  so;i,  wlicie  »lie  died  «oon  u£- 


ter 


No.   CT..\>'. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

Dumfries,  6th  Dicemher,  1792. 
I  SHALL  be  in  Ayrshire,  I  think,  next  \ce.k  ; 
and  if  at  all  possible,  I  shall  certainly,  my  much- 
esteemed  friend,  have  the  pleasure  of  visiting  at 
Dunlop-house. 

Alas,  lAI  idam  !  how  seldom  do  we  me  meet 
in  this  world,  that  we  hive  reason  to  congratu- 
late ourselves  on  occasions  of  happiness  !  I  have 
not  passed  half  the  ordinary  term  of  an  old  man's 
life,  and  yet  I  scarcely  look  over  the  obituary  of 
a  newspaper,  that  1  do  not  see  some  names  that 
I  have  known,  and  which  I,  and  other  acquaint. 
anres,  little  thought  to  meet  with  there  so  soon. 
Every  other  instance  of  the  mortality  of  our 
kind,  makes  us  cast  an  anxious  look  into  the 
dreadful  abyss  of  uncertainty,  and  shudder  with 
ypiiiehensions  for  our  own  fate.  But  of  how 
ditrerent  an  importance  are  the  lives  of  ditferent 
individuals?  Nay,  of  what  importance  is  one 
period  of  the  same  life,  more  than  another?  A 
few  years  ago,  1  could  have  lain  down  in  the 
dust,  "  careless  of  the  voice  of  the  morning  ;'* 
and  now  not  a  few,  and  these  most  helpless  in- 
dividuals, would,  on  losing  me  ai.d  my  exer- 
tions, lose  both  their  "  staff  and  ihield."  By 
the  way,  these  helpless  ones  have  lately  got  an 
addition,  Mrs.  B.  havmg  given  me  a  fine  girl 
since  I  wrote  you.  There  is  a  charming  pas- 
sage in  Thomson's  Edward  and  JEleanora. 

"  The  valiant,  in  himself,  what  can  he  suffer— 
Or  what  need  he  regard  his  single  woes  V"  &c. 

As  I  am  got  in  the  way  of  quotations,  I  shali 
give  you  another  from  the  same  piece,  peculiar, 
ly,  alas  !  too  peculiarly  apposite,  my  dear  Alo. 
dam,  to  your  present  frame  of  mind  : 

"  Who  so  unworthy  hut  may  proudly  deck  Uiat 
With  Li»  fair-weather  virtue,  that  exult* 


W2 


S70 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Glad   o'er  the  •unimer   maia?   tje  tempest 

comes, 
The  rough  winds  rage  aloud  ;  when  from  the 

hehn 
This  virtue  shrinks,  and  in  a  corner  lies, 
Lamenting — Heavens  !  if  privileged  from  trial, 
How  cheap  a  thing  were  virtue  !" 

I  do  not  remember  to  have  heard  you  men- 
tion Thomson's  dramas.  I  pick  \\p  favourite 
quotation*.  a!"(l  stoie  them  in  my  mind  as  ready 
armour,  ofiensive,  or  defensive,  amid  the  struggle 
of  this  turbulent  existence.  Of  these  is  one,  a 
rery  favourite  one,  from  his  Alfred, 

'    Attach  thee  firmly  to  the  virtuous  deeds 
And  offices  of  life  ;   to  life  itself. 
With  all  its  vain  and  transient  joys,  sit  loose." 

Probably  I  have  quoted  some  of  these  to  you 
formerly,  as  indeed  when  I  write  from  the  heart, 
1  am  apt  to  be  gnilty  of  such  repetitions.  The 
compass  of  the  heart,  in  the  musical  style  of  ex- 
pression, is  much  more  bounded  than  that  of 
the  imagination  ;  so  the  notes  of  the  former  are 
extremely  apt  to  run  into  one  another  ;  but  in 
return  for  the  paucity  of  its  compass,  its  iew 
notes  are  much  nioje  sweet.  I  must  still  give 
you  another  quotation,  which  I  am  almost  sure 
i  have  given  you  before,  but  I  cannot  resist  the 
temptation.  The  subject  is  religion — speaking 
of  its  importance  to  mankind,  the  author  says, 

•■  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning 
bright,"  &c.  as  in  p.  4-9. 

I  see  you  are  in  for  double  postage,  so  I  shall 
e'en  scrilible  out  t'other  sheet.  We  in  this 
country  here  have  many  alarms  of  the  reform- 
intr,  or  rather  the  republican  spirit  of  your  part 
ef  the  kingdom.  Indeed  we  are  a  good  deal  in 
commotion  ourselves.  For  me,  I  am  a  place- 
man, you  know  ;  a  very  humble  one  indeed. 
Heaven  knows,  but  still  so  much  so  as  to  gag 
Eie.  What  my  private  sentiments  are,  you  will 
find  out  without  an  interpreter. 


I  have  taken  up  the  subject  in  another  view  ; 
Br.d  the  other  day,  for  a  pretty  actress's  benefit- 
night,  I  wrote  an  address,  which  I  will  give 
you    on    the   other  page,  called    The  Riiihts  of 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAX. 

An  OccnsioiKil  Address  apoken  hi/  Miss  Fon- 
TiiNELi.E  on  her  benefit  n'ujht. 

While  Europe's  eye  is  fix'd  on  mighty  things, 
Ihf  fate  of  emi)ir^s  and  the  fall  of  kings, 
A'hile  Qii,.iks  of  state   must  each   produce  his 

]>lan, 
A,nd  even  childien  lisp  the  Jii<)hts  of  Man  ; 


Amid  this  mighty  fuss  just  let  me  mention. 
The  Rights  of  Woman  merit  some  a.tentio 

First,  in  the  sexes*  Interniix'd  connexion. 
One  sacred  Right  of  Woman  is  protection. 
The  tender  £ower  that  lifts  its  head,  elate, 
Helpless,  must  fall  before  the  blast  of  fate, 
Sunk  to  the  earth,  defaced  its  lovely  form. 
Unless  your  shelter  ward  th'  impending  storm.-* 

Our  second  Right's — but  needless  here  is  caiv 
tion. 
To  keep  that  right  inviolate's  the  fashion. 
Each  man  of  sense  has  it  so  full  before  him. 
He'd  die  before  he'd  wrong  it — 'tis  decorum.—' 
There  was,  indeed,  in  far  less  polisli'd  days, 
A  time,   when  rough  rude    nea  had   naughty 

ways  : 
Would  swagger,   swear,   get  drunk,  kitk  up  a 

riot. 
Nay,  even  thus  invade  a  lady's  quiet. — 
No«',  thank  our  stars  !  these  Gothic  times  are 

fled: 
Now,   well-bred  men — and  you   are   all   well- 
bred — 
Most  justly  think  (and  we  are  much  the  gain- 
ers) 
Such  conduct  neither  spirit,  wit,  nor  manners.* 

For  Right  the  third,   our  last,   our  best,  our 
dearest. 
That  right  to  fluttering  female  hearts  tlie  near- 
est. 
Which  even  the   Rights  of  Kings  in  low  pros- 
tration 
IMost  humbly  own — 'tis  dear,  dear  admiration 
In  that  blest  sphere  alone  we  live  and  move  ; 
There  taste  that  life  of  life — immortal  love — 
Smiles,  glances,  sighs,  tears,  fits,  flirtations,  r.irs, 
'Gainst  such  an  ho>t  what  flinty  savage  dares — 
When  awful  Beauty  joins  with  all  her  charms, 
\V]\o  is  so  rash  as  rise  ia  rebel  arms  ? 

But  truce  with  kings,  and  truce  with  ccn'»li 
tutions, 
With  bloody  armaments  and  revolutions  ; 
Let  majesty  your  fiist  attention  summon. 
Ah  !  C(i  ira  !  the  Majesty  ok  Woman  ! 

I  shall  have  the  honour  of  receiving  your  cri- 
ticisms in  pel  sou  at  Dunlop. 


No.  CLXXL 

TO  R.   GRAHAM,  Esq.  FiNTRr. 

SIR,  December,  1T92. 

I  HAVE  been  surprised,  confounded,   and  dis" 

tracted,  by  I\lr.    Mitchell,  thj  collector,    tellui'' 

me   that   he   has   received  an  order  from  you; 


•  Ironical  allusion  to  the  saturnalia  of  tlie  Calea* 
nian  JJuiil. 


:ORRESPONDENCE. 


371 


Biard  to  inquire  into  my  political  conduct,  and 
biamitia;  nie  as  a  person  (lisafffctcd  to  Govciii- 
ment.  Sir,  you  are  a  hiistiaiid — and  a  father. — 
You  know  wliat  you  would  fctl,  to  see  the  nnu-h- 
!ovi-d  wife  of  your  bosom,  and  your  hel|)!ess, 
prattlinc;  little  ones,  turned  adrift  into  the  world, 
de-^raded  and  disgraced  from  a  situation  in  wliich 
they  had  heen  rcspectal)le  and  respected,  and  left 
almost  without  the  necessary  support  of  a  mi«er- 
»l)'e  existence.  Alas,  Sir  !  must  I  thiidi  that 
)urh,  soon,  will  by  my  lot  !  and  from  the  d-mned, 
iark  insinuations  of  hellish  (groundless  envv  too  ! 
I  helieve.  Sir,  I  may  aver  it,  and  in  the  siijht  of 
Omniscience,  that  I  would  not  tell  a  deliherare 
falsehood,  no,  not  thoujjh  even  worse  liorrors,  if 
worse  can  he,  *han  those  I  have  mentioned,  liung 
over  my  heaa  ;  and  I  say,  that  the  alleiration, 
wliatevcr  villain  has  made  it,  is  a  lie  !  To  the 
Biitish  Constitution,  on  revolution  ))rinciples, 
next  after  my  God,  I  am  most  devoutly  attach- 
ed !  You,  Sn',  have  heen  much  and  generously 
my  fi  iend. — Heaven  knows  how  warmly  I  have 
felt  the  ohlj/jation,  and  how  gr-tefully  I  have 
thanked  you. — Fortune,  Sir,  has  made  you  pow- 
trful,  and  me  impotent  ;  has  given  you  patrim- 
age,  and  me  dependence. — I  would  not,  for  my 
single  self,  call  on  your  humanity  ;  were  such 
Tiiy  insular,  unconnected  situation,  I  would  de- 
spise the  tear  that  now  swells  in  my  eye — I 
could  lirave  misfortune,  I  could  face  ruin  ;  for 
at  the  woist,  "  Death's  thousand  doors  stand 
open  ;"  hut,  good  God  !  the  tender  concerns 
that  I  have  mentioned,  the  claims  and  ties  that 
I  see  at  this  moment,  and  feel  around  me,  how 
they  unnerve  Courage,  and  wither  Resolution  ! 
To  your  patronage,  as  a  man  of  some  genius, 
you  have  allowed  me  a  claim  ;  and  your  cs-teem, 
as  an  honest  man,  I  know  is  my  due  :  To  these, 
Sir,  permit  me  to  appeal  ;  hy  these  may  I  ad- 
jure you  to  save  me  from  that  misery  wkich 
threatens  to  overwlielm  me,  and  which,  with 
my  latest  breath  I  will  say  it,  I  have  not  deserved. 


No.   CLXXII. 
TO  3MRS.  DUNLOP. 

»rAR  mapam,  Dectmher  3\,  1792. 

A  iiUKRV  of  business,  thrown  in  heaps  by  my 
absence,  has  until  now  prevented  my  returning 
my  grateful  acknowledgments  to  the  good  fa- 
mily of  Dunlop,  and  you  in  particular,  "for  that 
hospitable  kindness  which  rendered  the  four 
days  I  spent  under  that  genial  roof,   four  of  the 

pleasantest    I    ever  enjoyed Alas,   my  dearest 

iiend!  how  few  and  fleeting  are  those  things 
we  call  pleasures  !  On  my  road  to  Ayrshire,  I 
spent  a  night  with  a  friend  whom  I  much  valued  ; 
t  man  whose  days  promised  to  be  many  ;  and 
on  Saturday  last  we  laid  him  in  the  dust ! 

Januarif  2,  1793. 
I  HAVE  just  received  yours  of  the  30  th,  and 


feel  much  for  your  sitiiation.  However,  1  hearti- 
ly rejoice  in  your  prosjiect  of  reciiveiy  from  thai 
vile  jiiundice.  .As  to  myself,  I  am  betr».'r,  though 
not  (juite  free  of  uiy  complaint. —  You  must  not 
th.nk,  as  you  seem  to  insinuate,  that  in  my  way 
of  life  I  waTit  exercise.  Of  that  I  have  enough  ; 
but  occasional  hard  drinking  is  the  devil  to  me. 
Ag;unst  this  I  have  again  and  again  bent  my  re- 
solution, and  have  greatly  succeeded.  Taverns 
I  have  totally  abandoned  :  it  is  the  private  [jar- 
ties  in  the  fau.ily  way,  anu)ng  the  hard  drinking 
gentleman  of  the  country,  that  do  me  the  mis- 
chief— but  even  this  I  have  more  than  half  given 
over. 

Mr.  Corbet  can  be  of  little  service  to  me  at 
present;  at  least  I  should  be  shy  of  a])[)lying. 
I  cannot  possibly  be  settled  as  a  supervisor,  for 
several  years.      I  must  wait  the  rotation  of  the 

list,  and  there  are  twenty  names  before  mine 

I  might  indeed  get  a  job  of  officiating,  where  a 
settled  supervisor  was  ill,  or  aged  ;  but  that  hauls 
me  from  my  family,  as  I  could  not  remove  thetn 
on  such  an  uncertainty.  Besides,  some  envious, 
malicious  devil,  has  raised  a  little  demur  on  my 
political  principles,  and  I  wi>h  to  let  that  mat- 
ter settle  before  1  offer  n.yself  too  much  in  the 
eye  of  my  superiors.  I  have  set,  henceforth, 
a  seal  on  my  lips,  as  to  these  unlucky  politics  ; 
but  to  you,  I  must  breathe  my  sentiments.  In 
this,  as  in  every  thing  else,  I  shall  shew  the  un- 
disguised euiotions  of  the  soul.  War  I  depre- 
cate :  misery  and  ruin  to  thousands,  are  in  the 
blast  that  announces  the  destructive  demon.    But 


The  remainder  of  this  letter  has   been  torn 
iway  by  some  baibarous  hand. 


LETTERS,  179.3. 


No.  CL XXIII. 


TO  MISS  B- 


OF  YORK. 


M'^"'\.>?,  2\st  March,  1795. 

Among  many  things  for  which  I  envy  those 
hale,  long-lived  old  fellows  before  the  flood,  u 
this  in  paiticular,  that  when  they  met  with  any 
body  after  their  own  heart,  they  had  a  charm- 
ing long  prospect  of  many,  many  hapjiy  meet- 
ings  with  tl'cni  in  after-life. 

Now,  in  this  short,  stcrmy  winter  day  of  our 
fleeting  existence,  when  you  now  and  then,  ic 
the  Chapter  of  Accidents,  meet  .in  individux 
whose  ai^quaintance  is  a  real  acquisition,  there 
are  all  tne  probabilities  against  you,  that  you 
shall  never  meet  with  that  valued  chiracter 
more.  On  the  other  hand,  brief  as  the  miser- 
able being  is,  it  is  none  of  the  least  of  the  mi- 
series  belonging  to  it,  that  if  there  is  any  mis» 
creant  whom  you  hate,  or  creature  whom  you 
despise,  the  ill  run   of  the  chances  shall  be  bo 


372 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


against  you,  that  .n  the  overtalilngs,  turnings, 
and  JD-itlings  of  life,  pop,  at  some  unlucky  cor- 
ner, eternally  comes  the  wreioi.  upon  you,  and 
will  not  allow  your  indignation  or  contempt  a 
moment's  rej)ose.  As  1  am  a  sturdy  believer 
hi  the  powers  of  darkness,  I  take  those  to  he 
the  doings  of  that  old  author  of  mischief,  the 
devil.  It  is  well  known  that  he  has  some 
kind  of  short-hand  way  of  taking  down  our 
thoughts,  and  I  make  no  doulit  that  he  is  per- 
fectly acijuainted  with  my  sentiments  respect- 
ing   Miss    B ;    how   mttcli    I   admired    her 

abilities  and  valued  her  worth,  and  how  very 
fortuniite  I  thought  myself  in  her  acquaintance. 
For  this  last  reason,  my  dear  Madam,  I  must 
enteitiin  no  hopes  of  the  very  great  pleasure  of 
meeting  with  you  again. 

Miss  II tells  me  that  she  is  sending  a 

packet  to  you,  and  I  beg  leave  to  send  you  the 
C'uclosed  sonnet,  though  to  tell  you  the  real 
truth,  the  sonnet  is  a  mere  pretence,  that  I  may 
have  the  opportunity  of  declaring  with  how 
much  respectful  esteem  I  have  the  honour  to 
be,  &c. 


No.   CLXXIV, 

TO  PATRICK  MILLER,  Es.j. 
OF  DALSWINTON. 

SIR,  April,  179,3. 

Mv  poems  having  just  come  out  in  another  edi- 
tion, will  you  do  me  the  honour  to  accept  of  a 
copy  ?  A  mark  of  my  gnititude  to  you,  as  a 
gentleman  to  whose  goodness  I  have  been  much 
indebted  ;  of  my  respect  for  you,  as  a  jjatriot 
who,  in  a  venal,  sliding  age,  stands  forth  the 
chain|)ion  of  the  liberties  of  my  country  ;  and 
of  niy  veneration  for  you,  as  a  man,  whose  be- 
nevolence of  heart  does  h.onour  to  human  nature. 

There  urns  a  time.  Sir,  when  I  was  your  de- 
pendant :  this  language  l/ien  would  have  been 
like  the  vile  incense  ol  flattery — 1  could  not  have 
used  t. — Now  that  connection*  is  at  an  end, 
do  m.e  the  honour  to  accej)t  of  this  lionest  tribute 
of  respect  from.  Sir, 

Your  much  indebted  humble  Servant. 


No.  CLXXV. 

TO  JOHN  FRANCIS  ERSKINE,  EsQ.f 
OF  MAR, 

•IR,  Dumfries,  With  April,  Mm. 

Decfnerate  as  human  nature  is  said  to  be; 
»nd  in  mativ  instances    worthless  and  uuprinci- 


•  AlUulinp  to  the  time  wlicn  he  helil  the  farm  of  El- 
islaml,  as  tenant  to  Mr.  M. 

t  Tills  Rciitlem.in,  must  obliginplv  favoured  the 
K'Jitor  with  a  peifect  copy  of  the  original  letter,  and 


pled  it  is  ;  still  tnere  are  bright  examplw  to  tht 
contrary  :  examples  that  even  in  the  eyes  of  su- 
perior beings,  must  shed  a  lustre  on  the  name  of 
man. 

Such  an  example  have  I  now  before  me, 
when  you.  Sir,  came  foiwaid  to  patrcmise  and 
befriend  a  distant  obscure  stranger,  merely  be- 
cause poverty  ha<i  made  him  helpless,  and  his 
British  hardihood  of  mind  had  provoked  the  ar- 
bitrary wantonness  of  power.  IMy  much  es- 
teemed friend,  Mr.  Riddel  of  Glenriddel,  has 
just  read  me  a  paragraph  of  a  letter  he  had 
fiom  you.  Accept,  Sir,  of  the  silent  throb  oi 
gratitude  ;  for  words  would  but  mock  the  emo- 
tions of  my  soul. 

You  have  been  misinformed  as  to  my  final 
dismission  from  the  Excise  ;  I  am  still  in  the 
service. — Indeed,  but  for  the  exertions  of  a  gen- 
tleman who  must  be  known  to  you,  Mr.  Graham 
of  Fintray,  a  gentleman  who  has  ever  been  iry 
warm  and  generous  fiiend,  I  had,  without  so 
much  as  a  hearing,  or  the  slightest  previous  \u~ 
timatiou,  been  turned  adrift,  with  my  helpless 
family,  to  all  the  hormrs  of  want.  —  Had  I  had 
any  other  resource,  probably  I  might  have  saved 
them  the  trouble  of  d  di»in:ssion  ;  but  the  little 
money  I  gained  by  my  publication,  is  almost 
every  guinea  embarked,  to  save  from  ruin  un 
only  brother,  who,  though  one  of  the  worthiest, 
is  by  DO  means  one  of  the  most  fortunate  ol 
men. 

In  my  defence  to  their  accusations,  I  said, 
that  whatever  might  be  my  sentiments  of  re- 
publics, ancient  or  modern,  as  to  Britain,  I  ab- 
jured the  idea  : — That  a  constitution,  which, 
in  its  original  princi|)les,  experience  had  proved 
to  be  every  way  fitted  for  our  happiness  in  so- 
ciety, it  would  be  insanity  to  sacrifice  to  an  tin- 
tried  visionary  theory  :— That,  in  consideration 
of  my  being  situated  in  a  department,  however 
humble,  immediately  in  the  hands  of  peojile  in 
power,  I  had  forborne  taking  any  active  i)art, 
either  perstinally,  or  as  an  author,  in  the  present 
business  of  reform.  But  that,  where  I  must 
declare  my  sentiments,  I  would  sav  there  exist- 
ed a  system  of  corru|)tion  between  the  executive 
power  and  the  representative  part  of  the  leg'sla- 
ture,  which  boded  no  good  to  our  glorious  con- 
stitution ;  and  which  every  patriotic  Briton 
must  wish  to  see  anienil-ed. — .Some  such  senti- 
ments as  these,  I  st.ited  in  a  letter  to  my  gene- 
rous p.itnm  fllr.  Graham,  which  he  laid  befoie 
the  Board  at  large  ;  where,  it  seems,  my  last 
remark  gave  great  oifence  ;   and  one  ')f  our  sn- 

allowe<.    linj  to  l.iy  it  before  the  public ►  t  is  paitly 

printed  lu  Ur.  Currie's  Edition. 

It  will  1)0  neees>ary  to  st.ite,  that  in  consequence  ot 
the  pod's  treedoin  of  remark  on  public  measures,  iiia- 
lieiuu-ly  mlsripieseiitcd  to  the  Board  of  Kxeiso,  ht 
was  rcpii'scnted  as  a.tuaily  ilisinissed  from  his  ulliee. 
—  This  report  induced  Mr.  lOr.skuie  lo  projiose  a  sul> 
seriplioii  in  his  favour,  which  was  refused  bv  thi>  p"e' 
wiih  that  ele\eti(>n  of  sentiment  that  pccuhaily  eha- 
raetcrised  his  mind,  and  which  is  so  happily  di>i>layed 
in  this  letter,  .'■t-e  letter  No.  171.  in  the  presint  vo- 
lume, written  by  Itiiriis,  with  evin  more  than  his  ac- 
customed p.ithos  and  eloquence,  in  further  explana 
i  tion.— CHOM1..K. 


CORR[:SPONDENCE. 


873 


pfnnsnr*  t^encr.il,  a  Hfr.  Corbet,  w.ts  instructed 
to  iinjiiire  on  the  spiit,  and  to  dociinUMit  mo — 
"  tint  Miy  tiusincss  w;is  to  act,  not  to  tliitih  , 
Hiid  tliiit  wIiatcvtT  might  lie  men  or  nuMsuies, 
it  «as  for  mc  to  he  silfiil  and  ohei/icnt." 

Mr,  Corbet  was  likewise  my  steady  friend  ; 
BO  liet'veeri  Mr.  Graham  and  )iim,  I  have  been 
pa-t!v  forgiven  ;  only  I  inidcrstand  thit  all 
hopes  of  my  getting  (ilficially  forward,  are 
bl.isted. 

Now,  Sir,  to  the  bnsiness  in  wliidi  I  would 
more  nnmediately  interest  you.  The  [lartiality 
of  my  COUNTKVMKN,  has  brought  me  forward 
as  a  man  of  genius,  and  has  given  me  a  charac- 
ter to  support.  In  the  i-okt  I  have  avowed 
m.inly  and  independent  sentiments,  which  I 
trust  will  he  foiiiid  in  the  man.  Reasons  ot  no 
less  wei;;ht  than  tlie  sui)(H)rt  of  a  wife  and  fa- 
mily, have  pouited  out  as  th«  eligible,  and  si- 
tuated as  I  was,  the  oidy  eligible  line  of  life  for 
me,  my  present  occupation.  Still  my  honest 
fame  is  my  dearest  concein  ;  nnd  a  thousand 
times  have  I  trembled  at  tlie  idea  of  those  tie- 
griidiiig  epithets  that  malice  or  misrepresenta- 
tion may  affix  to  my  name.  I  have  often,  in 
blasting  anticipation,  listeneil  to  some  future 
baokr.ey  scribbler,  with  the  heavy  m.ilice  of  sa- 
Tage  stupidity,  exulting  in  iiis  hireling  para- 
priphs — "  Burns,  nntwithstanding  the  fan- 
fiirinidde  of  independence  to  be  found  in  bis 
woiks,  and  after  h  ivirii;  been  held  forth  to  piib- 
I;c  view,  and  to  public  estimation  as  a  man  of 
some  genius,  yet,  quite  destitute  of  lesources 
within  himself  to  support  his  boriowed  dignity, 
he  dwinilli'd  into  a  paltry  exciseman,  and  slunk 
out  the  rest  of  his  insignificant  existence  in  the 
meanest  of  pursuits,  and  among  the  vilest  of 
mankind." 

In  your  illustrious  hands,  Sir,  permit  me  to 
lodge  my  disavowal  and  defiance  of  these  slan- 
derous falsehoods. —  HtJUNs  was  a  pour  man 
fr<nii  birth,  and  an  exciseman  by  necessity  :  but 
—  I  will  say  it  !  the  sterling  of  his  honest  worth, 
nu  poverty  could  debase,  and  his  independent 
British  mind,  oppression  might  bend,  but  cuuld 
not  subdue.  Have  not  I,  to  me,  a  more  pre- 
cious stake  in  my  countiy's  welfare,  than  the 
ridiest  dukedom  in  it?  —  I  have  a  large  family 
of  children,  and  the  prospect  of  many  more.  I 
h  ive  three  sons,  who,  I  see  already,  have  brouyht 
into  the  worlil  souls  ill  qualitied  to  inhabit  the 

bodies  of  SLAVES Can  i  look   tamely  in,  and 

See  any  machination  to  wrest  from  them  the 
birthright  of  my  boys, — the  little  in<lependent 
BUiroNs,  in  whose  veins  runs  my  own  blood  ? — 
No  !  i  will  not  !  should  my  heart's  blood  stream 
around  my  attempt  to  defend  it ! 

Does  any  in  in  tell  me,  that  my  full  efforts 
can  be  of  no  service  ;  and  that  it  does  not  lie- 
long  to  my  hiinible  station  to  meddle  with  the 
concern  ot  a  nation  ? 

I  can  tell  him,  that  it  is  on  such  individuals 
as  1,  that  a  nation  has  to  rest,  botli  for  the 
nan<i  of  support,  and  the  eye  of  intelligence. 
The    uuinfofii'd    hob.     may   swell    a   nation's 


bulk  ;  and  the  titled,  tinsel,  courtly  t  ironsf 
may  be  its  feathere<l  ornament  ;  but  the  nuiii'. 
her  of  those  who  are  elevated  enough  in  life  tc 
reason  and  to  reflect  ;  yet  low  enoufjh  to  keep 
clear  of  the  venal  contagion  of  a  court; — thesa 
are  a  nation's  strength. 

I  know  not  how  to  apologize  for  the  imper- 
tinent length  of  this  epistle  ;  but  one  small  re- 
quest I  nmst  ask  of  you  farther — When  vou 
have  honoured  this  letter  with  a  perusal,  please 
to  commit  it  to  the  flames.  Burns,  in  whose 
behalf  you  have  so  generously  interested  your- 
self, I  have  here,  in  bis  native  colours  diawn 
as  he  is ;  but  should  any  of  the  peo])le  in  whose 
hands  is  the  very  biead  he  eats,  get  the  least 
knowledge  of  the  jiicture,  it  icould  ruin  the  poor 
UAKTi  for  ever  ! 

My  poems  having  just  come  out   in  another 

edition,  I  beg  leave  to  present  you  with  a  copy, 

as  a  small  mark  of  that  hli;h  esteem  and  ardeut 

gratitude,  with  which  I  have  the  honour  to  be 

Sir, 

Your  deeply  indebted, 
And  ever  devoted  humble  servut 


No.  CLXXVI. 


TO  MR.  ROBERT  AINSLIE. 

April  26,  1793. 

I  AM  d  —  mnably  out  of  humour,  my  dear 
Ainslie,  and  that  is  the  reason,  why  I  take  up 
the  pen  to  ynit  .  'tis  the  nearest  way,  (prubatum 
est)  to  recover  my  spirits  ajiin. 

I  received  your  last,  and  was  much  entertain- 
ed with  it  ;  but  I  will  not  at  this  time,  nor  at 
anv  other  time,  answer  it. — Answer  a  letter?  I 
never  coulil  answer  a  letter  in  my  life  ! — I  have 
written  many  a  letter  in  return  for  letters  I  have 
received  ;  but  then — they  weie  original  matter 
— spmt-away  !  z  g,  here  ;  z.ig,  there  ;  as  if  the 
Devil  that,  my  grannie  (an  oM  woman  indeed  !) 
otti-n  told  me,  rode  in  will-o'-wisj),  or,  in  her 
moie  classic  phrase,  Sn.NKiE,  were  looking 
over  my  elbow.  —  Happy  tluuight  that  idea  has 
engendenil  in  my  heaii  !  SpunKiF. — thou  shalt 
heneefoith  be  ni)  symbol,  signature,  and  tute- 
lary genius!  Like  thee,  hap-step-.\nd-lowp,  h^rc- 
awa-there-awa,  hlgglrty-pigglety,  pell-mell,  Li- 
therand-yon,  ram-staui,  happy-go  lucky,  up 
t  lils-.'i'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon  ;  has  been,  is, 
and  shall  be,  my  jirogress  through  the  mosse§ 
and  moors  of  this  vile,  bleak,  barren  wilderness 
of  a  life  of  ours. 

Come  then  my  guardian  spirit  !  like  thee, 
may  I  skip  away,  amusing  myself  by  and  at  my 
ou  n  li^'ht :  and  if  any  opaque-souled  lubber 
of  mankind  complain  that  my  eltiiie,  lambent, 
tjlimmerous  wanderings  have  misled  his  stupid 
sttps  over  precipices,  or  into  bogs  ;  let  the 
thick-headed   Biuiiderbuvt   recollect,   that  he  i« 


not  Sl'L'NKIE  : — that 


s;4 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


Spunkie's  warKierinc^s  cnuld  not  copied  be  ; 
Amid  these  perils  none  durst  walk  but  he 


I 


I  have  no  doubt  but  scholarcraft  may  be  caught 
«s  a  Scotsman  catches  the  itch, — by  friction. 
How  else  can  you  account  for  it,  that  liorn 
blockhe^uls,  by  mere  dint  of  handling  books, 
grow  so  wise  that  even  they  themselves  are 
tijually  convinced  of  and  surprised  at  their  own 
parts?  I  once  cairied  this  ]ihilosophy  to  that 
decree  that  in  a  knot  of  country  folks  who  had 
a  library  amongst  them,  and  who,  to  the  honour 
of  their  good  sense,  made  me  factotum  in  the 
business  ;  one  of  our  members,  a  littiC,  wise- 
looking',  squat,  upright,  jabbering  body  of  a 
tailor,  1  ddvi-ed  him,  instead  of  turning  over 
the  leaves,  to  hind  the  book  on  fn's  Lack- — Johnic 
took  the  hint  ;  and  as  our  meetings  were  every 
fjurth  Saturday,  and  Pricklouse  hiving  a  good 
Scots  mile  to  walk  in  coming,  and,  ot  course, 
another  in  returning.  Bodkin  was  suie  to  lay 
his  hands  on  some  heavy  (piarto,  or  ponderous 
folio,  with,  and  under  which,  wra|)t  up  in  his 
grey  jilaid,  he  grew  wise,  as  he  grew  weary,  all 
the  way  iioine.  He  carried  this  so  far,  that  an 
old  musty  Hebrew  concordance  which  we  had 
in  a  present  from  a  neighboiii  ing  priest,  by  mere 
dint  of  a]'plying  it,  as  doctors  do  a  blistering 
])la!>ter,  between  his  shoulder-;,  Stitch,  in  a 
dozen  pilgrimages,  acquijcd  as  much  lational 
theology  as  the  said  priest  h.'.d  done  by  foity 
years  perusal  of  the  pat;es. 

Tell  me,    and  tell  me  truly,    what  you   think 
of  this  theory. 

Yours, 

SrUNKIE. 


Kg.  CLXXVn. 
TO  MISS  K 


the  finest  part  of  God's  works  below),  havj 
sensations  for  the  poetic  heart  that  the  hekd  ol 
man  are  strangers  to. — On  this  last  account, 
Madam,  I  am,  as  in  many  other  things  indebt- 
ed to  IMr.  Hamilton's  kindness  in  introducing 
me  to  y(!u.  Your  lovers  may  view  you  with  a 
wish,  1  look  on  you  with  pleasure  ;  their  hearts, 
in  your  presence,  may  glow  with  desiff,  mine 
rises  with  admiration. 

That  the  arrows  of  misfortune,  however  they 
should,  as  incident  to  humanity,  glance  a  sligh 
wound,  may  never  reach  your  heart — ill  it  tht 
snares  of  villany  may  never  beset  you  in  the 
road  of  life — that  innocence  mav  hanil  you  by 
the  path  of  honour  to  the  dwelling  of  peace, 
is  the  sincere  wish  of  him  who  has  the  hocour 
to  be,  £;c. 


MADAM, 

P.  R.'MiT  me  to  jj'-esent  you  with  the  enclosed 
song  an  a  small  though  grateful  tribute  for  the 
honour  of  your  acqu  lintauce.  1  have,  in  these 
verses,  attempted  some  faint  sketches  of  your 
portrait  in  the  iinemlielli^hed  simple  manner  of 

descriptive   truth Flattery,    I   leave  to  your 

I  OVERS,  v.'hose  exaggerating  fancies  iinv  make 
them  iiiiagiiie  you  still  nearer  perfection  than 
you  redly  are. 

Poets,  Madam,  of  all  mankind,  feel  mo*t  for- 
cibly the  powers  of  ukahtv;  as,  if  they  are 
really  pulcT.s  of  n.iture's  making,  their  feelings 
must  be  finer,  and  their  taste  more  delicate 
than  m<i~t  of  the  world  In  the  cheeiful  bloom 
of  spiUNO,  tir  the  pen<ive  mililtie-s  of  autu.mn; 
the  grandeur  of  mjmmhu,  nr  the  hoary  majesty 
of  WINTKU  ;  the  poet  leels  a  charm  unknown  to 
the  lest  ot  his  species.  Jlveii  the  sight  of  a  Cue 
flower,  or  the  euuipinj   of  a  fine  woman  {^\>v  'n. 


No.  CLXXVIII. 

TO  LADY  GLENCAIRN. 

JIY  i.Anv, 

The  honour  you  have  done  your  poor  poet, 
in  writing  him  so  very  oblig'iig  a  iitter,  anil  tLe 
pleasure  the  enclosed  beautiful  verses  have  given 
him,  came  very  seasonably  to  his  aid  amiil  the 
cheerless  gloom  and  sinking  despondency  of  dis- 
eased ni-rves  and  December  weather  ( siij)/>iised 
DeCLiiihtr,  I7y  >).  As  to  forgetting  the  family 
of  Gleiieairn,  Heaven  is  mv  witness  with  wh.l 
si.icei  ity  I  could  use  thn-e  old  verses  which  pieast 
mc  more  in  their  rude  simplicity  than  the  m« 
elegant  lines  I  ever  saw. 

If  thre  Jerii<alem  I  forget, 

Skill  part  from  my  right  hand. — 

My  tongue  to  my  mouth's  roof  let  cleave.. 

If  I  do  thee  forget 
Jerusalem,  and  tliee  above 

My  chief  joy  do  not  set 

When  I  am  tempted  to  do  anv  thin?  i.-nprw 
per,  I  d.ire  not.  because  I  look  on  mv-cK  u ,  ha 
couiitabie  to  your  ladyship  and  family.  liirtt 
and  then  wlien  I  h.ive  the  honour  to  b';  ralleJ 
to  the  tables  of  the  great,  if  I  happen  tc  meet 
with  any  mortification  from  the  stately  stupidity 
of  self-stifl[icient  sijuires,  or  the  luxuriant  indo- 
lence of  upstart  nabobs,  I  get  a!<ove  the  crea- 
tures by  calling  to  iemen;!)ian':e  that  I  am  pa- 
tronized liy  the  IS'oble  House  of  Glencairu  ;  and 
at  t;ala-tinies,  such  as  ^'ow-ycar's  day,  a  ehii^- 
tening,  or  the  Kirn-niL;ht,  when  my  punch-liowi 
is  lirought  from  its  du>ty  corner  and  filled  uji  in 
honour  of  the  occawon.  I  begin  with, —  The 
Citviitfss  (if  (ileiiccirn  !  My  good  wom.in  with 
the  enihusihsin  cf  a  gritetul  beat  t,  next  iries, 
I/y  Lmd  !  jr  d  s.)  t!ie  toast  goes  on  until  I  end 
wi'h  Lii'Ju  H'lrr'.il^s  little  iiiujtl  >  whose  cpi 
ni>'!.n"inn,  '  lii.fp  |)1' dgt'd  iii\S(df  to  write. 

V.  n-;..  '  f.ceived  yon-  ladyship's  letter,  J  \\a% 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


375 


|\i8t  in  the  act  of  trail  ■criliin;^  for  ymi  some  verses 
I  have  lately  ciiiiii)os..>(i  ;  ami  meant  to  have  sent 
them  my  first  leisure  hour,  and  aeciuaiiiteil  you 
witli  my  late  eliar.ge  of  life.  I  mentioned  to  my 
lord,  Kiv  fears  coiieerning  my  farm.  Tlmse 
fiars  Mere  indeed  too  true  ;  it  is  a  l)arg;ain  would 
have  ruined  me  hut  for  the  lucky  circumstancL' 
of  mv  having  an  excise  commission. 

People  may  talk  as  they  please,  of  the  igno- 
niinv  of  the  excise  ;  £bO  a  year  will  support 
my  wife  and  children  and  kei'p  n-.e  independent 
of  tlie  world  ;  and  I  would  much  rather  h  ive  it 
Siid  tliatmv  profes>iou  sorrowed  credit  from  me, 
than  that  I  be  rowed  credit  from  my  profession. 
Another  advantage  I  have  in  this  husiuess,  is 
the  knowled;;e  it  gives  me  of  the  various  shades 
of  human  character,  consequently  assisting  me 
vastly  in  my  poetic  jjursuits.  I  hid  the  nuist 
ardent  enthusiasm  for  the  muses  wlien  nohody 
knew  me,  hut  myself,  and  that  ardour  is  hy  no 
means  cooled  now  that  my  Lord  Glencairn's 
goodness  has  intniduceil  me  to  all  the  world.  I 
Not  that  I  am  in  haste  for  the  press.  1  hive  no 
idea  of  pulili>hinn,  else  I  certaiidy  had  consulted  j 
niy  nohle  gcnenius  patron  ;  hut  after  acting  the 
part' of  an  hoiiCst  man,  and  supporting  my  fa- 
jiily,  my  whole  wishes  and  views  aie  directed 
.0  poetic  pursuits.  I  am  aware  that  though  I 
vere  to  give  perfnrmances  to  the  world  superior 
•o  my  former  works,  still  if  they  were  of  the 
.ame  kind  with  tlio-e,  the  comparative  recep- 
tion they  would  meet  with  woidd  m«rtify  me. 
I  have  tiiriud  my  thoughts  on  the  drama.  I  do 
not  mean  the  stately  buskin  of  tlie  tragic  muse. 


Does  not  your  ladyship  think  that  an  Edinburgh 
theatre  wou'd  be  more  amused  with  affectation, 
fidly  and  whim  of  true  Scottish  growth,  than 
manners  which  by  far  the  greatest  part  of  the 
audience  can  only  know  at  second  hand  ? 
I  have  the  honour  to  be 

Your  ladyship's  ever  devoted 
And  grateful  humble  servant. 


a  talent  for   poetry  ;   none  ever  .Asplsed   it  who 
liad  pretensions  to  it.      The  fates  and  characters 
of  tlie  ihyming  tribe  often  employ  my  taoui;lit» 
when  I  am  disposed   to  be   mel.incbojy.      There 
is    not,    among  all   the   niaityrulogies  that  ever 
were  penned,  so  rueful  a  nanative  as  the  lives  of 
the  poets. — In  the  comparative  view  of  wretehe«i, 
the  criterion  is  not  wli.it  they  are  doomed  to  suf- 
fer, but  how  they  are  formed   to  hear.      Take  a 
being  of  om'   kind,    give  him   a  stronger  imagi- 
nation and  a  more  delicate  sensibility,  which  lie- 
tween  them  will  ever  engender  a  more  ungovern- 
able set  of  passions  than  are  (he  usu  d  lot  oi  man  ; 
implant  in  him  an  irresistible  impulse  to  some  idle 
vagary,   such  as,  arranging  wild  flowers  in  I  iii- 
tastical  nosegays,   tracing  the  grasshopper  to  his 
haunt  by  his  chirping  song,  watching  the  frisks 
of  the    litt'e   minnows    in    the   sunny    pool,    or 
hunting    after   tn»  ibtrigues    of  butteiHies — in 
short,  send  him  adrift  after  some  pursuit  wliich 
shall    eternally   mislead    hiin    from    the   path  of 
lucre,    and   yet  curse   iiin)  with  a  keener  reli>h 
than  any  man  living,  for  the  plasuies  that  lucre 
can  purchase  ;   lastly,  fill  up  the  measure  of  his 
woes  by  bestowing  on   him  a  spurning  sense  of 
his  own  dignity,   and  )ou  have   created  a  wight 
nearly  as  miserable  as  a  |)oet.      To  you,  Madam, 
I  need  not  recount  the  fairy  pleasures   tiie  mus" 
bestows  to  counterbalance  this  catalogue  of  evil 
Bewitching   poetry  is  like  bewitching  woman 
she  }>as  in  all    ages  been  accused   of   misleading 
mankind   from    the  counsels  of  wisdom   and  the 
paths  of  prudence,  involving  them  in  difticidties, 
baiting  them  with  poverty,  branding  ti-.em  with 
infamy,  and  plunging  them  in  the  wliirhng  vor- 
tex of  ruin  ;  yet  where  is  the  man  but  must  own 
that  all   happiness   on  earth  is  not  worthy  the 
name — that  even  the  holy  hermit's  solitary  pios 
pect  of  paradisaical  bliss  is  but    the  glitter  ol  a 
northern  sun,   rising  over  a  frozen  region,  com- 
pared   with   the    many  pleasures,    the    namelesi 
rajitures  tlut  we  owe  to  the  lovely  Queen  of  the 
heart  of  2\Iaa  ! 


No.    CLXXIX. 
TO  JIISS  CHALMERS. 

tfiDAM,  Aiipust,  17!)3. 

Some  rather  unlookdl-for  accidents  have  pre- 
vented my  doing  my>eif  the  honour  of  a  second 
visit  to  Arbieg'and,  as  I  was  so  ho-pit  ibly  invit- ; 
ed,    and   so    positively  meant   to   have   done. —  I 
However,   I  still  hope  to  have  that  pleasure  be-  i 
foie  the  busy  motiths  of  harvest  begin. 

I  enclose  \ou  two  of  my  lute  pieces,  as  some 
kind  return  for  the  pleasure  I  have  received  in 
perusing  a  ceitain  MS.  volume  of  poems  in  the 
pis-essiiin  of  C-ptaia  Riddel.  To  repay  one 
with  an  <lil  sonij,  is  a  nroverb,  whose  force  you, 
Midani,  1  know  will  not  allow.  What  is  said 
:if  illustrious  descent  is,  I  l*"lieve,  ff-ually  true  of 


No.  CLXXX. 

TO  JOHN  M'MURDO,  Esq, 

SIR,  December,  1793. 

It  is  said  that  we  take  the  greatest  libertie* 
with  our  greatest  friends,  and  1  p ay  myself  a 
very  high  compliment  in  the  manner  in  which 
I  am  going  to  ap|)ly  the  remaik.  1  hav«;  owed 
you  money  longer  than  ever  I  owed  it  to  any 
man.  —  Here  is  Ker's  account,  and  here  are  six 
guineas  ;  and  now,  I  don't  owe  a  shilling  to 
man — or  woman  either.  IJut  for  these  dauined 
dirty,  dog's  ear'<i  little  pages,*  [  had  done  mv 
self  the  honour  to  hive  waited  on  you  long  ago 
Independent  of  tlie  obligations  yuur   hospitalitj 


*  Scottish  bajiknote*. 


has  laiil  me  um'tr,  the  conscioii'sjss  of  your  sii- 
pexliirity  in  the  rauk  of  man  ami  i;t'ntleiiian,  of 
tsflf  was  fully  !is  much  as  I  coulil  evur  make 
heaii  a'4ain--t ;  hut  to  owe  you  money  too,  was 
mdie  than  I  couij  face. 

I  think  I  once  mentioned  something  of  a  col- 
lection of  Scotch  songs  I  have  fur  some  years 
been  making  :  I  send  you  a  peiusal  of  wliat  I 
liave  got  together.  I  couhl  not  conveniently 
R|)are  tiieni  above  five  or  six  days,  anil  five  or 
six  glances  of  them  will  probably  mure  than  suf- 
fice you.  A  very  few  of  them  are  my  own. 
Wheri  you  are  tired  of  them,  please  leive  them 
with  Mr.  Clint,  of  the  KinL;'s  Arms.  There  is 
not  ijiiuthrr  cojiy  of  the  collection  in  the  world  ; 
and  I  shill  be  so -ry  that  any  unlortunate  negli 
pence  shia  Id  depr'">  rae  of  what  has  cost  me  a 
good  deal  of  pains. 


LETTERS,  179i,  1795,  179G. 
No.  CLXXXI. 

TO  THE  EARL  OK  BUCHAX, 
WITH  A  corv  OF  "  BRirrt's  AnniiEss  to  his 

IKOOl'S  AT  BANNOCKBURN." 

MV  loKi),  Diinifriex,  ]2th  Jan.  ]79i: 

Wii.L  your  joiil.sliii)  allow  me  to  present  you 
with  the  '.nclused  little  comi)osition  of  mine,  as 
a  small  rnluite  of  gratitude  for  that  acipiaint- 
ani-e  with  wiiicli  you  have  been  pleased  to  ho- 
nour me.  Inilepriideiit  of  mv  enthusiasm  as  a 
Scotsniaii,  I  ha^i:  rarely  met  witli  any  thing  in 
nisfiuy  whub  interest  niy  feelings  as  a  man, 
efjuai  with  the  story  of  li.iuiupckburn.  On  the 
one  li.iiid,  a  cruel,  but  able  usurper,  leading  on 
the  fineit  ainiy  in  Europe  to  extinguish  the  ia^t 
fpark  of  freedom  among  a  gieatly-d.iring,  and 
gieatly-injiired  peojde  :  on  the  other  hand,  the 
diii-pcr.ite  relics  of  a  gallint  nation,  (h^voting 
tlicin--elves  to  rescue  their  bleeding  country,  or 
pel  isli  witii  hiT. 

LibeiTy!  thou  ait  a  prize  tiul)',  and  iuiieed 
invaluable  1 — loi  never  canst  thou  be  too  deaiiy 
bought  ! 

1  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 


No.  CI.XXXII. 
TO  Mils.  KIDDEL, 

WHO   WAS  TO   HPSPFAK     A    Pt  A  V    OKE    RVRNIKQ 

At    IllE    IJUMFKIKS   IIIKAthE. 

I  AM  thinking  to  Kcnd  my  Ail<ltrn$  to  some 
prrirMlMiil  publication,  lm(^  it  iias  not  got  your 
■am  turn,  ho  pi  ay  look  over  it. 

As  lu  ll     'luesday's  jilay,  let  me  beg  of  you. 


my  dear  Madam,  let  me  bej  of  m\\  tn  give  us, 
The  WoniiKr,  a  Wmnan  keeps  a  Secret  ;  to 
\vr  h  please  adf..  The  S/>r>ilt::l  Chili! — you  will 
1'  -  j\y  oblige  me  by  so  doing. 

Ah,  what  an  enviable  creature  you  are  , 
There  now,  this  cursed  gloomy  !)lue-ilevil  day, 
you  are  going  to  a  party  of  choice  spirits— 

"  To  play  the  shapes 
Of  frolic  fancy,  and  incessant  form 
Those  rapid  pictures,  that  assembled  train 
Of  fleet  ideas,  never  join'd  befoie, 
Where  lively  wit  excites  to  gay  surprise  ; 
Or  foliy,  painting  huminir,  giave  himself. 
Calls  laughter  forth,  deep-shaking  every  nerve. 

But  as  you  rejoice  v/ith  them  that  do  rejoice, 
do  also  remember  to  weep  with  them  that  weep, 
and  pity  your  melancholy  friend 


No.  CLXXXIII. 

TO  A  LADY 

IN  FAVOUR  or  A  player's  benefit. 

MATAM, 

Yoo  were  so  very  good  as  to  promise  me  to 
honour  my  friend  with  your  ])iesence  on  bin 
benefit-night.  That  night  is  tixe<l  for  Friday 
first  :  the  play  a  most  interesting  one  !  TUt 
w(i)j  to  keep  Him.  I  have  the  pleasure  to  know 
.Mr.  G.  well.  His  merit  as  an  actor  is  gene- 
rally acknowledged.  He  has  genius  and  worth 
which  would  ilo  honour  to  patronage  :  he  is  a 
poor  and  modest  man  ;  claims  which,  from 
their  very  silence,  have  the  more  forcible  power 
on  the  generous  heart.  Alas,  for  pity  !  tint, 
from  the  indolence  of  those  who  have  the  good 
things  of  this  life  in  their  gift,  too  oft>'n  does 
brazen-fronted  importunity  snatch  that  boon, 
the  rightful  due  of  retiring,  huniide,  want  !  Oi 
all  the  (juahties  we  assign  to  the  author  and  di- 
rector of  Nature,  by  far  the  most  enviable  is — 
to  be  able  "  To  wipe  away  all  tears  from  all 
eyes."  O  what  insignificant,  sordiil  wretches 
are  they,  however  chance  may  have  loaded  them 
with  \cealth,  who  go  to  their  graves,  to  their 
magnificent  nuvisulcums,  with  liirdly  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  made  .,ne  pour  honest  heart 
hajipy  ! 

Hut  I  crave  your  pardon.  Madam  ;  I  came  te 
l>eg,  not  to  preach. 


No.  CI.XXXIV. 

KITRaCT  ok  A    LETTEIt 

TO  MR. 


1 794 

1am  extremely  obliged  to  yon  for  vour  kinn 
mention  of  my  inteiests,   in  a  letter  which  i\lr 


CORRESPOXDEN'CE. 


S77 


b>- slim\'o(l  mc.     At  present,   my   situation 

in  life  must  he  in  a  great  nic.isure  ftatimuiry, 
U  least  lor  two  or  tliiee  years.  The  statemeiit 
Ie  this — I  am  on  the  supervisor's  list  ;  and  as 
ire  tonie  on  there  hy  precedency,  in  two  or 
til  ice  years  I  shall  he  at  the  liead  of  that  list, 
inii  lie  appointed  "/'  coiine — then  a  Friend 
might  he  <if  service  to  ine  in  pettinij  nii"  into  a 
place  of  th.e  kingdom  which  I  would  like.  A 
sjperviwir's  income  varies  from  ahout  a  luinilred 
nn.l  twenty,  to  two  hundred  u-year  ;  hut  the 
business  is  an  ince-sant  drud;^ery,  and  wotild  he 
nearly  a  coiiiiilete  bar  to  every  sjiei-ies  of  litera- 
ry pursuit.  The  moment  I  am  appointed  su- 
pervisor in  the  c(miiTion  routine,  I  may  be  no- 
minated on  the  collector's  list  ;  and  this  is  al- 
ways a  business  [)ui'ely  of  political  patronage  A 
collectoiship  varies  much,  from  better  than  two 
liiindred  a-ycar  to  near  a  thousand.  They  also 
come  forw.ird  by  precedencv  on  the  list,  and 
have,  besides  a  handsome  income,  a  life  of  com- 
plete leisure.  A  life  of  literary  leisure,  with  a 
i  decent  competence,  is  the  summit  of  my  wish- 
es. It  would  be  the  jirudish  affectation  of  sillv 
pride  in  me,  to  say  that  I  do  not  need  or  would 
nut  be  indebted  to  a  political  fiiend;  at  the 
same  time.  Sir,  I  by  no  means  lay  my  alTairs 
before  you  thus,  to  hook  my  dependent  situa- 
tion on  your  benevoJence.  If,  in  my  progress 
of  l;fe,  an  opening  ^liuuld  occur  where  the  good 
offices  (}f  a  gentleman  of  your  public  character 
and  political  consequence  might  bring  me  for- 
waid,  I  will  pitition  your  goodness  with  the 
same  Ir.inkness  and  sincerity  as  I  now  do  niy- 
Eelf  the  honour  to  subscribe  myself,  &c. 


Xo.  CLXXXV. 
TO  MRS.  RIDDEL. 

DIAR  MADAM, 

I  MKANT  to  have  called  on  you  yesternight, 
but  as  I  edged  iiji  to  your  box-door,  the  first 
object  which  greeted  my  view,  was  one  of  those 
lobster-coated  puppies,  sitting  like  another  dra- 
gon, guarding  the  Hesperian  fruit.  On  the 
conditions  and  capitulations  you  so  obligingly 
ort'er,  1  sh  ill  certainly  make  my  weather-beaten 
rustic  phiz  a  part  of  your  box-furniture  on 
Tuesday,  when  we  may  arrange  the  business  of 
the  visit. 


Among  the  profusion  of  idle  compliments 
which  insidious  craft,  or  unmeaning  folly  luces- 
lantly  otters  at  your  shrine — a  shrine,  how  far 
isalted  above  such  adoration — [lermit  me,  were 
I't  but  for  rarity's  sake,  to  pay  you  the  honest 
tiibiiteof  a  warm  lieart,  and  an  independent 
liiud  ;  and  to  assure  you,  that  I  am,  thou  most 
»iii  able,  and  most  dccomplislied  of  thy  sex, 
with  the  most  respeetlul  esteem,  and  fervent  re- 
gard, thine,  kc. 


ISo.  CLXXXVI. 


TO  THE  SAME. 


I  wit.T.  wait  on  you,  my  ever-valued  frierd 
but  wiiether  in  the  morning  I  am  not  sure. 
Sunday  closes  a  period  of  our  curst  revenue  bu 
siness,  and  may  probably  keej)  me  employee 
with  my  |ien  until  neon.  Fine  emploMi.ent  for 
a  poet's  pen  !  There  is  a  species  of  the  huinac 
genus  that  I  call  the  yiti-horse  class  :  what  en- 
viable dogs  tliey  are.  Rounil,  and  round,  and 
round  they  go, — .Mundell's  ox  that  drives  hi, 
cotton  mill,  is  their  exact  prototype — without 
an  idea  or  a  wish  beyond  their  circle  :  fat, 
sleek,  stupid,  patient,  fjuiet,  and  coiitenfed  ; 
while  here  I  sit,  altogether  N'ovenibi-rish,  a  d — 
melange  of  fretfulness  and  melancholy  ;  not 
enough  of  the  one  to  rouse  me  to  passion,  nor 
of  the  other  to  re|)ose  sue  in  torpor  ;  my  soul 
flouncing  and  fluttering  round  her  tenement, 
like  a  wild  finch,  caught  amid  the  horrors  of 
winter,  and  newly  thrust  into  a  cage.  Well,  I 
am  persuaded  that  it  was  of  nie  the  Hebrew 
sage  prophesied,  when  he  foretidd — "  And  be- 
hold, on  whatsoever  this  m.m  ilotli  set  his  heart, 
it  shall  not  ]>ros])er  !"  If  my  resentment  is  awak- 
ened, it  is  sure  to  be  where  it  dare  not  squeak  ; 
and  if — 


I'ray  that  wisdom  and  bliss  be  more  frequea^ 
visitors  of 

R.  B. 


No.  CLXXXV II. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

I    HAVE    this    moment    got    the    song    froiE 

S ,  and  I  am  sorry  to  see  that  he  has  spoilt 

it  a  good  deal.  It  shall  be  a  lesson  to  nie  ho»r 
I  lend  him  any  thing  again. 

I  have  sent  you  Wtrltr,  truly  happy  to  hava 
any  the  smallest  oppoitunity  of  obliging  \ou. 

'Tis   tiue,    IMadam,  I  saw    you    orico   since   I 

was  at  W ;   -awl   tl.at   once  froze  the  very 

life-blood  of  my  heart.  Your  reception  of  nie 
was  such,  that  a  wretch  meeting  the  eye  of  his 
judge,  about  to  pronounce  sentence  of  death  on 
liiiii,  could  only  have  envied  my  feelings  and  si- 
tuation.  lint  I  liate  tlie  theme,  ami  never  mora 
shall  write  or  speak  on  it. 

One  thing  1  sha'l  proudly  say,  that  I  can  pay 
Mrs. a  higher  tribute  of  esteem,  and  ap- 
preciate her  amiable  worth  more  truly,  than  »ny 
man  whom  I  have  seen  approach  L«r. 


378 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CLXXXVIII. 
TO  THE  SAME. 

1  liAVE  often  told  you,  my  dear  friend,  thi* 
Toii  had  a  spice  of  cajirice  in  your  composition, 
atid  you  have  as  often  disavowed  it,  even  per- 
ha;!s  while  your  opinions  were,  at  the  mon.ent, 
irrefragal)ly  proving  it.  Could  ani/  thing  es- 
tranf;e  me  from  a  friend  such  as  you  ? — No  ! 
To-morrow  I  shall  have  the  honour  of  waiting 
en  you. 

Farewell,  thou  first  of  friends,  and  most  ac- 
compl^hed  of  women  ;  even  with  all  thy  little 
caprices  ! 


No.  CLXXXIX. 

TO  THE  SAME. 

MADAM, 

I  RETURN  your  common-i)lace  book.  I  have 
perused  it  witli  much  pleasure,  and  would  have 
continued  my  criticisms,  but  as  it  seems  the 
critic  has  forfeited  your  esteem,  his  strictures 
must  lose  their  value. 

If  it  is  true  tliat  "  offences  come  only  from' 
the  heart,"  before  you  I  am  guiltless.  To  ad- 
mire, esteem,  and  piize  you,  as  the  most  accom- 
p'.i>he(l  of  women,  and  the  first  of  friends — if 
these  are  crimes,  I  am  the  most  ofTendiug  thing 
alive. 

In  a  face  where  I  used  to  meet  the  kind  com- 
placency of  friendly  confidence,  now  to  find  cold 
neglect,  and  contemptuous  scorn — is  a  wrench 
that  my  heart  can  ill  bear.  It  is,  however, 
some  kind  of  mi.-i  rable  goi.d  luck  ;  that  while 
ilc-liuut-en-has  ligour  may  depress  an  uiidftcnd- 
ing  wretch  to  the  grduuil,  it  has  a  tendency  to 
rouse  a  stuhlioi  n  Miii.ctliing  in  his  bosom,  which, 
though  it  cannot  heal  the  wounds  of  his  soul,  is 
at  least  an  opiate  to  blunt  tiieir  poighaucy. 

With  the  profoundest  respect  for  your  abili- 
ties ;  the  most  sincere  esteem,  and  ardent  re- 
gard for  your  gentle  heart  and  amiable  manners  ; 
and  the  most  fervent  wish  and  prayer  for  your 
welfare,  jieace,  and  bliss,  I  have  the  honour  to 
be.  Madam,  youi  most  devoted  humble  servant. 


No.  CXC. 
TO  JOiiN  SYME,  Esq. 

You  know  that  among  other  high  dignities, 
you  have  the  hi.iioiir  lo  be  my  supreme  court 
of  critical  judicature,  from  which  there  is  no 
appeal.  I  enclose  you  a  song  which  I  c(nnpos- 
eA  since  I  «aw  you,  and  I  am  goin','  to  give  you 
the  hihtory  of  it.  Do  you  know  that  amoiig 
much  tiiat  i  uiliiiire  in  the  character  and  man- 


ners of  those  great  folks  whom  I  jave  nov  tlw 

honour  to  cail  mv  acquaintances,  the  O 

family,  there  is  nothing  charms  me  more  than 
than  !Mr.  O's  unconcealable  attachment  to  tha. 
incomparable  woman.  Did  you  ever,  my  dear 
Syme,  meet  with  a  man  who  owed  more  to  the 
Divine  Giver  of  all  gooti  things  than  Mr.  O.  .' 
A  fine  fortune  ;  a  pleasing  exterior  ;  self-evident 
amiable  dispositions,  and  an  ingenious  upright 
mind,  and  that  informed  too,  much  beyond  tho 
usual  run  of  young  fellows  of  his  rank  and  for- 
tune ;  and  to  all  this^  such  a  woman  ! — but  o! 
her  I  shall  say  nothing  at  all,  in  despair  of  say- 
ing any  thing  adecjuate  :  in  my  song,  I  have  en 
deavoured  to  do  justice  to  what  would  be  his 
feelings  on  seeing,  in  the  scene  I  have  drawn, 
the  habitation  of  his  Lucy.  As  I  am  a  good 
deal  pleased  with  my  performance,  1  in  my  first 

fervour  thought  of  sending   it  to  Mrs.  O , 

but  on  second  thoughts,  perhaps  what  I  oflfer  as 
the  honest  incense  of  genuine  respect,  miglit, 
from  the  well-known  character  of  pi.verty  and 
poetry,  be  construed  into  some  modification  or 
other  of  that  servility  which  my  soul  abhors*. 


CXCI. 
TO  MISS  — 


VADAM. 

Nothing  short  of  a  kind  of  absolute  necessi- 
ty could  have  made  me  trouble  you  with  this 
letter.  Except  my  ardent  and  just  esteem  for 
your  sense,  taste,  and  worth,  every  sentiment 
a>ising  in  my  breast,  as  I  put  jien  to  paper  to  you, 
is  painful.  The  scenes  I  have  passed  with  the 
friend  of  mv  soul,  and  his  amiable  connexions! 
The  wrench  at  my  heart  to  think  that  he  is 
gone,  for  ever  g(me  from  me,  never  more  to 
meet  in  the  wanderings  of  a  weary  world  ;  and 
the  cutting  reflection  of  all,  that  I  had  most  un- 
fortunately, though  most  undeservedly,  lost  the 
confidence  of  that  soul  of  worth,  ere  it  took  .'Is 
fiight. 

These,  Madam,  are  sensations  of  no  ordinary 

anguish However,  yon,  also,  may  be  offended 

with  some  inipntisd  improprieties  of  mine  ;  sen- 
sibility you  know  I  possess,  and  sincerity  none 
will  deny  me. 

To  oppo'-e  those  prejudices  which  have  bcea 
raised  against  me,  is  not  the  business  of  this 
letter.  Indeed  it  is  a  warfare  I  know  not  how 
to  wage.  The  powers  of  po>itive  vice  I  can  in 
^■ome  degree  calculate,  and  against  direct  male- 
volence I  can  be  on  my  guard  ;  but  who  ca.n 
estimate  the  fatuity  of  giddy  ca])rice,  or  ward 
iiffthe  unthinking  mischief  of  piecipitate  folly  f 

I  have  a  lavdui-  to  request  of  you,  Mmlam 
ind    of  your    si>ter    Mrs. ,    through   youi 


•  The  song  cnelosoil  woi  the  one  bofjiMiuiig  with 
"  O  wat  ve  wlia's  in  von  town. 


r: 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


37S 


means.  You  know,  fliat,  nt  tlie  wish  of  my  late 
ftit'iul,  [  iiKide  a  collection  of  all  my  trifles  in 
verse  wlilch  I  lud  ever  written.  They  are  ma- 
:  y  of  them  local,  some  of  them  puerile,  and  sil- 
•y,  and  all  of  them  unlit  for  the  public  eye.  As 
t  have  some  little  fame  at  stake,  a  fame  that  I 
trtisf,  may  live,  when  the  hate  of  those  who 
"  watch  for  my  halting,"  and  the  contuni-eliou> 
sneer  of  tho-^e  whom  accident  has  made  my  su- 
j)eriors,  will,  with  themselves,  be  gone  to  the 
regions  of  oblivion  ;   I  am    iinca-jy  now  for  the 

fite  of  those  manuscripts. — Will  Mrs have 

the  goodness  to  destroy  them,  or  return  them  to 
me  ?  As  ii  pledge  of  friendship  they  were  be- 
stowed ;  and  that  circumstance,  iudecd,  was  all 
their  merit.  Most  unhappily  for  ine,  that  me- 
rit thev  no  longer  possess,  and  I  hope  that  Mrs. 

's  goodness,  which  I  well    know,  and  ever 

will  revere,  will  not  refuse  this  favour  to  a  man 
whom  she  once  held  in  some  degree  of  estima- 
tion. 

With  the  sincerest  esteem  I  have  the  honour 
to  be,  ftladam,  ice. 


No.  CXCIL 
TO  MR.  CUNNINGHAM. 

A   MIND  DISEASED. 

25/A  Ftbnian/,  1794. 
Camst  thou  minister  to  a  mind  diseased? 
Canst  tliou  speik  peace  and  rest  to  a  soul  to>sed 
on  a  sea  of  troubles,  without  one  frienilly  star  to 
guide  her  course,  and  dreading  that  the  next 
surge  may  overwhelm  her  ?  Canst  thou  give  to 
a  frame,  tremblingly  alive  to  the  tortures  of  sus- 
pense, the  stability  and  hardihood  of  the  rock 
th  it  braves  the  blast  ?  If  thou  canst  not  do  the 
least  of  the>e,  why  wouldst  thou  disturb  me  in 
my  au:=eiies,  with  thy  inquiries  after  mu  ? 


For  these  two  months  I  have  not  been  able  to 
Hft  a  pen.  My  constitution  and  frame  were,  uh 
oriqine,  blasted  with  a  deep  incurable  taint  it 
bvpoehoiidria,  which  poisons  my  existence.  Of 
ate  a  number  of  domestic  vexation-',  and  some 

pecuniary  share  in  the  ruin  of  these times  ; 

losses  which,  though  trifling,  were  yet  what  I 
CGold  ill  bear,  have  so  irritated  me,  that  my 
feelings  at  times  could  only  be  envied  by  a  re- 
piobate  spirit  listening  to  the  sentence  that 
do.:ms  it  to  |ieribt;on. 

Are  you  deep  in  the  language  of  consolation  .' 
I  hive  exhausted  in  reHeetion  every  tojiio  of 
ronifoit.  A  /leurt  at  eaae  would  have  been 
[•harmed  with  my  sentiments  and  reasonings  ; 
but  as  to  mvself.  I  Wd«  like  Judas  Iseiriot 
preaching  the  gospel ;  he  might  melt  and  mould 
the  hearts  of  those  around  him,  but  hi)  own 
kept  its  native  incorrigibility. 

Stil'  •bf:re  are  two  gieat  pillars  that  bear  us 


up,  amid  the  wreck  of  misfortune  and  misery 
The  ONE  is  composed  of  the  different  modiflca 
tions  of  a  certain  noble,  stubborn  sonie»'rne  -^ 
man,  known  by  the  names  of  C(nirage,  fortitude, 
magnanimity.  The  otheii  is  made  up  of  those 
feelings  and  sentiments,  which,  however  the 
sceptic  may  deny  them,  or  the  entbusiist  dis- 
liguie  them,  are  yet,  I  am  coiivinceil,  original 
and  componetit  parts  of  the  human  soul  ;  those 
somes  of  the  mind,  if  I  may  be  alloived  tha 
expression,  which  connect  us  with,  and  link 
us  to,  those  awful  obscure  realities  —  an  alU 
powerful  and  equal'y  beneficent  God  ;  ami  a 
world  to  come,  beyond  deatli  and  the  grave. 
The  first  gives  the  nerve  of  combat,  while  a  ray 
of  hope  beams  on  the  field  ; — the  last  pours  the 
balm  of  comfoit  into  the  wounds  which  time 
can  never  cure. 

I  do  not  remember,  my  dear  Cunningham, 
that  you  and  1  ever  talked  on  the  subject  of  re- 
ligion at  all.  I  know  some  who  laugh  at  it,  as 
the  trick  (jf  the  crafty  few,  to  lead  the  undis- 
cerning  many  ;  or  at  most  as  an  uncertain  ob- 
scurity, which  mankind  can  never  know  any 
thing  of,  and  with  which  thtv  are  fools  if  tliey 
give  themselves  much  to  <lo.  Nor  would  I 
quarrel  with  a  inan  fu-  his  irrelii;iiin,  any  more 
that)  I  would  for  his  want  of  a  musical  ear.  I 
would  regret  that  he  was  shut  out  troni  what, 
to  me  and  to  others  were  such  superiative  sources 
of  enjoyment.  It  is  in  this  point  of  view,  and 
for  this  reason,  that  I  will  deeply  imbue  the 
mind  of  every  child  of  mine  with  religion.  Il 
my  son  should  happen  to  be  a  man  of  feeling, 
sentiment,  and  taste,  I  shall  thus  add  largely  to 
his  enjoyments.  Let  me  flatter  myself  that  ibis 
sweet  little  fellow  who  is  just  now  running 
about  my  de>k,  will  be  a  man  of  a  melting,  ar- 
dent, glowing  heart  ;  and  an  imagination,  de- 
lighted with  the  painter,  and  rapt  witli  the 
poet.  Let  me  figure  him,  wandering  out  in  a 
sweet  evening,  to  inhale  the  balmy  uales,  and 
eujiiy  the  giowiug  luxuriance  of  the  spr'iig  ; 
hiiii-elf  the  while  in  the  blooming  jniuth  ot  life. 
He  looks  abroad  on  all  nature,  and  through  na- 
ture up  to  nature's  God.  His  soul,  by  swift, 
delighting  degrees,  is  wrajit  above  lh;s  >ublu- 
nary  sphere,  until  he  can  be  si'ent  no  longer, 
and  buistsout  into  the  gluiiuus  entliususni  of 
Thunisou. — 

"  These,  as  they  change,  .Almighty  Father,  these 
.\ie  but  the  varied  God. — The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  tnee." 

.•\nd  so  on,  in  all  the  spirit  and  ardour  of  thjit 
charming  hymn. 

These  are  no  ide  d  pleasures;  "hey  are  rea 
delights,  and  I  ask  what  of  ihe  deiiglits  aniocg 
the  sons  of  men  are  superior,  not  t.i  say,  equa 
to  them  ?  And  they  have  this  pieeiotis,  va-t  ad- 
dition, that  conscious  virtue  stamps  them  foi 
her  OA  11  ;  ami  lays  bold  on  them  to  bring  her 
self  into  the  ]>resenee  of  a  witiiiSisiiig,  jud^m^. 
aad  approving  God. 


No.  CXCIIl. 


TO 


lOPPOSF.S  HIMSELF  TO  BE  WRITING    FROM  THE 
DEAD  TO  THE  LIVING. 

MADAM, 

1  DARE  saj  this  is  the  first  epistle  you  ever 
ra^'eiveil  fioiii  this  riethcT  world.  I  write  you 
from  the  regions  of  Hell,  amid  the  horrors  of 
the  diiimjd.  The  time  and  manner  of  my  lea- 
vinjj  your  earth  I  do  not  exactly  know  ;  as  I 
took  my  departure  in  the  he.it  of  a  fever  of  in- 
toxication, contracted  at  your  too  hospitable 
mansiori  ;  hut  on  my  arrival  here,  I  was  fairlv 
tried  and  setitvnced  to  endure  the  purgatorial 
ttirtures  of  this  infernal  contine,  for  the  space  of 
ninety-nine  years,  eleven  months,  and  twenty- 
nine  days  ;  and  all  on  account  of  the  improprie- 
ty (ff  my  coiiduct  yisternight  under  your  roof. 
Here  am  I,  laid  on  a  lied  of  pitiless  furze,  with 
my  aching  heail  reclined  on  a  oillow  of  ever- 
pierciiig  thorn,  whde  an  infernal  tormentor, 
wrinkled,  and  old,  and  cruel,  his  name,  I  think, 
is  Iltvitlk'Cti'in,  with  a  whip  of  scorpions,  for- 
bids )icace  or  rest  to  approach  me.  and  keeps 
anguish  eternally  awake.  .Still,  Madam,  it  I 
could  ill  any  measuie  lie  reinstated  in  the  good 
opinion  of  the  fair  circle  whom  my  conduct  last 
night  so  much  injured,  I  think  it  would  be  ati 
alleviation  to  my  tormeiit>.  For  this  reason  I 
troulile  you  with  this  letter.  To  the  men  of 
the  ciim|iaiiy  I  will  m-jke  no  apology. —  Your 
husband,  who  in^istcd  on  my  drinking  more 
than  1  chose,  has  ni)  right  to  lilani£  me  ;  and 
the  other  gontU-inen  were  partakers  of  my  guilt. 
But  to  you.  Aladain.  I  have  much  to  apolog  ze. 
Your  good  o^i.iion  I  valued  as  one  of  the  great- 
est acqiiisitiiJiis  I  had  made  on  earth,  and  I  was 
•a  lily  a   beast   to  -forleit   it.      There  was  a  Miss 

1 too,  a  woman  of  fine  sense,   gentle  and 

unassuming  manners — do  make,  on  my  part,  a 
miseralile  d — il  wi etch's  best  ajiology  to  her.    A 

Mrs.  G ,   a  charming  woman,  ilid   nie  the 

iiDuour  to  be  prejudiced  in  my  favour  ;  this 
makes  me  hope  that   I  have  not  outraged   her 

beyond  all  forgiveness To  all  the  other  ladies 

please  present  my  humblest  contrition  for  my 
condui  t,  and  my  petition  for  their  gr.icious  par- 
don. O  all  _\e  powers  of  deieney  and  decorum  ! 
whisper  to  tlieiii  that  my  eriors,  though  great. 
Were  involuntary — that  an  intoxicated  man  is 
the  vilcNt  of  liea>t> — that  it  was  not  in  niv  na- 
ture to  be  biutal  to  any  one — that  to  be  ruile  to 
a  woman,  when  m  my  senses,  was  impossible 
Willi  me — but — 


Regret  !    Remorse  !    Shame  !    ye   tliree   hell- 
OouuiW   that  ever  dog   my  >teps  and  bay  at  my 
pare  nie  !    s|)aie  uie  I 


Foiuive   the  (illeiiees,   and    pity  the  perdition 
>f,  Moilaiii,  )uur  huuilile  i>l<ive. 


No.  CXCIV. 
TO  THE  EARL  OF  GLENCAIRN 

MY   I.ORD, 

When  you  cast  your  eye  on  the  name  at  tht 
bottom  of  this  letter,  and  on  the  title  page  oi 
the  book  I  do  myself  the  honour  to  send  voui 
lordship,  a  more  pleasurable  feeling  than  my  va- 
nity tells  me,  that  it  mu-t  be  a  name  not  entire, 
ly  unknown  to  you.  The  generous  patronage 
of  your  late  illustrious  brother  found  me  in  the 
lowest  obscurity  :  he  introduced  my  rustic  m  ise 
to  the  partiality  of  my  country  ;  and  to  him  I 
owe  all.  My  sense  of  his  goodness,  and  the 
anguish  of  my  soul  at  losing  my  truly  noble 
protector  and  friend,  I  have  endeavoured  to  ex- 
press in  a  poem  to  his  memory,  which  I  have 
now  published.  This  edition  i  just  from  the 
press  ;  and  in  my  gratitude  to  the  dead,  and  my 
respect  for  the  living  (fame  belie-  you,  my  lord, 
if  you  possess  not  the  same  dignity  of  man, 
which  was  your  noble  brother's  characteristic 
feature),  I  had  destined  a  copy  for  the  Earl  ot 
Glencairn.  I  learnt  ju^t  now  that  vou  are  itj 
town  : — allow  me  to  present  it  to  you. 

I  know,  my  lord,  such  is  the  vile,  ven.il  con- 
tagion which  peivades  the  world  of  letters, 
that  professions  of  re>pect  fioin  au  author,  par- 
ticulaily  from  a  poet,  to  a  lord,  are  more  than 
suspicious.  I  c^aiin  my  by-past  conduct,  and 
my  feelings  at  this  moment,  as  exceptions  to  tha 
too  just  conclusion.  Exalted  as  are  the  honoura 
of  your  lordshiji's  name,  and  unn  ted  as  is  the 
obscurity  of  mine  ;  with  the  ujirightness  of  an 
honest  man,  I  come  before  your  lordship,  wich 
an  oifering,  however  humble,  'lis  all  I  have  tc 
give,  of  my  grateful  respect;  and  to  beg  of  you, 
my  lord, —  'tis  all  I  have  to  ask  of  you,  that  you 
will  do  uie  the  honour  to  acce]it  of  it. 

I  have  the  honour  to  be,  Sec.  * 


No.  CXCV. 
TO  DR.  ANDERSON, 

AUTHOR  Of   THE  LIVES  Of  THE  FOCTS. 

SIR, 

I  AM  much  indebted  to  my  worthy  friend 
Dr.  Blacklock  for  introducing  me  to  a  gentle- 
man of  Dr.  Anderson's  ceiebiiry  ;  but  when  you 
do  me  the  honour  to  ask  my  .issistauce  in  your 
purposed  publication,  Alas,  Sir!  you  might  ar 
Well  think  to  i  lieapen  a  little  honesty  at  tht 
sign  of  an  Advocate's  wig,  or  humility  under 
the  Geneva  band.  I  am  a  miserable  hurried 
devil,    worn   to    the    marrow  in   the  friction  ol 


•  The  original  letter  is  in  the  pnssessinn  of  the  Ho 
noiirahle  Mrs.  "ihaiiil  of  l'o\nm(,'s.  Kroin  i  memo 
ramhiui  on  llu- haek  of  ihe  letur,  it  aiijiears  to  liav* 
bvcii  wriiteii  in  Mav  17144. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


361 


holdit  g  the  nnscs  of  tlie  pnnr  publicans  to  the 
grindstone  cif  Excise  ;  and  like  Milton's  Satan, 
for  private  reasons,  am  forced 

To  do    what  yet   tlio'    da/n'd  1   would   ah- 
hore;*' — 

and  except  a  couplet  or  two  of  lionest  execration 


No.  CXCVII. 
TO  -Sin.  JAMES  JOHNSON. 


No.  CXCVI. 
TO  MRS.  DUNLOP 

Castle  Douglas,  5th  June,  ITHl. 

Here  in  a  solitary  inn,  in  a  solitary  village, 
am  I  set  by  myself,  to  amuse  my  brooding  fancy 
as  I  may. — Solitary  confinement,  you  know,  is 
Howard's  favourite  idea  of  reclaiming  sinners  ; 
so  let  me  consider  by  what  fatality  it  happens 
that  I  have  so  long;  been  exceeding  sinful  as  to 
neglect  the  coirespondence  of  the  most  valued 
friend  I  have  on  earth.  To  tell  you  that  I  have 
beet4  in  poor  health,  will  not  be  excuse  enough, 
though  it  is  true.  I  am  afiuid  I  am  about  to 
•uffer  for  the  follies  of  my  youth.  My  medical 
friends  threaten  me  with  a  flying  gout;  but  I 
trust  they  are  mistaken. 

I  am  just  going  to  trouble  your  critical  pa- 
tience with  the  first  sketch  of  a  stanza  1  h^ve 
been  framing  as  I  paced  along  the  road.  The 
suliject  is  LIBERTV  :  You  know,  my  honciired 
friend,  Low  dear  the  theme  is  to  me.  I  design 
it  an  irregular  Ode  for  General  Washir.gtin's 
birth -day.  After  having  mentioned  the  dege- 
neracy of  other  kingdoms,  I  come  to  ScotlauQ 
thus : 

(  See  Poems,  p.  77. ) 

You  will  probably  have  another  scrawl  from 
me  in  a  sta^je  or  two. 


I  send  you  by  my  frici;*  Mr.  Willace  forty- 
one  songs  for  your  fifth  vo/jme  ;  if  we  cannot 
finish  it  any  other  way,  what  would  you  think 
of  Scots  words  to  some  beautiful  Irish  airs  ? 
In  the  meantime,  at  your  lei-^ure.  give  a  copy 
of  the  Museum  lo  my  worthy  friend  Mr.  Peter 
Hill,  bookseller,  to  bind  for  me,  interleaved 
with  blank  leaves,  exactly  as  he  liid  the  laiid 
of  Glenriddel's,*  that  I  may  insert  every  anec- 
dote I  can  learn,  together  with  my  cwn  criu- 
cisms  and  remarks  on  the  songs. — A  copy  of 
this  kind  I  shall  leave  with  you,  the  ed  tor,  to 
Jiublish  at  some  after  period,  by  way  of  ni  iking 
the  Museum  a  bonk  famouu  lO  the  end  of  time, 
and  you  renowned  for  ever. 

I  have  got  an  Highland  dirk  for  which  I  have 
great  veneration  ;  as  it  once  was  the  dirk  of 
Lord  lialmcrino.  It  fell  into  liad  hands,  who 
stripped  it  of  the  silver  mounting,  as  well  as 
the  knife  and  fork.  I  have  some  thfuights  of 
sending  it  to  your  care,  lo  get  it  nKuintcd  anew. 

Thank  you  for  the  co|)ies  of  my  Volunteer 
Ballad. — Our  fiiend  Clarke  has  done  indeed 
well  !  It  is  chaste  and  beautiful.  I  have  not 
met  with  any  thing  that  has  pleased  me  so 
much.  You  know,  I  im  no  connoisseur,  but 
that  I  am  an  amateur — will  be  allowed  me. 


No.   CXCVIII. 

TO  I'ETER  MILLER,  Jun.  EsQ.f 
OF  DALSWINTON. 

DEMI  SIR,  Dumfries,  Nov.  179i. 

Your  offer  is  indeed  truly  geneious,  and  most 
sincerely  do  I  thank  you  for  it  ;  but  in  my  pre- 
sent situation,  I  find  that  I  dare  not  accept  it. 
You  Well  know  my  politiciil  sentiments  ;  and 
Were  I  an  insular  individual,  unconnected  with 
a  wife  and  a  family  of  ihiidien,  with  the  most 
firvid  enthusiasm  I  would  have  volunteered  my 
services  :  I  then  could  and  would  have  desjjised 
all  consequences  that  might  have  ensued. 

My  prospect  in  the  Excise  is  something;  at 
least,  it  is,  encumbered  as  I  am  with  the  wel- 
fire,  the  very  existence,  of  near  hail-j-score 
of  helpless  individuals,  what  I  dare  not  sport 
with. 

In  the  mean  time,  they  are  most  welcome  to 


This  is  the  manuscript  Ixiok  contRinin?  the  re- 
l)lagui:d   with    low  spirits    marks  on  Scottish  siiii;;s  ainl  liallails,  prcstiitcvt  to  the 

|)ubhc,  with  consiitera  le  Kdilitioix,  in  this  volume. 
t   In  a  conversn'ion  with  hii  friend   Mr    I'eiry,   ilhe 


MY  DEAR   FRIEN'D, 

You  should  have  heard  from  me  long  ago ; 
but  over  and  above  some  vexatious  share  iu  the 
pecn:.iary  losses  of  these  accursed  times,  1  have 
all  tliis  winter  been 

and  biiie  devils,  so  that  /  Aare  almost  hviig  mij 

harp  vn  the  willow  trees.  \  pro;-rietor  ■/  "  The  Muniiiij.  Chroiiit  le"),   Mr.  Miller 

1  am  just  now  busy  correcting  a  new  edition    JJ^I'^fspnted  to  that    );entJLinan    ti.e  iii-iittivjemv  oj 
„r  1  .1  •  •  1  J-  1-1  '>"ri;-s  salary  to  answer  tlie  imiienous  <le:iiaii(ls  of  a 

of  my  poems,  and  this,   with  my  ordinary  busi-  '  numerous  family,     in  tlieir  svinpathv  for  his  n.i'f',r^ 
ness,  finils  ui>-  iu  full  empaiyment.  *  tunes,  and  in  th  ir  rocrct  that  his  talents  ucre  rearly 

'"-^  '"  ""^  «"rl'l  of  I'.tier^.  the<e  gentlemen  agreed  on 

tlie  plan  of  seithnj;  him  in  London. 
•  riumss.-inxiety  with  regard  to  the  correctness  of  To  accomplish  this  mo^tdesiralileohject  Mr  Perrv 
n>s  wrjtiiiKS  was  \Lry  iireat  Being  questioned  ns  to  very  spiritedly,  made  the  jviet  a  handsome  otf-r  „i  -'n 
his  m  »l.-  ot  cimipositi.n,  he  repli.-d,  ••  All  my  poclry  animal  stipend  for  the  exercise  of  his  filrnts  ^c  hii 
IS  th^  effect  of  easy  eomixjsitiou,  but  of  laburluus  cjr-  itf-.vspaper.  Unrns's  re.asfms  for  ret  using  this  oHei  art 
-ecti'jn."  ,  Slated  in  ijie  present  letter— Cuomlk., 


S82 


BURNS    WORKS. 


mv  Ode  ;  only,  let  tliem  insert  t  as  a  thin^ 
tbev  luve  met  with  by  accident  and  unknown 
to  nie. — Nay,  if  J  Jr.  Perry,  \vh;«e  honour,  af- 
ter vour  character  of  him  I  cannot  doubt ;  if 
he  will  f;;ive  ine  an  address  and  channel  by  which 
anv  thinc^  will  come  safe  from  those  spies  with 
which  he  may  be  certain  that  hi«  correspon- 
dence is  beset,  I  will  now  and  then  send  him 
any  bagatelle  that  I  may  write.  In  the  present 
hurrv  of  Europe,  nothint^  but  news  and  politics 
will  be  legiirded  ;  but  against  the  days  of  peace, 
which  Heaven  send  soon,  my  little  assistance 
may  perhaps  till  up  an  idle  column  of  a  News- 
paper. I  have  long  had  it  in  my  head  to  try 
my  hand  in  the  way  of  little  ])rose  e>s  lys,  which 
I  propose  sending  into  the  world  through  the 
medium  of  some  Newspaper;  and  should  these 
be  woith  his  while,  to  these  iMr.  Peiry  shall 
be  welcome  ;  and  all  my  reward  shall  be,  his 
treating  me  with  his  paper,  which,  by  the  bye,  to 
any  body  who  has  the  least  relish  for  wit,  is  a 
high  treat  indeed. 

With  the  most  grateful  esteem,  I  am  ever, 
Dear  Sir,  &c. 


No.  CXCIX. 

TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  Esq. 

MY  DFAR  SIR,  Dumfries. 

It  is  indeed  with  the  highest  satisfaction  that 
I  congratulate  you  on  the  return  of  "  days  of 
ease,  and  nights  of  pleasure,"  after  the  horrid 
hoiirs  of  misery,  in  which  I  saw  you  suffering 
existence  when  I  was  last  in  Ayrshire.  I  sel- 
dom pray  for  any  body.  "  I'm  baith  dead 
sweer,  ami  wretched  ill  o't."  But  most  fervent- 
ly do  I  beseech  the  great  Director  of  this  world, 
that  VdU  may  live  long  and  he  happy,  but  that 
you  may  live  no  longer  than  while  you  are 
happy.  It  is  needless  for  me  to  advise  you  to 
have  a  reverend  care  of  your  health.  I  know 
you  will  make  it  a  point  never,  at  one  time,  to 
drink  more  than  a  pint  of  wine;  (1  mean  an 
English  pint),  and  that  ycu  will  nc'ver  be  wit- 
ness to  nuiic  than  one  1  owl  of  [luncii  at  a  time; 
and  that  cold  ilrams  you  will  never  more  taste. 
I  am  well  convinced  too,  that  after  drinking, 
perhaps  boiling  punch,  you  will  never  mount 
your  horse  aiid  gallop  home  in  a  chill,  late  hour. 
— Above  all  things,  as  I  understanil  you  are 
now  in  habits  of  intimacy  with  that  lioanerijes 
of  gospel  powers,  Fallier  Auld,  be  earnest  with 
him  that  he  will  wrestle  in  prayer  for  you,  that 
you  may  see  the  vanity  of  vanities  in  trcsting 
to,  or  even  practising  .he  carnal  moral  woi  ks 
of  chtiriti/,  liuKinnitij,  ^enerositi/,  and  f  ryive- 
ness ;  tlnngs  which  you  practised  so  flagrantly 
that  it  was  evidrnt  you  delighted  in  theui  ;  ne- 
glecting, or  perhaps,  prophanely  des|)ising  the 
wuiilesi'me  linctriiie  of  "  Faith  without  works, 
the  only  ancho.*  uf  salvation." 


A  hymn  of  thanksgivmg  would,  in  my  cm 
nion,  be  highly  becoming  from  you  at  present  • 
and  in  my  zeal  for  your  well-being,  I  earnestly 
press  it  on  you  to  be  diligent  in  chanting  ovef 
the  two  enclosed  pieces  of  sacred  |)oesy.  My 
best  compliments  to  Mrs.  Hamilton  and  I\liss 
Kennedy. 

Yours  in  the  L J 

R.  B. 


No.  CC, 


TO  MR.   SAMUEL  CLARKE,  Juk. 

DUMFKIES. 

DF.AR  SIR,  Svnrlay  Morning. 

I  WAS,  I  know,  drunk  last  night,  but  I  am  so« 
ber  tliis  morning.     From  the  expressions  Capt. 
,  made   use   of  to  me,    had    I   had   no- 


body's welfare  to  care  for  but  my  own,  we  should 
certainly  have  come,  according  to  the  manners 
of  the  world,  to  the  necessity  of  murdering  one 
another  about  the  business.  The  woids  were 
such  as,  generally,  I  believe,  end  in  a  brace  of 
pistols  ;  but  I  am  still  pleased  to  think  that  I 
did  not  ruin  the  peace  and  welfare  of  a  wife  and 
a  family  of  children  in  a  drunken  squabble. 
Farther  you  know  that  the  report  of  certain 
political  opinions  being  mine,  has  already  once 
before  brought  me  to  the  brink  of  destruction. 
I  dread  lest  last  night's  business  may  be  mis- 
represented in  the  same  way. — Yol',  1  beg, 
will  take  care  to  prevent  it.  I  tax  your  wish 
for  Mrs.  Burns's  welfare  with  the  task  of  wait- 
ing as  soon  as  possible,  on  every  gentleman 
who  «as  present,  and  state  this  to  hi»i\,  and,  as 
you  j)leasc,  shew  him  this  letter.  What,  after 
all,  was  the  obnoxious  toast?  "  May  our  suc- 
cess in  the  present  war  be  equal  to  the  justice 
of  our  cause." — A  toast  that  the  most  outrage- 
ous frenzy  of  loyalty  cannot  object  to,  I  request 
and  beg  that  this  morning  you  will  wait  on  the 
parties  present  at  the  (oolish  dispute.  1  shall 
only  add,  that  I  am  truly  sorry  that  a  man  wiio 

stood   so   high   in    my  estimation    as  Mr.  , 

should  use  me  in   the   manner  in  which   I  con 
ceive  he  has  done.» 


♦  At  tliis  perioil  of  our  Poet's  life,  v.hon  politic.il 
animosity  w,is  niaiie  llie  ground  of  private  quarrel,  ilie 
following  fiiolisli  verses  were  sent  as  an  attack  ou 
Hums  and  his  friends  for  their  poliliial  (ipiiiions. 
I'hcy  wore  written  by  some  member  of  a  club  styling 
themselves  tlie  Lo.vci  jVwi/cfJ  of  Dumfries,  or  rather 
by  the  uri'ted  f,'cm'iis  of  that  club,  which  was  more  dis- 
lr'i>c;iiislre(l  fur  drrmken  loyalty,  than  e;llier  lor  re- 
speelability  or  jioetical  talent.  'I'he  verse^  were  hand- 
ed ovir  ihe  table  to  Ihirns  at  a  convivial  meelina,  awi. 
lie  instantly  indorsed  the  subjoined  reply. 

The  Loycd  Natives'  Verses. 

Vc  sons  of  sedition  give  car  to  my  song. 

Let  SMiie,   UuiiNS,    and    Maxwell,    pervade    cverj 

thronii. 
With,  t'rai  Uen  the  attorney,  amt  Mundcll  the  (juack, 
Send  Willie  li.e  monger  to  hell  with  a  smack 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


383 


No.  CCI. 


10  MR.  ALEXANDER  FINDLATER, 

SUPERVISOR  OF  EXCISE,  DUMFRIES. 
ItR, 

Enxlosed  are  the  two  schemes.  I  would 
not  have  troubled  you  with  the  collector's  one, 
bat  for  suspicion  lest  it  be  not  rii;ht.  IMr.  Ers- 
kirie  promised  me  to  make  it  right,  if  you  will 
have  the  goodnes  to  shew  him  how.  As  I  have 
no  co])y  of  the  scheme  for  myself,  and  the  alter- 
ations bcini^  very  considerab'e  from  what  it  w:is 
formerlj',  I  hope  that  I  shall  have  access  to  this 
scheme  I  send  you,  when  I  come  to  face  up  my 
new  l)ooks.  So  much  for  schemes. — And  that 
no  scheme  to  betray  a  friend,  or  mislead  a 
stranger;  to  seduce  a  young  girl,  or  rob 
a  HENROOST  ;  to  subvert  i.ibektv,  or  bribe  an 
excisejian;  to  disturb  the  general  assem- 
bly, or  annoy  a  gossipping  ;  to  overthrow  the 
credit  of  orthodoxy,  or  the  authority  of  old 
songs  ;  to  oppose  your  vishes,  or  frustmte  mi/ 
hopes — MAY  prosper — is  the  sincere  wish  and 
prayer  of 

ROBT.  BURNS. 


No.  ecu. 

TO  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  MORNING 
CHRONICLE.* 

gentlemen,  Dumfries. 

You  will  see  by  your  subscriliers'  list,  that 
I  have  now  been  about  nine  months  one  of  that 
number. 

I  am  sorry  to  inform  you,  that  in  that  time, 
seven  or  cii;ht  of  your  j)apcrs  either  have  nevei 
Di'en  sent  me,  or  else  have  never  reached  me. 
To  be  deprived  of  any  one  number  of  the  first 
newspiper    in    Great    Britain   for    information. 

Burnt— extempore. 

Ve  true  "  F.oval  \ativf  s"  attend  to  mv  song, 
In  iipni.-ir  and  riot  rejoice  the  nipht  lon'j;; 
From  einy  and  hatred  your  corps  is  exempt; 
'       Dot  where  is  your  shield  from  the  darts  of  contempt? 
•  1  his  letter  owa  its  origin  to  the  fnllowiiif;  cir. 
curnstnpce.     A  neij^hbour  of  the  Poet's  at  Diiiiil"ric<, 
called  Of  him  and  eomphiincd  that  he  was  ffrcaiiy  <lii> 
anpoi^'lcd   in   tlic  irrogtilar  rtcMvery  of  the  Paper  of 
Tfie  Muniin-r  Clironide.     Burns  asked,    "   Whv  do 
not  yii'i   write  to  the  Editors  of  the  Paper?"     Cood 
Go  I,  Sir,  can  /  presmnc  to  write  to  the  learned  Kdi. 
tors  of  a  Newspaper  ? — Well,  if  i/ok  are  afraid  of  writ, 
'ng  to  iho  Kihtors  ol  a  Newspaper  /  am  not;  and   if 
roil  think  proper,   I'll  draw  up  a  sketch  of  a  letter, 
which  ycm  may  eojiy. 

Burn<  tLTC  a  leaf  from  his  excise  book  a'  d  instantly 
produced  Ihe  sketch  which  I  have  transcribed,  and 
*hich  Is  here  printed.  'I'he  poor  man  thanked  him, 
and  took  flic  letter  home.  However,  that  caution 
»  hieh  the  watchlulness  of  his  enemies  had  taught  hiin 
to  exercise,  iiroinpled  him  to  the  prudenc-c  of  [xggmg 
R  friend  to  wait  on  the  per>on  for  whom  it  was  writ, 
ten,  and  request  the  f.ivour  to  have  it  returned.  'J'his 
•equeat  wis  eomplieil  with,  aiid  the  paper  never  ap- 
peared in  print. 


ability  and  independence,  is  what  I  can  ill  brook 
and  bear  ;  hut  to  be  deprived  of  that  most  ad- 
mirable oration  of  the  JMarquis  of  Lansdowne, 
when  he  made  the  great,  though  ineffectual  at- 
tempt, (in  the  language  of  the  poet.  I  fear  too 
true,)  "  to  save  a  sinking  state" — this  was 
a  loss  which  I  neither  can,  nor  will  forgive  yoj. 
— That  ])aper.  Gentlemen,  never  reached  me  ; 
but  I  demand  it  of  you.  I  am  a  briton  ;  and 
must  be  interested  in  the  cause  of  liuertv  : — • 
I  am  a  man  ;  and  the  rights  of  human  na- 
Tt!RK  cannot  be  indifferent  to  me.  However, 
do  not  let  me  mislead  you  :  I  am  not  a  man  in 
that  situation  of  life,  which,  as  your  sidiscriber, 
can  be  of  any  consequence  to  you,  in  the  eyes 
of  those  to  whom  situation  of  life  alone 

is  the   criterion   of  man T  am   but  a   plain 

tradesman,  in  this  distant,  obscure  country 
town :  but  that  humble  domicile  in  which  1 
shelter  my  wife  and  children,  is  the  castelli.m 
of  a  BRITON  ;  and  that  scanty,  l.ard-earned  in- 
come which  supports  them,  is  as  truly  my  pro- 
perty, as  the  most  magnificent  fortune,  of  the 
most  puissant  member  of  your  house  of 
nobles. 

These,  Gentlemen,  are  my  sentiments  ;  and 
to  them  I  subscribe  my  name  :  and  were  I  a 
man  of  ability  and  consequence  enough  to  ad- 
dress the  ruuLic,  with  that  name  should  they 
ajipear. 

I  am,  &c. 


No.  ccin. 

TO  COL.  W.   DUNBAR 

I  am  not  gone  to  Elysium,  most  noble  Co- 
lonel, but  am  still  here  in  this  sublunary  worlri, 
serving  my  God  by  pro])agating  his  image,  and 
hontuiring  my  king  by  begetting  him  loyal  sub- 
jects. Many  happy  returns  of  the  season  await 
my  friend  !  IMay  the  thorns  of  care  never  be- 
vel his  path  !  Alay  peace  be  an  inmate  of  his 
bosom,  and  rapture  a  frequent  visitor  of  his 
soul  !  M.;y  the  blood-hounds  of  misfortune  ne- 
ver trace  his  steps,  nor  tlie  screech-owl  of  sor- 
row  alarm  his  dwelling  !  May  enjoyitH'nt  ttl! 
thy  hours,  and  pleasure  number  thy  days,  thou 
friend  of  the  Bard  !  Blessed  be  he  that  blesg- 
eth  thee,  and  cursed  be  he  that  curseth  thee ' 


No.  CCIV. 
TO  MISS  FONTENELLE, 

accompanying  a  prologue  to  be  spokem 
for  her  benefit. 

MADAM, 

In  such  a  bad  woild  is  ours,  those  who  adfl 
to   the  scanty  sum  of  our  pleasures,  are  posi 


3Si 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


lively  our  benefactors.  To  yos,  JlaiJam,  on 
pur  humble  DunitVics  hoards,  I  have  been  more 
indebted  fi)r  entertainment  th.m  ever  I  was  in 
prouder  theatres.  Your  charms  as  a  woman 
Would  insure  ajiplanse  to  tlie  most  indifferent 
actre-s,  and  yonr  t)iealr:cal  talents  would  insure 
admiration  to  the  plainest  fii;iire.  This,  Madam, 
is  not  the  unmeanin",  or  insidious  compliment 
of  the  frivolous  or  interested  ;  I  pay  it  from  the 
same  h<inest  impulse  that  the  sublime  of  nature 
excites  my  admiration,  or  her  beauties  give  me 
delitiht. 

Will  the  foregoing  lines  he  of  any  service  to 
you  on  ynur  approaching  benefit  night  ?  If  they 
will,  I  shall  be  prouder  of  my  mtise  than  ever. 
They  are  nearly  extempore  :  I  know  they  have 
no  great  merit ;  but  though  they  shouhl  add  but 
little  to  the  entertainment  of  the  evening,  they 
give  me  the  happiness  of  -an  opportunity  to  de- 
clare how  much  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  &c. 

ADDRESS. 

Spoken  hy  Miss  Fonteneii.e  on  her  bcnefit- 
ni(;hl,  Dec.  4,  1795,  at  the  Theatre,  Uum- 
fries. 

Still  anxious  to  secure  your  partial  favour, 
And  not  less  anxious,  sure,  this  night  than  ever, 
A  Prologue,  Epilogue,  or  sonic  such  matter, 
T  would  vamp  my  bill,  said  I,  if  nothing  better; 
So,  sought  a  I'oet,  roosted  near  the  skies, 
Tiild  him,  I  came  to  feast  my  curious  eyes  ; 
Said,  nothing  like  his  works  was  ever  printed  ; 
And  last,  my  pndogue-husine.-s  slilv  hinted. — 
"  JMd'am,   let   me  tell  you,"  quoth  my  man  of 

rhymes : 
"  I   know   your   bent — these   are   no   laughing 

time" : 
Can  you — but  Miss,  I  own  I  have  my  fears, 
Dis-olve  in  pause — and  sentimental  tears — 
Witlk- laden  sighs,  and  solemn  rounded  sentence, 
Rouse  from  his  sluggish  slumbers  fell   Repent- 
ance ; 
Paint  Vengeance  as  he  takes  his  horrid  stand 
W.iviog  on  high  tlie  (lesolating  bratid. 
Calling    the   storms    to  bear   him  o'er  a   guilty 
land!" 

I  could  no  more — askance  the  creature  eyeing. 
D'ye  think,  said  1,  this  fact  was  made  for  cry- 
ing ? 
ril   kugh,   that's  poz — nay,  more,   the  world 

siiall  know  it ; 
And  so,  your  si^rvant — gloomy  Blaster  Poet. 

l''nm  as  my  creed,  Sirs,  'tis  my  fix'd  belief, 
That  Misery's  another  word  for  Grief: 
I  also  think — so  may  1  be  a  bride  I 
That  80  much  laughter,  so  much  life  enjoy  d — 

Thoii  man  of  crazy  care  and  ceaseless  sigh, 
Still  umler  bleak  misfovtuiie's  blasting  eye; 
Dooni'<l  to  that  sorest  task  of  man  uhve — 
To  make  three  guimias  do  the  work  of  five : 


Laugh  in  Misfortune's  face — the  heli'am  v^itcll 
Say,  yv'i'll  be  merry,  though  you  can't  be  rich 

Thou  other  man  of  care,  the  wretch  in  lovci 
Who  long  with  jiltish  arts  ami  ^.irs  hast  strove; 
Measur'st    in   desperate    thought — a  rope — tb* 

neck — 
Or,  where  the  beetling  cliff  o'erhangs  the  deep, 
Peerest  to  meditate  the  healing  leap  : 
Would'st  thou  be  cured,  thou  silly,  moping  elf. 
Laugh  at  heir  follies — laugh  e'en  at  thyself: 
Learn  to  desjiise  those  frowns  now  so  terrific. 
And  love  a  kinder — that's    your  grand  speci- 
fic— 

To  sum  up  all,  be  merry,  I  advise , 
And  as  we're  merry,  may  we  still  be  wise.— 


No.  CCV, 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP. 

JiY  DEAR  FRIEND,         15i/i  December,  ]~9i. 

As  I  am  in  a  complete  Decemlirish  humour 
gloomy,  sullen,  stupid,  as  even  the  deity  of  Du!- 
ness  herself  should  wish,  1  shall  not  drawl  out  a 
heavy  letter  with  a  number  of  heavier  apologies, 
for  my  late  silence.  Only  one  I  shall  mention, 
because  I  know  you  will  sympithize  in  it  :  these 
four  montlis,  a  sweet  little  giil,  my  youngest 
child,  has  been  so  ill,  that  every  day,  a  week  or 
less  threatened  to  terminate  her  existence.  There 
had  much  need  he  many  pleasures  annexed  to 
the  states  of  husband  and  father,  for  God  knows, 
they  have  many  peculiar  cares.  I  cannot  de- 
scribe to  you  the  anxious,  sleepless  hours  these 
ties  frequently  give  me.  I  see  a  train  of  hel|)less 
little  folks  ;  me  and  my  exertions  all  their  stay  ; 
and  on  what  a  brittle  thread  does  the  life  of  man 
hang  !  If  I  am  nipt  off  at  the  command  of  fate  ; 
even  in  all  the  vigour  of  manhood  as  I  am,  such 
things  happen  every  day — gracious  God  !  what 
would  become  of  my  little  Hock  !     'Tis  here  thai 

I  envy  your  people  of  fortune A  father  on  his 

death-bed,  taking  an  everlasting  leave  of  hij 
children,  has  indeed  woe  enough  ;  but  the  man 
of  competent  fortune  leaves  his  sons  and  d.nigh- 
ters  independency  and  friends  ;  while  I — but  1 
shall  run  distracted  if  I  think  any  longer  ou  the 
subject  ! 

To  leave  talking  of  the  matter  so  grave  y,  . 
shall  sing  with  the  old  Scots  ballad — 

"  O  that  I  had  ne'er  been  marries, 
I  would  never  had  nae  care  ; 
Now  I've  gotten  wife  and  bail  lis, 
They  cry,  crowdi.',  everiiiair. 

Crowdie  !   ance  ;  crowdie  !   twice  ; 

Crowdie  !   three  times  in  a  dav : 
An  ye  ciowdie  ony  mair. 

Ye' II  crowdie  a'  my  meal  away."— » 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


December  2itfi. 
We  hive  had  a  brilliant  tlieatre  here,  this  wa- 
•on  ;  only,  as  ,-.11  otlifi-  Ijiisinoss  has,  it  e.xperi- 
enoi's  a  »ta;;iiati(ia  of  traile  from  the  epidemical 
cn:;ii)!aint  of  the  country,  ivant  of  cash.  I  men- 
tion our  tneatie  nieiely  to  \\\^  in  an  occasional 
4(l<l>t<x,  «hicli  I  wrote  for  the  hei.efit-nifjht  of 
one  of  the  ac  resses,  and  which  is  as  follows:^ 
(  Sec  Address,  p.  3Si.^ 

25^/(,   C/iristmas,  3lnrnin<i. 

This,  my  nui''h  loved  fiiond,  is  a  moruintf  of 
ivislies :  accept  mine — so  Heaven  hear  rae  as 
they  are  sincere  !  that  blessing.s  may  attend  your 
steps,  and  affliction  know  you  not  !  In  the 
ch  irmin!j  words  of  my  favourite  author,  T/ie 
MuH  i)f  Fte'ing^  "  May  the  great  S|iirit  bear  up 
the  wei^^ht  of  thy  s^'ey  hairs  ;  and  blunt  the  ar- 
row that  brinijs  tlieni  rest  !" 

Now  th  it  I  talk  of  authois,  how  do  you  like 
Cowjier  ?  is  not  the  7'fi,</r  a  glorious  poem  ?  'I'he 
rel'ifion  (if  the  Tank,  batin:;  a  few  scraps  of  Cal- 
vinistic  diviiiity,  is  the  relii;ion  of  God  and  Na- 
ture :  the  religion  thit  exalts,  that  ennobles  man. 
Were  not  yon  to  send  nie  your  Zduco  in  return 
for  mine?  Tell  me  how  you  like  my  marks  and 
notes  through  the  book.  I  would  not  give  a  far- 
thing for  a  book,  unless  I  were  at  liberty  to  blot 
it  with  my  criticisms. 

I  have  lately  collected,  for  a  friend's  perusal, 
all  my  letters  ;  I  mean  those  which  I  first 
skeich.e'j,  in  a  rough  draught,  and  afterwards 
wrote  out  fair.  On  looking  over  some  old  musty 
papers,  wliich  from  time  to  time  I  had  parcelled 
by,  as  tra!-h  that  were  scarce  worth  preserving, 
and  which  yet,  at  the  same  time,  I  did  not  care  to 
destioy,  I  discovered  many  of  those  rude  sketches, 
and  have  written,  and  am  writing  them  out,  in 
a  bound  ]M.S.  for  my  friend's  library.  As  I 
Wrote  always  to  vou  the  rhapsody  of  the  moment, 
I  cannot  find  a  single  scroll  to  you,  except  one, 
about  the  commencemmt  of  our  acquaintance. 
If  there  were  any  possible  conveyance,  I  would 
Send  you  a  perusal  of  my  book. 


No.  CCVI. 

TO  MR.  HERON,  OF  HERON. 

SIR,  I791-,  or  1705. 

1  ENCLOSE  you  some  copies  of  a  couple  of  po- 
litical ballads  ;  one  of  which,  I  believe,  you  have 
never  seen.  ^^"ould  to  Heaven  I  couid  make 
you  master  of  as  many  votes  in  the  Stewartry. 
iiut— 

"  Who  does  the  utmost  that  he  can, 
Docs  Well,  acta  nobly,  angeU  could  no  more." 

In  order  to  bring  my  humble  efforts  to  bear 
v.'ith  more  c*Tect  on  the  foe,  I  have  Yf'wiUtly 
Diluted  a  good  uian}  ccuics  of  butli  ballads,  aud 


I  have  sent  them  inioog  friends  all  about  the  cou». 

To  pillory  on  l^arnassus  the  rank  reprobation 

of  character,  the  ut*e.'  dereliction  of  all  [irinci- 
!  pie,  in  a  prortigate  junto  wliich  has  not  only 
outiaged  virtue,  but  v'olateil  common  decency  , 
wl  ich,  spurning  even  hypocrisy  as  piltry  ini- 
quity below  their  daring; — to  uniTiask  their  tla- 
gitiousness  to  the  broadest  day — to  deliver  such 
over  to  their  merited  fite,  is  surely  not  merely 
innocent,  but  laudable  ;  is  not  only  propriety, 
but  virtue. — You  h  ive  alreaily,  as  your  au.xiiia- 
ry,  the  sober  detcNtition  of  mankind  on  the 
heads  of  your  opponents;  and  I  swear  by  the 
lyre  of  Thalia  to  ttm-^teron  your  side  all  the  vo- 
taries of  honest  laugiiter,  and  fair,  candid  ridi- 
cule ! 

I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  vour  kind 
mention  of  my  interests  in  a  letter  which  Mr. 
Syme  .lewed  me.  At  present,  my  situation  in 
liie  must  be  in  a  great  measure  stationary,  at 
least  for  two  or  three  years.  The  statement  is 
this — I  am  on  the  supervisors'  list,  and  as  we 
come  on  there  by  precedency,  in  two  or  three 
years  I  shall  be  at  the  heul  of  that  list,  an  I  be 
appointed,  of  course.  Tlien  a  friend  night 
be  of  service  to  me  in  getting  me  into  a  Jilace 
of  the  kingdom  which  I  would  like.  A  super- 
visor's income  varies  from  about  a  hundreii  and 
twenty,  to  t'vo  hundred  a  ye»r  ;  but  the  busi- 
ness is  an  incessent  drudgery,  and  would  be 
nearly  a  complete  bar  to  every  s])ecies  of  litera- 
ry |)ursuit.  The  moment  I  am  appointed  su- 
peivi-or,  in  the  common  routine,  I  niiv  be  no- 
minated on  the  collector's  list  ;  and  this  is  al- 
ways a  business  purely  of  political  pitroiiage, 
A  cullectorship  varies  much,  from  better  than 
two  hundred  a  year  to  near  a  thousand.  They 
also  come  forward  by  precedency  on  the  list  ; 
and  have  besides  a  handsome  income,  a  life  of 
com])lete  leisure.  A  life  of  literary  leisuie  with 
a  decent  competence,  is  the  summit  of  mv  wislies. 
It  would  be  the  ])rudish  alTectation  of  sillv  pride 
in  me  to  say  that  I  do  not  need,  or  would  no; 
be  indebted  to  a  political  friend  ;  at  the  same 
time.  Sir,  I  by  no  means  lay  iny  affairs  before 
vou  thus,  to  book  my  dependant  situation  on 
your  benevolence.  If,  in  my  progress  of  'ifi^ 
an  o;}ening  should  occur  where  the  good  ofhces 
of  a  gentleman  of  your  public  character  and  \io- 
liti',al  consequence  might  bring  me  forward, 
shall  petition  your  gouilness  with  the  same 
frankness  as  I  now  do  myself  tl;e  l.ouour  to  sub- 
scribe myself,  &c*. 


•  P.irt  of  iliis  kl'er  apiscarj  a  lir  C^rrWi  *i.  ve» 
ii.  p.  4jU. 


X 


885 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


No.  CCVII. 
ADDRESS  OF  THE  SCOTS  DISTILLERS, 

TO 

THE  RIGHT  HON.  WILLIAM  PITT. 

ilR, 

While  pursy  burgjesses  crowil  your  gate, 
sweating  under  the  weight  of  heavy  addresses, 
permit  us,  the  quondam  distillers  in  that  part 
of  Great  Britain  called  Scotland,  to  approach 
you,  not  with  venal  approbation,  but  with  fra- 
ternal condolence  ;  not  as  what  you  are  just 
now,  or  for  some  time  have  been  ;  but  as  what, 

in  all  nrobabillty,  you  will  shortly  be We  shall 

nave  the  merit  of  not  deserting  our  friends  in 
the  day  of  their  calamity,  and  you  will  have  the 
satisfaction  of  perusing  at  least  one  honest  ad- 
dress. You  are  well  acquainted  with  the  dis- 
secti<!n  of  human  nature  ;  nor  do  you  need  the 
assistance  of  a  fellow-creature's  bosom  to  infoi  m 
vou,  that  man  is  always  a  selfish,  often  a  jierfi- 

dious  being This  assertion,  however  the  hasty 

conclusions  of  superficial  observation  may  doubt 
ef  it,  or  the  raw  inexperience  of  youth  may  de- 
ny it,  those  who  make  the  fatal  experiment  we 
have  done,  will  feel.  You  are  a  statesman,  and 
consequently  aie  not  ignorant  of  the  traffic  of 
these  corpmation  compliments. — The  little  great 
man  who  drives  the  borough  to  market,  and  the 
very  great  man  who  buys  the  borough  in  that 
market,  they  two  do  the  whole  business  ;  and 
you  well  know,  they,  likewise,  have  their  price. 
—With  that  sullen  disdain  which  you  can  so 
well  assume,  rise,  illustrious  Sir,  and  spurn 
these  liireling  efforts  of  venal  stupidity.  At  best 
they  are  the  compliments  of  a  man's  friends  on 
the  morning  of  his  execution  :  They  take  a  de- 
cent farewell  ;  resign  vou  to  your  fate  ;  and  hur- 
ry away  from  youi  approaching  hour. 

If  fame  say  true,  and  omens  be  not  very  much 
mistaken,  you  are  about  to  make  your  exit  from 
that  world  where  the  sun  of  gladness  gilds  the 
paths  of  prosperous  men  :  permit  us,  great  Sii, 
with  the  sympathy  of  fellow-feeling  to  hail  your 
passage  to  the  realms  of  ruin. 

Whether  the  sentiment  proceed  from  the  sel- 
fishness or  cowardice  of  mankind  is  immaterial ; 
but  to  point  out  to  a  child  of  misfortune  those 
who  are  still  more  unha])py,  is  to  give  him  some 
degree  of  positive  ciijoynient.  In  this  light,  Sir, 
our  downfil  may  be  iigrin  useful  to  you  ;  — 
Though  not  exactly  in  the  same  way,  it  is  not 
perhaps  the  first  time  it  has  gratified  your  feel- 
ings. It  is  tiiie,  the  Iriumjih  of  your  evil  star 
18  exceedingly  despiteful. — At  an  age  when 
others  are  the  votaiies  of  pleasure,  or  underlings 
/n  business,  you  had  attained  the  highest  wish 
of  a  liritlsli  St.it"sman  ;  and  with  the  onliiiary 
date  of  human  life,  what  a  (irospect  was  befirtf 
you.  Dec']iiy  roo" ed  in  J{ot/ul  luivovr,  you 
overshadowed  the  .and.  The  birds  of  jiassage, 
which  follow  Diinisturial  suiuihine  till  ougb  every 


cllrae  of  political  faith  and  manners,  flock^'d  to 
your  branches  ;  and  the  beasts  of  the  field,  [the 
lordly  possessors  of  hills  and  rallies, )  crowded 
under  your  sho-is.  ''  But  behold  a  watcher,  a 
holy  one  camr:  down  from  heaven,  and  cried 
aloud,  and  said  thus  :  Hew  down  the  tree,  and 
cut  eff  his  branches  ;  shake  off  his  leaves,  and 
scatter  his  fruit  ;  let  the  beasts  get  away  from 
under  it,  and  the  fowls  from  his  branches !"  A 
blow  from  an  unthought-of  quarter,  one  of  those 
terrible  accidents  which  peculiarly  mark  the 
hand  of  Omnipotence,  overset  your  career,  and 
laid  all  your  fancied  honours  in  the  dust.  But 
turn  your  eyes.  Sir,  to  the  tragic  scenes  of  our 
fate. — An  ancient  nation  that  for  many  ages 
had  gallantly  maintained  the  unequi:  struggle 
for  independence  with  her  much  more  powerful 
neighbour,  at  last  agrees  to  a  union  which  should 
ever  after  make  them  one  people.  In  ccnsi- 
deiation  of  certain  circumstances,  it  was  cove- 
nanted that  the  former  should  enjoy  a  stipulat- 
ed alleviation  in  her  share  of  ths  public  bur- 
dens, paiticulaily  in  that  branch  of  the  revenue 
called  the  Excise.  This  just  privilege  has  of 
late  given  great  umbrage  to  some  interested, 
powerful  individuals  of  the  more  potent  part  of 
the  empire,  and  they  have  spared  no  wicked 
pains,  under  iusidlous  pretexts,  to  subvert  what 
thev  dared  not  openly  to  attack,  from  the  dread 
which  they  yet  entertained  of  the  spirit  of  their 
ancient  enemies. 

In  this  conspiracy  we  fell  ;  nor  did  we  alona 
suffer,  our  country  was  deeply  wounded.  A 
number  of  (we  will  say)  respectable  individuals, 
largely  engaged  in  trade,  where  we  were  not 
only  useful  but  absolutely  necessary  to  our  coun- 
try in  hiT  dearest  interest ;  we,  with  a!!  that 
was  near  and  dear  to  us,  were  sacrificed  with- 
out remorse,  to  the  infernal  deity  of  political  ex- 
pediency !  We  fell  to  gratify  the  wishes  of  dark 
envy,  and  the  views  of  unprincipled  ambition  ! 
Your  foes.  Sir,  were  avowed  ;  were  too  brave 
to  take  an  ungenerous  advantage  ;  you  fell  in 
the  face  of  day. — On  the  contrary,  our  enemies, 
to  complete  our  overthrow,  contrived  to  make 
their  guilt  appear  the  villainy  of  a  nation. — 
Y.'Uf  downfaJ  only  drags  with  you  your  pri- 
vate friends  and  partizans:  In  our  misery  are 
more  or  less  involved  the  most  numerous,  and 
most  valuable  part  of  the  communit} — all  those 
who  iinuicdiately  depend  on  the  cultivation  of 
the  soil,  from  the  landlord  of  a  province,  down 
to  the  lowest  hind. 

Ahow  u«.  Sir,  yet  farther,  just  to  hint  at  nn- 
otlier  ricli  vein  of  comfiirt  in  the  dreary  region? 
of  adversity  ; — the  Riatulations  of  an  approving 
conscience.  In  a  certain  great  assendjiy,  of 
which  you  are  a  distinguished  member,  pane- 
gyrics in  your  private  virtues  have  so  often 
wounded  your  delicacy,  that  we  shall  not  dis- 
tress you  with  any  thing  on  the  sutiject.  There 
is,  however,  one  part  of  your  puhlic  conduct 
which  our  feelings  will  not  ])crmit  us  to  pass 
in  silcnc; ;  our  gratitude  must  trespass  on  your 
inudeiB.7     ue   niean,    wuithy    Sir,    vuur   whole 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


387 


behaviour  to  the  Scots  Distil  irs. — In  evil  hour?, 
when  obtrusive   rccollci-tion    presses   bitterly  on 
the  sense,   let  that,    Sir,   come  like  a  Iiealir.i; 
angel,   and  speak  the  peace   to   your  soul  which 
tue  world  can  neither  give  nnr  take  away. 
We  have  the  honour  to  be, 
Sir, 
Your  sympathizing;  fellow-sufferers, 

And  grateful  humble  Servants, 
John  Barleycokn — Pruses. 


No.  CCVIII. 

TD  THE  HON.  THE  PROVOST,  BAIL- 
IES, AND  TOWN-COUNCIL  OF  DUJI- 
FRIES. 

OrXTLEMEN, 

The  literary  taste  and  liberal  spirit  of  your 
good  town  has  so  ably  filled  the  various  depart- 
ments of  your  schools,  as  to  make  it  a  very 
great  object  for  a  parent  to  have  his  children 
educated  in  them.  Still,  to  me,  a  stranger,  with 
my  large  family,  and  very  stinted  income,  to 
give  my  young  ones  that  education  I  wish,  at 
the  high  school-fees  which  a  stranger  pays,  will 
bear  hard  upon  me. 

Some  years  ago  your  good  town  did  me  the 

honour  of  making  me  an  honorary  burgess 

Will  you  allow  me  to  request  that  this  mark  of 
distinction  may  extend  so  far,  as  to  put  me  on 
the  footing  of  a  real  freeman  of  the  town,  in 
the  schools  ? 


If  you  are  so  very  kind  as  to  grant  my  re- 
quest,* it  will  certainly  be  a  constant  incentive 
to  me  to  strain  every  nerve  where  I  can  offi- 
cially serve  you  ;  and  will,  if  possible,  increase 
that  grateful  respect  with  which  I  have  the  ho- 
Bour  to  be, 

Gentlemen, 
Your  devot^id  humble  Servant. 


No.  CCIX. 

TO  MRS.  DUNLOP,  IN  LONDON. 

Dumfries,  20th  December,  1 795. 
I  HAVE  been  prodigiously  disappointed  in  this 
London  journey  of  yours.  In  the  first  phce, 
when  your  last  to  me  reached  Dumfries,  I  was 
in  the  country,  and  did  not  return  until  too 
late  to  answer  your  letter ;  in  the  next  place, 
I  thought  you  would  certainly  take  this  route  ; 
and  now  I  knovir  not  what  is  become  of  you,  or 
whether  this  may  reach  you  at  all.     God  grant 


that  it  may  find  you  and  yours  in  prospering 
health  and  good  spiiits.     Do  let  me  hear  from 

you  the  soonest  possible. 

As  I  hope  to  get  a  frank  from  my  friend 
Captain  Miller,  I  shall,  every  leisure  hour,  take 
up  the  pen,  and  gossip  away  whatever  comes 
first,  prose  or  poesy,  sermon  or  song.  In  this 
last  article,  I  have  ab(UHided  of  late.  I  have 
often  mentioned  to  you  a  superb  publication  of 
Scottish  songs  which  is  making  its  appearance 
in  your  great  metropolis,  and  where  I  have  the 
honour  to  preside  over  the  Scottish  verse,  as  nc 
less  a  personage  than  Peter  Pindar  does  over 
the  English.  I  wrote  the  following  fur  a  fa- 
vourite air.  ■ 


December  29. 
SixcE  I  began  this  letter  I  have  been  ap- 
pointed to  act  in  the  capacity  of  supervisor  here, 
and  I  assure  ycu,  what  with  the  load  of  business, 
and  what  with  that  business  being  new  to  me,  1 
could  scarcely  have  commanded  ten  minutes  to 
have  spoken  to  you,  had  you  been  in  town, 
much  less  to  have  written  you  an  epist'e.  This 
appointment  is  only  temporary,  and  during  the 
illness  of  the  present  incumbent  ;  but  I  look 
forward  to  an  early  period  when  I  shall  be  ap- 
pointed in  full  form  :  a  consummation  devout- 
ly to  be  wished  !  My  political  sins  seem  to  be 
forgiven  me. 


•  This  request  was  immediately  complied  with. 


This   is  the  season  (New-year's-day  is  aow 
my  date)  of  wishing  !   and  mine  are   most  fer 
vently  offered  up  for  you  !    May  life  to  you  be  a 
positive  blessing   while    it  lasts,    for   your  own 
sake  ;   and  that  it  may  yet  be  greatly  prolonged, 
is  my  wish  for  my  own  sake,  and  ibr  the  sake 
of  the  rest  of  your  friends  !    What  a  transient 
business  is  life  !    Very  lately  I  was  a  boy  ;   but 
t'other  day  I  was  a  young  man  ;   and  I  already 
begin  to  feel  the  rigid  fibre  and  stiffening  joints 
oi   old   age  coming   fast  o'er  my  frame.      With 
all  my  follies  of  youth,  and,  I  fear,  a  few  vices 
of  manhood,  still  I  congratulate  myself  on  hav- 
ing had,  in  early  days,  religion  strongly  impress- 
ed on  my  mind.      1  have  nuthing  to  say  to  any 
one   as   to  which    sect   he   belongs  to,    or  what 
creed  he  believes  ;  but  I   look  on   the  man  who 
is  firmly  persuaded  of  infinite  wisdom  and  good- 
ness,   superintending   and   directing  every   cir- 
cumstance that  can  hajipen  in  his  let — I  felici- 
tate such  a  man  as  having  a  solid  fo_ndat;on  for 
his    mental    enjoyment  ;   a   firm    prop  and   sure 
stay,  in  the  hour  of  difficulty,   trouble,  and  dis- 
tress ;   and  a  never-failing  anchor  of  hope,  when 
he  looks  beyond  the  gravu. 


January  12. 
You  will  have  «een  our  worthy  and  ingeni- 
ous friea  I,  the  Doctor,  long  ere  this.      1  h  jpe 


S89 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


he  is  well,  and  besf  to  be  remembered  to  him. 
I  hive  just  been  reatllni;  over  again,  I  (lire  say 
for  the  liundred  ami  fiftieth  time,  his  View  of 
Society/  and  Planners  ;  and  still  I  read  it  with 
delight.  His  humour  is  perfectly  original — it 
is  neither  the  humour  of  Addisim,  niir  Swift, 
nor  Sterne^  nor  of  any  body  but  Dr.  Moore. 
By  the  bye,  you  have  deprived  me  of  Zduco  ,- 
remember  that,  when  you  are  disposed  to  rake 
up  the  sins  of  my  neglect  from  among  the  ashes 
of  laziness. 

He  has  paid   me  a  pretty   compliment,    by 
quoting  me  ia  his  last  publication.  • 


No.  CCX. 


TO  MRS.  RIDDEL. 

20th  January,  179G. 

I  CANNOT  express  my  gratitude  to  you  for 
jllowing  mc  a  longer  perusal  of  Anadiarsis. 
In  fact,  I  never  met  with  a  book  tliat  bewitch- 
ed me  so  much  ;  and  I,  as  a  member  of  the  li- 
brary, must  warmly  feel  the  obligation  you  have 
laid  us  under.  Indeed  to  me  the  obligation  is 
stronger  than  to  any  other  individual  of  our  so- 
ciety ;  as  Anadiarsis  is  an  indispensable  desi- 
deratum to  a  son  of  the  muses. 

The  health  you  wished  me  in  your  morning's 
card,  is,  I  think,  flown  from  me  for  ever.  I 
have  not  been  able  to  leave  my  bed  to-day  till 
about  an  hour  ago.  These  wickedly  unlucky 
advertisements  I  lent  (I  did  wrong)  to  a  friend, 
and  I  am  ill  able  to  go  in  quest  of  hiin. 

The  muses  have  not  quite  forsaken  me.  The 
following  detached  stanzas  I  intend  to  interweave 
n  some  disastrous  tale  of  a  shepherd. 


No.  CCXI. 

TO  MRS.  DUN  LOP. 

Slst  January,  1796. 
These  many  months  you  have  been  two 
packets  in  my  debt — what  sin  of  ignorance  I 
iiave  committed  against  so  highly  valued  a 
friend,  1  am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  guess.  Alas  ! 
IMiidini,  ill  can  I  afford,  at  this  time,  to  be  de- 
]iiived  of  anv  of  the  small  renmant  of  my  plea- 
sures. I  have  lately  drunk  deep  of  the  cup  of 
affliction.  The  autumn  robbed  me  of  my  only 
daughter  and  darling  child,  and  that  at  a  dis- 
tance too,  and  so  rajiidly,  as  to  |)ut  it  out  of  my 
power  to  j)ay  the  last  the  duties  to  lur.      I  had 


scarcely  begun  to  remver  from  tha*  jliock,  whea 
I  became  myself  the  victim  of  a  mijst  severe 
rheumatic  fever,  and  long  the  die  spun  doubtful 
until  after  many  weeks  of  a  sick-bed,  it  seems 
to  have  turned  up  life,  and  1  am  beginning  to 
crawl  across  my  room,  and  once  indeed  have 
been  before  my  own  door  iu  the  stn>et. 

Wlien  pleasure  fascinates  the  mental  sight, 

AfP.iction  purifies  the  visual  ray,. 
Religion  hails  the  drear,  the  untried  night, 

That  shuts,  for  ever  shuts !  life's  doubtfui 
day. 


ccxn. 


TO  MRS.  RIDDEL, 

WHO  HAD  DESIRED  HIM  TO  GO    TO  THE  BIRTH 
DAY  ASSEMBLY  ON    THAT  DAY  TO  SHEW   HIS 
LOYALTY. 

ith  June,  1796, 
I  AM  in  such  miserable  health  as  to  be  utter» 
ly  incajiable  of  showing  my  loyalty  in  any  way. 
Racked  as  I  am  with  rheumatisms,  I  meet  every 
lace  with  a  greeting  like  that  of  Balak  to  Ba- 
laam— "  Come  curse  me  Jacob  ;  and  come  de- 
fy me  Israel  '"  So  say  I — Come  curse  me  that 
east  wind  ;  and  come,  defy  mc  the  north  ' 
Would  you  have  mc,  in  such  circumstances,  to 
copy  you  out  a  love  song  ? 


I  may  perhaps  see  you  on  Saturday,  but  I 
will  not  be  at  the  ball. — Why  should  1  ?  "  man 
delights  not  me,  nor  woman  either  !"  Can  you 
supply  me  with  the  song,  Z,et  us  all  he  vnhap- 
py  tO(}ttfier? — do  if  you  can,  and  oblige  le 
pauvre  mistrahh  R.  B. 


Cawnrd, 


No.  CCXIIL 

To  rjR.  JAMES  JOHNSON,  Edinbhrgh. 

Dumfries,  July  4,  1796. 
How  are  you,  my  dear  friend,  and  how  conies 
on  vour  fifth  volume?  You  may  probaMy 
think  that  for  some  time  past  I  have  neglected 
vou  and  your  work  ;  but,  alas  !  the  hand  of 
pain,  and  sorrow,  and  care,  has  these  iiiai.y 
months  lain  heavy  on  me  !  Personal  and  do- 
iiiestic  affliction  have  almost  entirely  banished 
that  alacrity  and  life  with  which  I  used  to  wo'i 
the  rural  muse  of  Scotia. 


You  are  a  good,   worthy,  honest  fellow,  and 
have  a  good  right  to  live  in  this  world — because 


fwi  (iesen-e  it.  M;iny  a  merry  meeting  tliis 
pu'jlicatioii  has  given  us,  and  |)os>ilile  it  ni.iy 
give  lis  more,  th.iugli,  al.is  !  I  te:ir  it.  This 
pnitractin^,  slow,  consimiinf;  illness  wlileli 
hangs  over  me,  will,  I  doubt  much,  my  ever 
dear  friend,  arrest  my  sun  before  lie  has  well 
reached  his  middle  career,  and  will  turn  over 
the  poet  to  far  other  and  inure  important  eon- 
cernt  than  stuilyinsj  the  lirlllianey  of  wit,  or  the 
pathos  of  sentiment  !  However,  hnpe  is  the 
cordial  of  the  human  heart,  and  1  endeavour  to 
cherish  it  as  well  as  I  can. 

Let  me  hear  from  you  as  soon  as  convenient. 
—  Your  work  is  a  great  one  ;  and  now  th.it  it 
is  near  fini>hed,  I  see,  if  we  were  to  begin 
again,  two  or  three  things  that  might  be  mend- 
ed ;  yet  I  will  venture  to  prophecy,  that  to  fu- 
ture ages  your  publication  will  be  the  text- 
book and  standard  of  Scottish  song  and  miusic. 

I  am  ashamed  to  ask  another  favour  of  you, 
because  you  have  been  so  very  good  already  ; 
but  my  wife  has  a  very  particular  friend  of  hers, 
a  young  lady  who  sings  well,  to  whom  she 
wi^hes  to  present  the  Scots  Musical  Jilitseiim.' 
If  you  have  a  spare  copy,  will  you  be  so  oblig- 
icjj  as  to  send  it  by  the  very  first  Pit/,  as  I  &in 
Vixious  tu  have  it  soon. 

Yours  ever, 
ROBERT  BURKS. 


No.  CCXIV. 
TO  MR.   CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow,  Sea-bdthinp  Quarurs,  Ith  July,  1796. 

»IY    DEAK   CUNNINGHAM, 

I  KECKivED  yours  here  this  moment,  and  am 
indeeil  highly  flattered  with  the  approbation  of 
the  literary  circle  you  mention  ;  a  literary  circle 
inferior  to  none  in  the  two  kingdoms.  Alas  ! 
my  friend,  I  fear  the  voice  of  the  bard  will  soon 
be  heard  among  you  no  more  !  for  these  eight  or 
ten  months  I  have  been  ailing,  sometimes  bed- 
fast and  sometimes  nut ;  but  these  last  three 
month-i  I  have  been  tortured  with  an  excruciat- 
ing rheumatism,  which  has  reduced  me  to  near- 
ly the  last  stage.  Yuu  actually  would  not  know 
me  if  you  saw  me.  Pale,  emaciated,  and  so 
feeble,  as  occasionally  to  nerd  hcl,!  from  my  chair 
— my  spirits  fled  !  fled  ! — but  I  can  no  more  on 
the  subject — only  the  medical  filks  tell  me  tliat 
my  last  and  only  chance  is  bathing  and  country 


•  In  tli's  humbL"  ami  delicate  manner  did  p'or 
Biirn'i  asU  for  a  copy  of  a  work  "I"  whieli  he  was  prin- 
cipally  till-  founiler,  and  to  whieli  he  had  contiibuled, 
graliiit'  tisly,  not  less  than  181  origvuil,  altrred,  iiiiii 
co.'lfitril  s  i:gs.'  Tlie  Editor  has  seen  180  transcribed 
by  his  own  hand,  for  the  Musfitm. 

Tins  letter  was  wr''ten  on  the  llh  of  July, — the  poet 
died  on  the  I'lst      No  other  letters  of  this  iii'eresmig 

Renod  have  heen  discovered,  exivpt  one  addiessed  to 
Irs.  Duiiliip,  of  the  12th  of  July,  which  Dr.  (urrle 
very  propirly  snpjxisesto  be  the  liut  oroduction  of  the 
4pu^  bard.— Cbumvk. 


quarters,  and  riding.  The  deuce  of  the  matter 
is  this  ;  when  an  exciseman  is  off  duty,  his  sa- 
lary is  reduced  to  XS!i  instead  of  .£'50  —  What 
way,  in  the  name  of  thrift,  shall  I  maintain  niy- 
selt  and  keep  a  horse  in  country  cjuarteis — with 
a  wife  and  live  children  at  home,  on  £:ib  ? 
mention  this,  because  I  had  intended  to  beg  yout 
utmost  interest,  and  that  of  all  the  fiiends  you 
can  muster,  to  move  our  Commissoners  of  Ex- 
cise to  grant  me  the  lull  salary.  I  dire  say  you 
know  them  all  personally.  If  they  do  not  grant 
it  me,  I  must  l«y  my  account  with  an  exit  truly 
en  poet e — if  I  die  not  of  disease,  I  must  peiish 
with  hunger. 

I  have  sent  you  one  of  the  songs  ;  the  other 
my  memory  does  not  serve  me  with,  and  I  have 
no  copy  here ;  but  I  shall  be  at  home  soon, 
when  1  will  send  it  you.  Apropos  to  being  at 
home,  Mrs,  Burns  threatens  in  a  week  or  two 
to  add  one  more  to  my  paternal  charge,  which, 
if  of  the  right  gender,  I  intend  shall  be  introduc- 
ed to  the  world  by  the  respectable  designation  of 
Alexmiiltr  Cuiiniuyham  Hunts  :  iMy  last  wa» 
Jami's  Gkiicairn  ;  so  you  can  have  no  objec- 
tiuQ  tu  the  cumpaiiy  of  nobility.     Farewell 


No.  CCXV 

TO  MRS  BURNS. 

IIT  DEAREST  LOVE,  liroic,  Thursday, 

I  Dfi.AVED  writing  until  I  could  t«Il  you 
what  cfl^ect  sea-bathing  was  likely  to  produce. 
It  would  be  injustice  to  deuy  that  it  has  eased 
my  pains,  and  I  think  has  strengthened  me  ; 
but  my  ap])etite  is  still  extremely  bad.  No  fliah 
nor  fish  can  I  swallow  ;  porridge  and  milk  are 
the  only  thing  I  can  taste.  I  am  very  hajij)y  to 
hear,  by  JM;ss  Jess  Lewais,  that  you  aie  well. 
Sly  very  best  and  kindest  coiiiplinients  to  her 
and  to  all  the  children.  I  will  see  you  on  Sun- 
day.     Your  aDectiuuate  husbaud,  lU  B. 


CCXVI. 


TO  MRS.  UUNLOP. 

Ji    1AM,  12//»  July,  1796. 

HAVE  written  you  so  often,  without  recei- 
viiii;  any  answer,  that  I  would  not  trouble  you 
again,  but  fur  the  circumstances  in  which  I  am. 
An  illness  whieli  has  long  hun.;  about  me,  in 
all  probability  will  speedily  send  me  beyond  that 
b  urne  w/icuce  Jtn  trtneller  returns.  Your 
friendshij),  with  which  fur  many  years  you  ho- 
noured me,  was  a  friendship  deaiest  to  my  soul. 
Your  conrersation,  and  especially  your  cori~^- 
spondence,  were  at  once  highly  entertaining  and 
instructive.  With  wha'.  pleasure  did  I  use  to 
jroak  up  the  seal  I   The  remembrance  yet  addi 


S90 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


rjne  pulse  more  to  my  poor  palpitating  heart, 
t.ren-ell ! ! ! 

R.  B. 


The  buu.c  :;  supposed  to  be  the  last  produc- 
,^n  of  Robert  Burns,  who  died  on  the  21st 
of  the  month,  nine  days  afterwards.  He  haH, 
however,  the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  satisfactory 
explanation  of  his  friend's  silence,  «nd  an  aisur- 
tE>«e  sf  the  cotiiiT.MUxea  of  her  friendnhip  to  his 


widow  and  childreu  j  an  assurance  that  hm  bsat 
amply  fulfilled. 

It  is  probable  that  the  greater  part  of  her  let. 
ters  to  him  were  destroyed  by  our  bard  aboa 
the  time  that  this  last  was  written.  He  did 
not  foresee  that  his  own  letters  to  her  were  y 
appear  in  print,  nor  conceive  the  disappoint- 
ment that  will  be  felt,  that  a  few  of  thi»  e«eel- 
lent  lady's  have  Bot  served  to  esncii  *^  %i^tn 
the  coUectioa- 


391 


THE  POET'S  CORRESPONDENCE 


WITH 


MR.  GEORGE  THOMSON, 


The  Foot,  besides  his  ample  contributions  to  the  Musical  Museum,  published  by  Johnsou,  en- 
gaged in  the  somewhat  similar,  but  far  more  extended  undertaking  of  Mr.  George  Thomson, 
entitled  Select  Melodies  of  Scotland, — a  Work  more  systematically  planned,  and  scientifically 
exccuteii,  as  to  the  Music — and  more  chastened  in  the  composition  and  sentiment  of  the 
Songs,  than  any  of  its  precursors ;  and  which  still  maintains  its  superiority  over  all  other  col- 
lecti.ins  as  the  National  Repertory  of  Scottish  Sung,  both  as  to  the  poetry  and  music.  The 
following  Cortespondi'uce  shews  the  rise  and  progress,  with  much  of  the  interesting  ietailt 
of  our  Poet's  contributions  to  Mr.  Thomson's  Work  ;— 


No.  I. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET, 

SOLICITING    HIS  CO-OPt  IIATION. 

dIR,  Edinhitrrjli.    Septemtier  1702. 

For  S'ime  years  [la'-t,  I  have,  with  a  friend  or 
two,  employed  inariy  leisure  hcmrs  in  sfK-.-ting 
and  collating  tlie  most  fivourite  uf  our  national 
mfloiiits  for  publication.  Wo  have  eng.igt'd 
Plevel,  the  most  agieeable  composer  living,  to 
put  accompaniments  to  these,  and  also  to  com- 
pose an  in'^truiiient  il  preluile  and  conclusion  tn 
eich  air,  the  better  to  tit  them  fur  concerts,  both 
public  and  private.  To  render  this  woik  per- 
fe'-t.  we  are  (ie^ir•.llS  to  have  tlie  poetry  inij)r(p- 
vecl,  wiierever  it  seems  unworthy  of  the  music  ; 
and  that  it  is  so  in  many  instances,  is  alhiwerl 
by  every  one  conversant  with  our  musical  col- 
lections. The  editors  uf  these  seem  in  general 
to  have  depended  on  the  music  proving  an  ex- 
cuse fur  the  verses  ;  and  hence,  some  charming 
mehidies  are  united  to  mere  nonsense  and  dog- 
grel,  while  others  are  aecominoilated  with  rhymes 
so  louse  ai.d  indelicate,  as  cannot  be  sung  in  de- 
cent company.  To  remove  this  reproach,  would 
be  an  easy  task  to  the  author  of  The  Colter's 
Sdturilcy  N'(jlit  ;  and,  for  the  honour  of  Cale- 
donia, I  would  filn  hope  he  may  be  induced  to 
take  u|)  the  pen.  If  so,  we  shall  be  enabled  to 
present  the  puhl.c  with  a  collection  infinitely 
more  interesting  than  any  that  has  yet  appear- 
»!,  and  acce[)tal;!e  to  all  persons  of  taste,  whe- 
ther they  wi>h  for  correct  melodies,  delicate  ac- 
coinpaniiiieDts,    or    iharacteristic    verses We  j 


will  esteem  your  poetical  assistance  a  partiruisr 
favour,  besides  paying  any  reasonable  price  you 
shall  please  to  dem  md  ii-i  it.  Profit  is  quite  a 
secondary  consideration  with  us,  and  we  are  rc- 
si)lved  to  spare  neither  pains  nor  expense  on  the 
pnhluatlon.  Tell  me  frankly,  then,  whether 
you  will  devote  your  leisure  to  v/riting  twenty 
or  twentv-five  songs,  suited  to  the  particular 
melodies  which  I  am  prepared  to  send  you.  A 
few  songs,  exceptionable  only  in  some  of  their 
verses,  I  will  likewise  submit  to  your  considera- 
tion ;  leaving  it  to  you,  either  to  mend  these, 
or  make  uew  songs  in  their  stead.  I*  is  super- 
lluous  to  assure  you  that  I  have  no  intention  to 
di-iplace  any  of  the  sterling  old  songs  ;  those 
only  will  lie  removed,  which  appear  quite  si'V, 
or  absolutely  indecent.  Even  these  shall  ail  Uc 
examined  by  Mr.  IJurn!«,  and  if  Ae  is  of  opinion 
tint  any  of  them  are  deserving  of  tlie  music,  ia 
such  cases  no  divorce  shall  tai<e  place. 

Ui-Uing  on  the  letter  accompanying  this  to  be 
forgiven  for  the  liberty  I  have  taken  in  address- 
ing you,  I  am,  with  gieat  esteem,  Sii,  you; 
most  obedient  humble  servant, 

G.  THOMSON 


No.  II. 

THE  POET'S  ANSWER. 

sia,  Dumfries,  KU/j  Sept.  1702. 

I  HAVE  just  this  iiionient  got  your  letter.    Ai 
the  requett  you  make  tu  me  will  poiutiveW  ad] 


BURNS'  WORK:^. 


to  my  cnjoyinrnts  In  coni]iIyinpj  witli  it,  I  sliatl 
^nter  into  vour  undertaking  with  ail  the  small 
poiiion  of  altilitics  I  have,  strained  to  their  ut- 
aiost  exertion  Ijy  the  inijiulse  of  cnthu'^iasni. 
Only,  (liin't  huti  y  nie  :  "  Deil  tak  tlie  hind- 
nmst"  is  hv  no  means  the  cri  c/e  ffiiene  of  my 
nnise.  Will  yon,  a<  I  am  inferior  to  none  of 
vnu  in  enthnsiastic  attachment  to  the  poetry  and 
niusitr  of  (lid  Caledonia,  and,  since  you  re(jue>t 
it,  liave  cheerfully  promised  my  mite  of  assist- 
ance— will  yon  let  me  have  a  list  of  your  n\r<, 
with  the  first  line  of  the  printed  verses  you  in- 
tend for  them,  that  I  in.iv  have  an  opportunity 
of  >u2;c;estinu:  a;iv  alteration  that  may  occur  to 
nie.  You  know  'tis  in  tlie  way  of  my  trade  ; 
still  leavinj;  you,  gentlemen,  the  undouhted  ri|;ht 
of  puhlishe;-',  to  approve.  «ir  reject,  at  your  plea- 
sure, for  youi  'wn  p,.'-licatiOi^  Apropos  !  if 
you  are  for  I^iiffJitt,^  -erses,  ''ere  i„.  ts  my  l)art, 
an  end  of  tlie  matter.  (Vheth  _  '  '  tht  .,'- plicity 
of  the  ballad,  or  the  pathos  of  tfie  son^,  I  can 
oiilj  liope  to  please  myself  in  heing  allowed  at 
least  a  sprinkling  of  our  native  tongue.  Eng- 
lish verses,  particularly  the  works  of  Scotsmen, 
that  liave  merit,  are  certainly  very  cligihle. 
TivfF.dside  ;  Ah  tlie  poor  s/ieji/terd's  inonrnfiil 
fate  !  Ah  Chlnris,  cn/tld  I  nnw  but  sit,  &c. 
you  cannot  mend  :  Rut  such  insipid  stuif  as, 
Ti>  Funny  fair  cmild  I  impart,  &c.  usually  set 
to  7  he  Mil!,  Mill  O,  is  a  disgrace  to  the  col- 
lections in  which  it  has  already  appeared,  and 
Would  douhly  disgrace  a  collection  that  will  have 
the  very  superior  merit  of  yours.  But  more  of 
this  in  the  farther  prosecution  of  the  business, 
if  I  am  called  on  for  my  strictures  and  amend- 
nients — 1  say,  amendments  ;  fur  I  will  not  alter 
exi-ept  where  1  myself  at  least  think  that  I 
amend. 

As  to  any  rennmcration,  you  may  think  my 
songs  either  above  or  below  price  ;  for  they 
shad  al)solutely  rie  the  one  or  the  other.  In  the 
honest  enthusiasm  with  whidi  I  embark  in  your 
undertaking,  to  talk  of  money,  wages,  fee,  liire, 
&c.  would  he  downright  proi^titulion  itf  soid  ! 
A  jircot  of  each  of  the  songs  that  I  coni|)ose  or 
nniciid,  !  shall  receive  as  a  favour.  In  tlie  i  us- 
tic  phrase  of  the  season,  "  Gude  sjieed  the 
walk  !" 

I  am.  Sir,  your  very  bumble  Servant, 

U.  IJL'UNS. 

V.  .S — I  have  some  pirticiilar  reasons  for 
wishing  my  iulcrference  to  be  known  as  little  as 
possible. 


Ho.  III. 


MR  TMO.MSON  l.V  RITLV. 

M*!i  srii,  Kdinhitriih,  \'Mh   Oct.   1792. 

I    UFi  nvFii,    with    nnii'li   satl^fll.lion,  your 
pleasant,   and    oMiging    lutter,    anil  1  leiuiii  my 


warmest  acknowledgments  for  tlie  enthuniasra 
with  which  you  hive  entered  into  our  underta- 
king, fi'e  have  now  no  dcniht  of  being  able  tc 
])r.«luce  a  collection,  highly  deserving  of  public 
attention,  in  all  respects. 

I  agree  with  you  in  thinking  English  verses, 
that  have  merit,  very  eligible,  wheiever  new 
verses  are  necessary  ;  because  the  English  be- 
comes every  year,  more  and  more,  the  language 
of  Scotland  ;  but,  if  you  mean  that  no  Engiish 
ver-cs,  except  those  bv  Scottish  authois,  ought 
to  be  admitted,  I  am  half  inclined  to  differ  from 
you.  1  shoui:"  consider  it  un|)arilon able  to  sa- 
crifice one  good  si,^  •  in  the  Scottish  dialect,  to 
make  room  for  Englis,.  .eises;  ijut,  if  we  can 
select  a  few  excellent  ones  suited  to  the  unpro- 
vided  or  ill-provided  airs,  would  it  not  lie  the 
very  bigotry  of  literary  patriotism  to  reject  such 
merely  because  the  authors  were  born  s:i;irh  of 
the  'I" weed  ?  Our  sweet  air.  My  JVanme  O, 
which  in  the  collections  is  joined  to  the  poorest 
stuff  that  Allan  Ramsay  ever  wrote,    beginning 

While  some  for  plensi^rc  /luwn  their  hvultli,  an- 
swers so   finely  to   Dr.   Percy's   beautiful    song 

O  Nancy  wilt  tlioii  c/o  uiih  we,  that  one  woula 
think  he  wrote  it  on  purpose  for  the  air.  How- 
ever, it  is  not  at  all  our  wish  to  confine  you  to 
English  verses:  you  shall  freely  be  allowed  a 
sprinkling  of  your  native  tongue,  as  you  elegant- 
ly exjiress  it ;  anil  moreover,  we  will  patiently 
wait  your  own  time.  One  thing  only  I  big, 
which  is,  that  however  gay  and  sportive  the 
muse  may  be,  she  may  always  be  decent.  Let 
her  not  write  !vhat  beauty  would  blush  to  speak, 
nor  wouikI  that  chariuiiig  delicacy  which  tonus 
the  most  precious  dowry  of  our  daughters.  I 
do  not  conceive  the  song  to  be  the  most  propel 
vehicle  for  witty  and  brilliant  conceits  :  simpli- 
city, I  believe,  should  be  its  prominent  feature  ; 
iiut,  in  some  of  our  songs,  the  wi  iters  have  con- 
founded simplicity  with  coa>-.cness  and  vulga- 
rity ;  although,  between  the  one  and  the  other, 
as  Dr.  Beattie  well  observes,  there  is  as  great  a 
(hfferenie  as  between  a  plain  suit  of  clothes  and 
a  bundle  of  rags.  The  humorous  ballad,  or  (.>a- 
tlietic  complaint,  is  best  suited  to  our  artless 
melodies;  and  more  interesting  indee.;l  in  all 
songs  than  the  most  pointed  wit,  dazzling  de- 
scri|)fions,  and  llowery  fancies. 

With  these  trite  observations,  I  send  vou  eleven 
of  the  songs,  for  which  it  is  my  wish  to  substi 
tute  others  of  your  writing.  I  shall  soon  trans 
niit  the  rest,  and,  at  the  s.ime  time,  a  prosjjectus 
of  the  whole  collection  ;  and  you  may  believe 
we  will  receive  any  h  nts  that  you  are  so  kind 
as  to  give  for  im))roving  the  work,  with  th( 
^luatesd  pleasure  and  tlimkfulness. 

1  remain,  Dear  Sir,  &u 


cohrespoxdexce. 


393 


No.  IV. 
TIlFi:  PO  C'l    TO  MR.  THOMSON, 

Willi     "  THE   LEARIG." 
MY   DEAR   SI  a, 

I.FT  iiic  ttll  you  tliat  you  are  too  fi^tidloiis 
ill  \(iiir  iiltMs  of  sdii'is  anil  l)alla(ls.  I  (iwn  tint 
your  t'iitli-isms  art-  jll^t  ;  the  songs  you  specify 
ill  yiur  li^t  liave  "//  but  o/,e  the  faults  you  re- 
maik  in  them  ;  but  who  shall  mend  the  matter? 
Wild  shall  rise  up  and  say — Go  to,  I  will  make 
a  tietier  ?  Fur  instance,  on  leading  over  77i<.' 
Leii-rif],  I  immediately  set  ahout  trving  my 
hand  on  it,  ami,  afrer  all,  I  could  in  lUe  mithin;^ 
mori;  (if  It  than  the  fullowing,  which,  Heaven 
kuuws,  is  poor  enough  : 

{Step.  244.) 

Your  ohsrrvatidii  as  to  the  aptitude  of  Dr. 
Percy's  ballad  to  the  air  Ntinuie  O,  is  just.  It 
is  iiesides,  perhaps,  the  most  beautiful  ballad  io 
the  English  language.  Hut  let  ine  remark  to 
you,  that,  in  the  sentiment  and  style  of  our 
Scottish  airs,  there  is  a  pastoral  simplicity,  a 
sometliin'^'  that  one  may  call  the  Doric  style  and 
dialect  of  vocal  music,  to  which  a  dash  of  our 
native  ton^rue  and  manners  is  particulaily,  nay 
peculiirly,  apposite.  For  this  reason,  and,  upon 
my  honour,  for  this  reason  alone,  1  am  of  opi- 
nion (but,  as  I  told  you  before,  my  opinion  is 
yi  uis,  ficely  yours,  to  approve,  or  reject,  as  you 
please),  that  my  ballad  of  Nannie  O  might  per- 
ha|)s  do  fur  one  .set  of  verses  to  the  tune.  Now 
don't  let  it  entei-  into  your  head,  that  y.iu  aii; 
under  any  necessity  of  t.iking  my  verses.  1  have 
long  ago  made  up  my  mind  as  to  my  own  re- 
putation in  the  business  of  authorship  ;  ami 
have  iKithmg  to  be  phased  or  oircndeii  at,  in 
your  adaption  or  rijiction  of  my  verses.  Thuu;:h 
you  should  uject  one  half  of  what  I  give  you, 
I  sliall  be  pleased  with  your  adopting  the  other 
half,  and  shall  cotitiuue  to  serve  \ou  with  the 
same  assuluity. 

In  the  printed  copy  of  my  Nannie  O,  the 
name  of  the  river  is  horridly  prosaic.  1  will 
alter  it, 

"  Behind  yon  hills  wheie  Lugar  flov.s." 

Girvan  is  the  name  of  the  river  that  suits  the 
idea  uf  the  stanza  best,  but  Lugar  is  the  must 
agreeable  moduiatiuii  of  syllables. 

I  will  soon  give  yon  a  great  many  more  re- 
marks on  tills  business  ;  but  1  have  just  now 
an  oppoi  tunity  of  conveying  you  this  scrawl,  fiee 
et  postage,  an  expense  that  it  is  ill  able  to  |!ay  : 
BO,  with  my  liest  comphmeuts  to  honest  Allan, 
Good  be  wi'  ye,  &c. 

J-'ridai/  niyKt. 


morn  ng    before    rr.y  conveyance    go.-s    aw.iy,    I 
will  give  \ou  Niuinie   O  at  len-tli. 

{Sifep.  2\S.) 

Your  remarks  on  Etre-biKjhtx,  Murini.^  are 
just  :  still  it  has  obtainei!  a  pi. ice  mnong  oiii 
more  rl.issical  Scottish  son^i ;  and  what  with 
many  licauties  in  its  composition,  and  more  pie- 
jiidices  in  its  f.ivour,  you  will  not  tiad  it  easy 
to  siijjplant  it. 

In  my  very  eirly  years,  when  I  was  thin;iing 
of  going  to  tiie  West  Iiiilies,  I  took  the  follow- 
ing farewell  of  a  dear  girl.  It  u  quite  trilling, 
and  has  nothing  of  the  merits  of  Eict-lidi/hts  , 
but  it  will  fill  up  this  p.,ge.  You  must  kimw 
tl'.at  all  my  earlier  love-songs  were  the  breath- 
ings of  ardent  p.is-ion,  and  though  it  might  have 
been  easy  in  after-times  to  have  given  them  a 
polish,  yet  thit  polish,  to  me,  whose  tiicy  uere, 
and  who  peihaps  alone  cared  foi  them,  would 
have  defaced  tlie  legi  nil  uf  my  heart,  whicb 
was  Ro  faithfully  insciibed  on  them.  Tlieii  un- 
couth simplicity  was,  as  they  say  of  wines,  their 
race. 

(  Will  ye  ga  to  the  Indies,  ni?/  Mary^  p.  24.1.^ 

Gala  Water  and  Anhi  Ri.b  If /orris,  I  think, 
will  most  luibabiy  be  the  iie.xt  sub;ect  of  my 
musings.  Ihm  ever,  even  on  my  lerxes,  speak 
out  your  criticisms  with  equal  frankne.ss.  My 
wish  is,  not  to  stand  aloof,  the  uucompljin" 
bigot  of  opiniatrete,  but  i-oidially  to  join  is^uf 
with  you  in  the  furtherance  of  the  woik. 


No.  V. 


Saturday  Mnrning, 
Ab  J  find  I  have  still  ar   hour   to  spare   thl« 


THE  POET  TO  MR    THOMSON. 

Nimnder  Sth,  1792 
If  you  n^ean,  my  dear  Sir,  that  all  the  ,s(ings 
in  your  foliection  shad  be  pceTy  i)i  ti  e  tiisl 
merit,  I  am  afraiil  you  will  find  more  difiieiiitv 
in  the  umlerlaking  than  you  aie  aware  otl 
There  is  a  jieculiar  rh_\  thmiis  in  many  of  our 
alls,  and  a  necessity  of  adaptiii:^  syllables  to  the 
emphasis,  or  what  1  would  call  \\w  finUurt-notes 
of  the  tune,  that  cramp  the  jo  t,  ami  lay  him 
under  almo.st  iiisuperalle  d  fticult.es.  For  i:i- 
stance,  in  the  air,  JMy  wife's  a  wanton  wei> 
t/iiny,  if  a  few  lines  sii:uoth  and  pietty  can  be 
adapted  to  it,  it  is  all  you  can  expect.  Th.e 
following  were  made  extempore  to  it;  and 
though,  on  faither  study,  I  might  give  you 
something  moie  profound,  jet  it  might  not  suit 
the  light-horse  galloji  uf  the  air  so  well  as  this 
raiiduiu  cliuk. 

(My  wifg's  a  winsome  wee  thing,  p.  214.) 

I  have  just  been  looking  over   the  CoUiv 


394. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


hnnxy  Dodder  ;  and  if  tlie  following  rhapsody, 
which  1  compcised  the  other  da)',  on  a  charming 

Ayrshire  gill,  !Miss ,  as  she  passed  through 

this  place  to  Eni;land,  will  suit  your  taste  bet- 
ter than  the  Collitr  Ziassie,  fall  on  and  wel- 
come. 

(  O  saw  ye  bonnie  I,cssUe,  p.  19i.) 

I  have  hitherto  deferred  the  sublinier,  more 
pathetic  airs,  until  more  leisure,  as  they  will  take, 
and  deserve,  a  greater  effort.  However,  they 
are  all  put  into  your  hand«,  as  clay  into  the 
hands  of  the  potter,  to  make  one  vessel  to  ha- 
floui,  and  another  to  dishonour.     Farewell,  See. 


No.   VI. 


THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Ye  hanks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around, 
The  castle  o'  Montgomery.      (  See  p.  203. 

Mv  DEAR  jiR,  \i(h  November,  1792. 

I  AGREE  with  you  that  the  song,  Kathcrine 
Ogle,  is  very  poor  stuff,  and  unworthy,  alto- 
gether unworthy,  of  so  beautiful  an  air.  1  tried 
to  mend  it,  but  the  awkward  sound  Qyie  recur- 
ring so  often  in  the  rhyme,  spoils  every  attempt 
at  introducing  sentiment  into  the  piece.  The 
'oregoing  song  pleases  myself;  I  think  it  is  in 
my  ha])piest  manner  ;  you  will  see  at  first  glance 
that  it  suits  the  air.  The  subject  of  the  fong  is 
one  of  the  most  interesting  passages  of  my  youth- 
ful days  ;  and,  1  own  that  I  should  be  much 
flattered  to  see  the  verses  set  to  an  air  winch 
would  insure  celebrity.  Perhaps,  after  all,  'tis 
the  still  glowing  prejudice  of  my  heart,  that 
thiows  a  borrowed  lustre  over  the  merits  of  the 
composition. 

I  have  partly  taken  your  idea  of  Auld  Hob 
Morris.  I  have  adopted  the  two  first  verses, 
and  am  going  on  with  the  song  on  a  new  plan, 
which  promises  pretty  well.  I  take  up  one  or 
another,  ju-.t  as  the  bee  of  the  moment  buzzes 
in  my  bonnet-lug  ;  and  do  you,  sans  ceremonie, 
make  what  use  you  choose  of  the  productions. 
Adieu !   ki. 


No.  VII, 


MR.  TIIOJIPSON  TO  THE  POET. 

DEAR  SIR,  JEdinhurgh,  Nov.  1792. 

I  tVAS  just  going  to  wiite  to  you,  that  on 
meeting  with  your  Nannie  I  had  fallen  violeut- 
'y  in  love  with  her.  I  thank  you,  therefore,  fur 
tending  the  chaiiiiing  rustic  to  nie,  in  the  dress 
you  wish  her  to  appear  befure  the  public.  She 
does  you  great  r!  'dit,  and  will  soon  bu  admitted 
lato  the  beiit  company. 


I  regret  that  your  song  for  the  Lea-rig  is  m 
short  ;   the  air  is  easy,  soon  sung,  and  very  pleas 
ing  ;   so  that,    if  the  singer  stops   at  the  end  ol 
two  stanzas,    it  is   a  pleasure  lost  ere  it  is  weU 
possessed. 

Although  a  dash  of  our  native  tongue  and 
manners  is  doubtless  peculiarly  congenial,  and 
appropriate  to  our  melodies,  yet  I  shall  be  able 
to  present  a  considerable  number  of  the  very 
Flowers  of  English  Song,  well  adanted  to  those 
me.ouies,  which  in  England  at  least  will  be  the 
means  of  recommending  them  to  still  greater  at- 
tention than  they  have  procured  there.  But 
you  will  observe,  my  plan  is,  that  every  air  shall 
in  the  first  place  have  verses  wholly  by  Scottish 
poets  ;  and  that  those  of  English  writeia  shal. 
follow  as  additional  songs,  for  the  choice  of  the 
singer. 

What  you  say  of  the  Ewe-btights  is  just ;  1 
admire  it,  and  never  meant  to  supplant  it.  All 
1  requested  was,  that  you  would  try  your  hand 
on  some  of  the  inferior  stanzas,  which  are  ajjpa- 
rently  no  part  of  the  original  song;  but  this  1 
do  not  urge,  because  the  song  is  of  sufiSc'ent 
length  though  those  inferior  stanzas  be  omitted, 
as  they  will  be  by  the  singer  of  taste.  You  must 
not  think  I  expect  all  the  songs  to  he  of  wi-perla- 
tive  merit;  that  were  an  tinreasonable  expecta 
tion.  I  am  sensible  that  no  poet  can  sit  down  dog- 
gedly to  pen  verses,  and  succeed  well  at  all  times. 

I  am  highly  pleased  with  your  humorous  and 
amoiotis  rhapsody  on  Sonnie  Lesslie  ;  it  is  a 
thousand  times  better  than  the  C'ltlier's  Lassie. 
"  The  deil  he  couMnasiaith  thee,"  &c.  is  an  ec- 
centric and  haj)])y  thought.  Do  you  not  think, 
however,  that  the  names  of  such  old  heroes  as 
Alexander,  sound  rather  queer,  unless  in  pom- 
pous or  n^re  huilesque  virse?  Instead  of  the 
line  "  And  never  made  anither,"  I  would  hum- 
bly suggest,  "  And  ne'er  made  sic  anither  ;' 
and  I  would  fain  have  you  substitute  sonietthiT 
line  for  "  Return  to  Caledonie,"  in  the  last 
verse,  because  1  think  this  alteration  of  the  or- 
thography, and  of  the  sound  of  Caledonia,  dis- 
figures the  word,  and  renders  it  Hudihrastic. 

Of  the  other  song,  My  wijf's  a  uinso7iic  wee 
thing,  I  think  the  first  eight  lines  very  good  : 
but  I  do  not  admire  the  other  eight,  because  four 
of  them  are  a  bare  repetition  of  the  first  veise. 
I  have  been  trying  to  spin  a  staiiza,  but  could 
make  nothing  better  than  the  folloiving  ;  do  you 
mend  it,  or,  as  Yorick  did  with  the  love-letter, 
whip  it  up  in  your  own  way. 

O  leeze  me  on  my  wee  thing, 
My  bonnie  biythsome  wee  thing  ; 
Sae  lang's  I  hae  my  wee  thing, 
I'll  think  my  lot  divine. 
Tho'  wai Id's  care  we  share  o't, 
And  may  see  meickle  mair  o't, 
Wi'  her  I'll  biythly  bear  it, 
And  ne'er  a  word  repiue. 


You  percei/e.   my  dear  Sii    I  avail  navsslf  of 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


395 


i  ' 


Ae  liberty  whicb  you  condcsrend  to  allow  iiic, 
by  spoaking  fieily  what  I  think.  Re  a-iMirt-d, 
it  is  not  my  disposition  to  pick  cut  the  faults  tit 
any  poem  or  picture  I  we  :  my  first  and  chief 
olyect  is  to  discover  and  he  delighted  with  the 
Deauties  of  the  piece.  If  I  s-it  down  to  examine 
critically,  and  at  leisure,  what  perhaps  you  have 
written  in  haste,  I  may  happen  to  observe  care- 
less lines,  the  re-perusal  of  which  might  lead 
you  to  improve  them.  The  wren  will  often  sec 
what  has  been  overlooked  by  tlie  eagle. 

I  remain  yours  faithfully,  &c. 

P.  S.  Your  vei-ses  upon  Highland  Mary,  are 
Just  come  to  hand  :  they  breathe  the  genuine 
spirit  of  poetry,  and,  like  the  music,  will  last  lor 
ever.  Such  verses  united  to  such  an  air,  with 
the  delicate  harmony  of  Pleyel  superadded,  might 
form  a  treat  worthy  of  being  presented  to  Apollo 
himself.  I  have  heard  the  sad  story  of  your 
Wary  :  you  always  seem  inspired  when  you  write 
of  her 


No.  VIII. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Dumfries,  \st  December,  1792. 
Your  alterations  of  my  Nannie  O  are  per- 
fectly right.  So  are  those  of  "  My  wife's  a 
wanton  wee  thing."  Your  alteratiim  of  the 
second  stanza  is  a  positive  improvement.  Now, 
my  dear  Sir,  with  the  freedom  which  (har.ic- 
terises  our  correspondence,  I  must  not,  cinnot 
alter  "  Bonnie  Les-lie."  You  are  right,  the 
word  "  Alexander"  makes  the  line  a  little  un- 
couth, but  I  think  the  thought  is  pretty.  Of 
Alexander,  beyond  all  other  heroes,  it  may  be 
said,  in  the  sublime  language  of  scripture,  that 
"  he  went  forth  conquering  and  to  couquer." 

"  For  nature  made  her  w/iat  i,he  is, 
And   never  made  auither,"  (such  a  person  as 
she  is.) 

This  is  in  my  opinion  more  poetical  than 
"  Ne'er  mule  sic  auither."  However,  it  is  im- 
material :  Make  it  either  way.  "  Caledonie," 
1  agree  with  you,  is  not  so  good  a  word  as  could 
be  wished,  though  it  is  sasctiimed  in  three  or 
four  instances  liy  Allan  Ramsay  ;  but  I  cannot 
help  it.  In  short,  that  species  of  stanza  is  ihe 
most  difficult  that  I  have  ever  tried. 

Tho  "Lea-rig"  is  as  follows.  (Here  the 
poet  gives  the  two  fir>t  stanzas  as  before,  p.  214, 
with  the  following  in  addition.) 

The  hunter  loe's  the  morning  sun. 
To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  niy  jo  ; 

4t  noun  the  fisher  scek>  the  glen, 
Aloug  the  bum  to  steer,  my  ju ; 


Gie  me  the  hw^r  o'  gloamin  (frcy, 
It  mak's  my  he.irt  sae  cheery,  O 

To  meet  thee  on  the  lea- rig, 
Jly  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

I  am  interrupted.     Yours,  && 


No.  IX. 


THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

(AiM  Rob  Morris,  p.  192.) 
(^Duncan  Gray,  p.  199.) 

4//j  December,  1792. 
The  foregoing  I  submit,  my  dear  Sir,  to  yom 
better  judgment.  Acquit  thorn  or  condems 
them  as  seemeth  good  in  your  sight.  Duncan 
Gray  is  that  kind  of  light-horse  gallop  of  aa 
air,  which  precludes  sentiment.  The  ludicrous 
is  its  ruling  feature. 


No.  X. 


THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON 

{Ponrtith   Could,  p.  222.) 
(Galta   Water,  p.  201.) 

Jiinnary  1 793. 

Manv  returns  of  the  season  to  ycu,  niv  dear 
.Sir.  How  comes  on  your  publication  ?  will 
these  two  foregoing  be  of  any  service  to  you? 
I  should  like  to  know  what  songs  you  print  to 
each  tune,  besides  the  verses  to  which  it  is  set. 
Ill  short,  I  would  wish  to  give  you  my  opinion 
on  all  the  poetry  you  publish.  Yon  know  it 
is  my  trade,  and  a  man  in  the  way  of  his  trade 
may  suggest  useful  hints,  that  escape  men  o' 
much  superior  parts  and  endowments  in  other 
things. 

If  you  meet  with  my  dear  ami  much  valued 
C.  greet  him  in  my  name,  with  the  compliaieuts 
of  the  season. 

Yours,  &c. 


No    XI. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET, 

WITH  A  POSTSCKIPT  FKO.M  THE  HON.  A.  ERSKIKB. 

Edinhunjh,  Jahuari/  20t/i,  1 79,'J. 
You  nvike  me  ha|i|iy,  my  dear  Sir,  ami  tliou- 
sinds  will  be  happy  to  >ee  the  clianiiini;s  songs 
yuu  have  sent  me.  M  iny  ineriy  returns  of  the 
season  to  you,  ami  may  you  lim^'  continue  Hinong 
the  sons  and  daughter^  of  Caledonia,  to  deljgh* 
them,  and  to  honour  yourself. 


S9G 


BURNS'S  WORKS. 


The  fojr  l.-ist  sonfjs  with  whicn  you  favoured 
me,  viz.  Aiild  Rib  Morris,  Duncan  Gray, 
Giilla  Water,  and  Caiild  Kail,  are  admirable. 
Dunear.  is  indeed  a  l:id  iif  grace,  and  his  humour 
will  en<loar  him  to  every  body. 

The  distracted  lover  in  Auld  Rob,  and  the 
aappy  shepheid.ess  in  Galla  Water,  exhibit  an 
excellent  contrast ;  they  speak  from  genuine 
feelin",  and  powerfully  touch  the  heart. 

The  number  cf  songs  which  1  had  originally 
in  view  was  limited,  but  I  now  re^^olve  to  in- 
clude everv  Scotch  air  and  song  worth  sing- 
ing, leaving  none  behind  but  mere  gleanings, 
to  which  the  ])ublishers  of  ov"'(/atiier>im  are 
ivelcome.  I  ivould  rather  be  the  editor  of  a 
Collection  from  which  nothing  could  be  taken 
away,  than  of  one  to  which  nothing  could  be 
added.  We  intend  presenting  the  subscribers 
with  two  beautiful  stroke  engravings  ;  the  one 
chardcteristic  of  the  pl.iintive,  and  the  other  of 
the  lively  songs  ;  and  I  have  Dr.  Beattie's  pro- 
mise of  an  essay  upon  the  subject  of  our  na- 
tional music,  if  his  health  will  permit  him  to 
write  it.  As  a  number  of  our  songs  have  doubt- 
less been  called  forth  by  particular  events,  or  by 
the  charms  of  peerless  damsels,  there  must  be 
manv  curious  anecdotes  lelatiiig  to  them. 

The  late  Mr.  Tytler  of  Wuodhouselee,  I  be- 
lieve, knew  mure  of  this  than  any  body,  for  he 
iolned  to  the  pursuits  of  an  antiquary,  a  taste 
for  poetry,  besides  being  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  possessing  an  etithusias;ii  for  music  beyond 
most  of  l.is  contemporaries.  He  was  quite  plea- 
sed with  this  plan  of  mine,  for  I  may  say,  it 
has  been  solely  manageil  by  me,  and  we  had  se- 
veral long  conversations  about  it,  when  it  wa'»  in 
eml'ryo.  If  I  coulil  simply  mention  the  name 
of  the  heroine  of  each  song,  ami  the  incident 
which  occi^'ined  the  verses,  it  would  be  grati- 
fying. l'ra>,  wdl  yi'u  send  me  any  information 
of  this  sort,  as  well  with  regard  to  your  own 
songs,  as  the  old  ones  ? 

To  all  the  f ivouiite  sonas  of  the  plaintive  or 
uastiiral  kind,  will  I'e  joiiien  the  dilitate  accom- 
paniments, &c.  of  Fleyel.  To  those  of  the  co- 
mic or  hunioious  class,  I  thii/k  accompaniments 
scarcely  necessary  ;  they  are  chiefly  fitted  for 
the  conviviality  of  the  festive  board,  atul  a  tune- 
ful voice,  will)  a  proper  delivery  of  the  words, 
renders  them  perfect.  Nevertheless,  to  these  I 
propose  adding  ba^s  accom|)animents,  because 
then  tlicv  are  fitted  either  for  singing,  or  for  in 
etrunu'tital  jierloi mance,  when  tlieie  happens  to 
be  no  singer.  I  mem  to  em  ploy  our  right 
trusty  fiieml  Mr  Claike  to  set  the  bass  to  these, 
which  he  assures  me  he  will  do,  cnn  amnre,  and 
with  much  greater  attention  than  he  ever  l>e- 
«t<iwed  on  any  tiling  of  the  kind.  Hut  for  thi» 
last  class  of  air»,  i  will  not  atteutjit  to  find  more 
than  one  set  lA  verges. 

Tliaf  eccentric  b.ird  Peter  Pindar,  has  started 
I  know   not   bow    m  inv  dilliciilties,   about  wri- 
ting fur  the  airs  I  >ent  to  liim,   liecause  of  the 
peculiarity  of  their   measure,  and  the  trammels 
bey   impost;  on   his  llying  Pegaijux.      I  subjuiu 


for  your  perusal  the  only  one  I  have  yet  got 
from  him,  being  for  the  fine  air  "  Lord  Gre- 
gory." The  Scots  verses  printed  with  that  air, 
are  taken  from  the  middle  of  an  old  ballad,  call- 
ed, T/ie  Lass  of  L'  cliroi/nn,  which  I  do  not 
admire.  I  have  set  down  the  air  therefore  as  a 
creditor  of  yours.  Many  of  the  Jacobite  songs 
are  replete  with  wit  and  humour  ;  might  not 
the  best  of  these  be  included  in  our  volume  of 
comic  songs  ? 


POSTSCRIPT, 

FROM  THE  HON.  A.  ERSKINE. 

]\Ib.  Thomson  has  been  so  obliging  as  to  give 
me  a  perusal  of  your  songs.  Higliland  Mary  is 
most  enchantingly  pathetic,  and  Duncan  Gray 
possesses  native  genuine  humour  :  "  spak  o' 
lowpin  o'er  a  linn,"  is  a  line  of  itself  that  should 
make  you  immortal.  I  sometimes  hear  of  you 
from  our  mutual  friend  C.,  wlio  is  a  most  ex- 
cellent fellow,  and  possesses,  above  all  men  1 
know,  the  charm  of  a  most  obliging  disposition. 
You  kindly  promised  me,  about  a  year  ago,  a 
collection  of  your  unpublished  producticms,  reli- 
gious and  amorous  ;  I  know  from  experience 
how  irksome  it  is  to  copy.  If  you  will  get  any 
trusty  person  in  Dumfries  to  write  them  over 
fair,  I  wdl  give  Peter  Hill  whatever  money  iie 
asks  for  his  trouble  ;  and  I  certainly  shall  not 
betray  your  confidence. 

1  am  your  hearty  admirer, 

ANDREW  ERSKINE. 


No,  XII. 


THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

2Qth  Jinmnr'j,  ITM. 
I  APPROVF  greatly,  my  dear  .Sir,  of  your  plans. 
Dr.  Beattie's  Essay  will  of  itself  be  a  treasure. 
On  my  part,  I  mean  to  di-aw  up  an  apjiendix  to 
the  Doctor's  Essay,  containing  my  stock  of  an- 
ecdotes, &c.  of  our  Scots  s(uigs.  All  tlie  late 
Mr.  Tytler's  anecdotes  I  have  by  me,  taken 
down   in   the  course  -of  my  ac(jualotaiice  with 

j  him  from  his  own  mouth.  1  am  such  an  en- 
thusiast, that  in  the  course  of  my  several  pere- 
grinations through  Scotlrnil.  I  made  a  jiilgri- 
mage  to  the  individual  spot  fnmr  vvhich  every 
song  took  its  rise,  "  Lochaber,"  and  the  "  Braes 
of  Balleiiden,''  excepted.     .So  far  as  the  locality 

!  either  from  the  title  of  the  irir,  or  the  tenor  of 
the  song,  could  be  ascertained,  1  have  pa"d  my 
devotions  at  the  particular  shiiiie  of  evorv 
Scotch  muse. 

I  ilo  not  doubt  but   you   might  make  a  very 
raluable  cullectiua  of  Jacub.te  songs — but  would 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


39' 


<t  ^ive  no  offence  ?  In  t!it  moan  time,  do  not 
yon  tliiiik  that  some  of  tliem,  pii  t'.cularly  "  The 
So'.v's  tail  to  Gc'ordio,"  as  au  air,  with  other 
worJs,  might  lie  well  woitli  a  place  in  your 
colli'ftinn  of  lively  songs  ? 

If  it  were  possible  to  proenre  songs  of  merit, 
it  v.-(iulil  he  proper  to  have  one  set  of  Scots 
wonis  to  every  air,  and  that  the  set  of  words  to 
which  till'  notes  ought  to  be  set.  There  is  a 
nain/e,  a  pastoral  simplicity,  in  a  slight  inter- 
mi\ture  of  Scots  words  and  phraseology,  which 
is  more  in  unison  (at  least  to  my  taste,  and  I 
will  add,  to  every  genuine  Caledonian  taste^, 
with  the  sini]>le  pathos,  or  rustic  sprightliness  of 
our  native  music,  than  any  English  verses  what- 
ever. 

The  very  name  of  Peter  Pindar,  is  an  acqui- 
sition to  ytnir  work.  His  "  Gregory"  is  beau- 
tiful. I  have  tried  to  give  you  a  set  of  stanzas 
in  Scots,  on  the  «ame  subject,  which  are  at  your 
service.  Not  that  1  intend  to  enter  the  lists 
with  Peter;  that  would  be  |)resuniption  indeed. 
My  song,  though  much  iuferior  in  poetic  meiit, 
has  I  thiuk  more  of  the  balUd  .simplicity  in  it. 


{Lord  Gregory*  p.  209.) 

My  most  respectful  compliments  to  the  ho- 
nourable gentleman  who  favoured  me  with  a 
postscript  in  your  last.  Me  shall  hear  from  rue 
and  receive  his  MSS.  soon. 


No.   XIII. 

•'HE  POET  TO  MR.   THOMSON. 

(^Mary  Murisnn,  p.  211.) 

MT  DEAR  SIR,  20</i  March,  1793. 

The    song    prefixed    is   one    of   my  juvenile 
works.      I    leave    it    in    your  hands.      I  do  not 


•  The  song  of  Dr.  Walcott  on  the  same  subject  is  as 
folljAs : — 

All  ojx",  Lord  Gregory,  (hy  door, 

A  nM<liiig(it  wanderer  si^hs; 
Hard  rush  the  raitis.,  the  tempests  roar. 

And  lightiinigs  cleave  ilie  Aies. 

Who  comes  with  woe  at  this  drear  night— 

A  pilijrim  of  ihe  gloom  ? 
If  slie  wliose  love  did  once  deligfct. 

My  cot  shall  yield  her  room. 

Alas  !  thou  hcard'st  a  pilgrim  mourn. 

That  once  was  priz'd  by  thee  : 
Tliink  of  the  riiiy  by  yonder  burn 

Thou  gav'st  to  love  and  me. 

But  should'st  thou  not  poor  Marian  know, 

I'll  turn  iny  feet  and  pait; 
And  think  tlie  storms  that  lound  me  blow, 

Far  kinder  than  thy  heart. 

It  is  but  doing  justice  to  Pr.  Walcott  to  mention, 
that  his  song  is  Ihe  or'ginal  Mr.  Hums  saw  it,  liked 
it,  and  immediately  wrote  the  other  on  the  same  sul>- 
\ki,  which  is  derived  from  in  old  bcotlish  ballad  of 
uricertaiu  origin. 


think  it  very  remaikahle,  either  for  its  merit.'v, 
or  demerits.  It  is  impossible  (at  least  I  fee!  it 
so  in  my  stinted  powers),  to  be  always  origitiul, 
entertaining,  and  wittv. 

What  is  become  of  the  list,  &c.  of  your  s(;ngs  ? 
I  shall  be  out  of  all  temper  with  you  by  and  by 
I  h  ive  always  looked  on  myself  as  the  prince  of 
indolent  correspondents,  and  val  jed  myself  ac- 
cordingly ;  and  I  will  not,  cannot  bear  rivaldiip 
from  you,  nor  any  body  else. 


No.   XIV. 


THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

{Wandtring  Willie,  p.  2i0. 1 

March,  1793. 
I  leave  it  to   you,  my  dear  Sir,    to  determine 
whether  the  above,   or  the  old   "  Through   thj 
lang  Muir,"  be  the  best. 


No.  XV. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

(  Open  the  Door  to  Me,    O,  p.  219.' 

I  do  not  know  whether  this  soag  be  really 
mended. 


No.  XVI. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

(  True-hearted  was  he,  p.  aiO.) 


i\o.  XVII. 
MR.   THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

EiUiihiir(ih,  2f/  April,  1 79S. 

I  wii.r.  not  recognise  the  title  you  give  your 
self,  ''  the  prince  of  indolent  cones|)onilcnts  ;' 
but  if  tlie  adjective  were  taken  away,  I  think 
the  title  would  then  fit  you  exactly.  It  gives 
me  pleasure  to  find  you  can  furnish  anecdotca 
with  respect  to  ino-t  of  the  songs  :  these  will 
be  a  liteiary  curiosity. 

I  now  send  you  rny  list  of  the  songs,  which 
I  believe  will  be  fund  nearly  cuniplete.  I  have 
put  down  the  fi'.st  hues  of  all  the  English  songs, 
which  I  propose  giving  in  addition  to  the  Scotch 
verses.  If  any  others  occur  to  you,  better  adapt- 
ed   to   the  character  of  the  aLrg    pray  mentiuc 


395 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


them,  when  you  favour  me  with  j  riur  strictures 
upon  every  thing  else  relating  to  the  work. 

Pleyel  his  lately  sent  me  a  number  of  the 
Bon<js,  with  his  symphonies  and  accompaniments 
tddfd  to  them.  I  wish  you  were  here,  that  I 
might  serve  up  some  of  them  to  vou  with  your 
own  verses,  l)y  way  of  dessert  after  dinner.  There 
is  so  much  deligl  tful  fancy  in  the  symphonies, 
and  such  a  delicate  simplicity  in  the  accom- 
paniments :    they  are  indeed  beyond  all  praise. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  the  several  last 
productions  of  your  muse  :  your  Lord  Gregory, 
in  my  estimation,  is  more  interesting  than 
Petei's,  "ueautifu!  as  his  is!  Your  Here  Awa 
Willie  must  undetgo  some  alterations  to  suit 
the  air.  Mr.  Erskine  and  I  have  been  conning 
it  over  :  he  will  suggest  what  is  necessary  to 
aiake  th'^m  a  fit  match.* 

The  gentleman  I  have  mentioned,  whose  fine 
taste  you  are  no  stranger  to,  is  so  well  pleaseu 
both  with  the  musicaJ  and  poetical  part  of  our 
work,  that  he  has  volunteered  his  assistance, 
and  has  already  written  four  songs  for  it,  wlncli, 
by  his  own  desiiw,  I  send  for  your  perusal. 


No.  XVIII. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

(  The  S.iUier's  Return,  p.  235.) 
{Met/  o'  the  Milt.  p.2\\.) 


No.  XIX. 
THL  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

nth  April,  1793. 

Thank  yDu,  my  dear  Sir,  for  your  packet. 
You  cannot  imagine  how  much  tViis  business  of 
composing  for  your  publication  has  added  to  my 
ciijoyinents.  What  with  my  early  attachment 
to  ballads,  your  book,  &c.  ballad-making  is  now 
as  comjilotely  my  hobby-horse,  as  ever  fortilica- 
tion  was  Uncle  Toby's;  so  I'll  e'en  canter  it 
away  till  I  come  to  the  limit  of  my  race,  (God 
grant  that  I  may  take  the  right  siae  of  the  win- 
ning-post I )  and  then  clieei fully  looking  back 
on  the  honest  folks  with  whom  1  have  been  hap- 
py, I  shall  say,  or  sing,  "  Sae  iiieriy  as  we  a' 
hae  been  !"  and  raising  my  last  looks  to  the  whole 
human  race,  the  last  words  of  the  voice  of  L'oi- 
la  shall  be  "  Good  night  and  joy  be  wi'  you 
a'!"  So  much  for  my  last  words  :  now  for  a 
fevv  present  rein  irks,  as  they  have  occurred  at 
random,  on  looking  over  your  list. 

The  first  lines  of  Tlie  last  time   I  came  o'lr 


*  The  Rcntlcman  alluded  to  was  Mr.  Andrew  Ers- 
kine. TIr-  iMH't  i  toptud  (art  of  the  altcialiuns,  aiul 
cigwted  Uic-  'Cot. 


the  moor,  and  several  other  lint-s  in  it,  are  beau- 
tiful :  but  in  my  opinion — pardon  me,  revered 
shade  of  Ramsay  !•  the  song  is  unworthy  of  the 
divine  air.  I  shall  try  to  make,  or  mend.  For 
ever.  Fortune  wilt  thou  prove,  is  a  charming 
song  ;  but  Logan  burn  and  Logan  braes,  are 
sweetly  susceptible  of  rural  imagery  :  I'll  trj 
that  likewise,  and  if  I  succeed,  the  other  song 
may  class  among  the  F^nglish  ones,  I  remem- 
ber the  two  last  last  Jines  of  a  verse  in  some  of 
the  old  songs  of  Logan  water,  (for  I  kaow  a 
good  many  different  ones)  which  I  think  pretty  : 

"  Now  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 
Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes." 

Uly  Patie  is  a  lover  gay,  is  unequal.  "  His 
raind  is  never  muddy,"  is  a  muddy  expression 
indeed. 

"  Then  I'll  resign  and  marry  Pate, 
And  syne  my  cockernony," 

This  is  surely  far  unworthy  of  Ramsay,  or 
your  hook.  My  song,  Rigs  of  barley,  to  the 
same  tune,  does  not  altogether  please  me  ;  but  it 
I  can  mend  it,  and  thrash  a  few  loose  sentiinenti 
out  of  it,  I  will  submit  it  to  your  consideration. 
Tlie  lass  o'  Patie's  mill  is  one  of  Ramsay's 
best  songs ;  but  there  is  one  loose  sentiment  in 
it,  which  my  much-valued  friend,  Mr.  Erskine, 
will  take  into  his  critical  consideration.  In  Sir 
J.  Sinclair's  Statistical  volumes  are  two  claims, 
one,  I  think,  from  Aherdeenshiie,  and  the  other 
from  Ayrsliire,  for  ths  honour  of  thi>  song'. 
The  following  anecdote,  which  I  h.id  from  the 
present  Sir  William  Cunningham,  of  Robert- 
land,  who  had  it  of  the  late  John  Earl  of  Lou- 
don, I  can  on  such  authorities  believe. 

Allan  Ram>iay  was  residing  at  Loudon  Castle 
with  the  then  Eirl,  father  to  Earl  John  ;  and 
one  forenoon,  riJiug,  or  walking  out  tog-.ther, 
his  Lordship  and  Allan  passed  a  sweet  roman- 
tic spot  on  Irvine  water,  still  called  *'  Patie's 
Mill,"  where  a  bonnie  lass  was  "  tedding  hay, 
bareheaded  on  the  green."  My  Lord  observed 
to  All.in,  that  it  would  be  a  tine  theme  for  a 
song  Ramsay  took  the  hint,  and  lingering  be- 
hind, he  composed  the  first  sketch  ot  t,  which 
he  produced  at  dinner. 

One  day  I  lieard  J lury  say.  Is  a  fine  song; 
but  for  consistency's  sake  alter  the  n.inie  "  Ado- 
nis." Was  there  ever  such  banns  ])ul)lished,  <u 
a  purpose  of  marriage  between  Adonis  and  Ma- 
ry'^  I  agree  with  you  that  my  song.  There's 
noiigld  but  care  on  every  hand,  is  much  sujieri- 
or  to  Pnortith  cnulil.  The  original  song,  J'ki 
mill,  millO,  though  e.KcuUeiit,  is,  on  account  oj 
delicacy,  inadmissible;  still  I  like  the  ^itle,  and 
think  a  Scottish  song  would  suit  the  notes  best ; 
and  let  your  chosen  song,  which  is  veiy  pretty, 
follow,  as  an  English  set.  Tlie  banks  oJ  the 
Dtt  is,  you  know,  literacy  Lnngotee  to  slow 
time.  Tlie  song  is  well  enough,  bat  has  some 
I  false  imagery  ii   it  :  for  instance, 


f ,- 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


^9 


And  sweef.y  the  nightingale  sung  from  the 


hee. 


think  we  ought  not  to  dinplace  or  alter  it,  t» 

cept  the  last  stanai.* 


In  the  first  place,  the  nightingale  sings   in   a 
ow  hu>h,  but   never    from  a  tree ;  and   in  the 
ieo.iul  place,  there  never  was  a  nightingale  seen 
or   heard    on  the  hanks  of  the    Dee,  or    on  the 
Viaiiks  of  any  other  river  in    Scotlanch     Exotic 
rural  imagery   is  always  comparatively  flat.      If 
I  could  hit  on  another  stanza  equal  to  The  small 
lirdi  rejoice,  &e.      1   do  myself  honestly  avow 
that  I  think  it  a  superior  song.     John   Ander- 
son Hiy>— the  song  to  this  tune  in   Johnson  s 
Museum,  is  my  composition,  and  I  think  it  not 
my  worst  ■.   II'  it  suit  you,  tike  it  and  welcome. 
Your    collection    of   sentimental    and    pathetic 
eongs,  is,  in  my  opinion,  very  complete  ;  Imt  not 
so  your  comic  ones.    Where  are  TuUochgnruvi, 
Lvmps  o  puddin,   Tibbie  F.>wler,  and  sevcra 
others,  which,  in  my  humblr  judgment,  are  well 
worthy  of  preservation  ?     There  is  also  one  sen- 
timental  Bong   of  mine  in  the  Museum,  wkich 
never  was  known  out  of  the  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood,   until   I   got   it   taken   down  from   a 
country  ghl's  singing.    It  is  called  CraujubiiTn 
wood;   and    in   the  opinion    of  Mr.  Clarke,   is 
one  of  our  sweetest  Scottish  songs.     He  is  (pnte 
an  enthusiast   about  it ;   and    I  would   t«ke  his 
ta-te  in  Scottish  music  against  the  taste  of  most 
connoisseurs. 

You  are  quite  right  in  inserting  the  last  five 
in  your  list,  though  they  are  certainly  Irish. 
Shephads  I  have  lost  wij  love,  is  to  me  a  hea- 
vcrIv  air— what  would  you  think  of  a  set  of 
Scot'tish  verses  to  it .?  I  have  made  one  to  it  a 
good  while 

ladv's  song      I  enclose  an  altered,    not  amend 
ed  copy  fo"  you,  if  you  choose  to  set  the  tuue  to 
it,  and  let  tlie  Irish  verses  follow. 

Mr,  Erskine's  songs  are  all  pretty,  but  his 
ione  i-u/f  is  diMue.     Yours,  &c. 

Let  m.e  know  just  how  you  like  these  random 
hint^. 


1 


No.  XXI. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

April,  1793, 
1  HAVE  yours,  my  dear  Sir,  this  moment, 
shall    answer  it   and  your  former  letter,   in  nij 
desultory  way  of  saying  whatever  comes  upper- 
most. 

The  business  of  many  of  our  tunes  wanting 
at  the  beginning  what  fiddlers  call  a  starting- 
note,  is  often  a  rub  to  us  poor  rhymers. 

'<  There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  brae*, 
That  wander  thro'  the  blooming  heather  ' 


You  may  alter  to 

'<  Braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes, 
Ye  wander,"  &e. 

My  song.  Here  awa,  there  awo,  as  amen  led 
by  Mr.  Erskine,  I  entirely  approve  of,  and  re- 
turn vou.  . 

GiVe  me  leave  to  criticise  your  taste  in  the 
only  thing  in  which   it  is  in  my  opinion  repie 
hensible.      You   know  I  ought  to  know  some- 
thing of  my  own  tra<le.      Of  pathos,  sentimenl, 
and  point,  vou  are  a  complete  judge  ;  but  there 


rses   to  it.?   I  have  made  one  to  it  a    ^^   J        ,-;^  ,„„re    necessary   than  either,   in  a 

ago,  which    I   think      ....     •  |  ,„j,„    ^^,1  „.i,i^.h  is  the  verv  essence  of  a  ballad, 

but  in  its  original  state  is  not  quite  a  r    ^       ^-      Y,,:,,y  .    now,   if  I  mistake  not,  this 

1 i„o„   or.  mUpipH     not  amend-  .  '         ■'  .  ..i ...  ,..^r;fi,.o  tn 


No.  XX. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

Edinhnrgh,  April,  1793. 

I  REJOICE  to  find,  my  dear  Sir,  that  ballad- 
making  continues  to  be  your  hnhhy- horse. 
Great  pity  'twould  be  were  it  otherwise.  I 
hope  vou  will  aiidjle  it  away  fur  many  a  year, 
and    ''  witch  th»   world  with  your  horseman- 

I  know  there  are  a  good  many  livdy  songs 
of  merit  that  I  have   not   |uit  <!own   in  the  list 
wnt  \ou  ;  hut  I  have  them  all  in  my  eye. 
Patie  is  a  lover  gay,  though  a  Httle  uuecpia 


last    feature    you  are  a  little  apt  to  sacrifice  to 
the  foregoing.  , 

Ramsay,  as  every  other  poet,  nas  not  been 
alwavs  equally  happv  in  his  pieces:  still  I  can- 
not a'pprove  of  taking  such  liberties  with  an 
ai.tlior  as  Mr.  W.  projio-es  doing  with  The  lait 
time  1  cawe  o'er  the  Moor.  Let  a  poet,  if  he 
chooses,  take  up  the  idea  of  another,  and  work 
it  into  a  ]iiece  of  his  own  ;  but  to  mingle  the 
works  of  the  poor  bard,  whose  tuneful  tongue 
is  now  mute  for  ever,  in  the  dark  and  narrow 
house— hv  Heaven  'twould  be  sacrilege  !  I 
grant  that  Mr.  W's  version  is  an  improvement  ; 
but  I  know  .Mr.  W.  well,  and  esteem  bim  much  ; 
let  him  mend  the  song,  as  the  Highlander 
mended  his  gun  -.—he  gave  it  a  new  stock,  and 
a  new  lock,  and  a  new  birrti. 

1  do  not,  bv  this,  object  to  leaving  out  im- 
proper stanzas,'  wliere  that  can  be  done  without 
spoiling  the  whole.  One  stanza  in  The  loss 
o'  Palic's  mid,  must  be  left  out:  the  song  will 
be  nothing  worse  for  it.      I  am  not  sure  if  we 


•  The  nrisimi  letter  from  Mr.  Thomson  cont«ini 

Ml/   many  observations  on  the  Scottish  songs,  anrl  on  the 

•      manner  of  aitajiting  the  "ords  to  th.   music,  wl.icli,  at 

^atie  is  a  lover  gag,  inougn  a  ntnc  ui.v.i......  is    |,is  desire,  are  suppressed.     The  sub-tquent  ktler  of 

uatu-il  anl  very  pleasing  song,  and  I  humbly    Mr.  Burns  refers  to  sevcra.  of  these  observations. 


BURNS'  WOilKS. 


ean  taxe  the  snnie  liberty  with  Cam  rips  are 
honnie.  Pcrliaps  it  ini;jlit  want  the  l.ist  stanza, 
and  l)e  the  bctte-  for  it.  CauU  hail  in  Abtr- 
detii,  you  must  leave  with  nie  yet  a  while,  1 
have  vowecJ  to  have  a  song  to  that  air,  on  the 
laily  whom  I  attempted  to  celebrate  in  the 
verses,  Poortith  cautd  and  rat/ess  love.  At 
any  rate,  my  other  song,  Green  ;;rnw  the  rash- 
es, will  cever  suit.  That  song  is  current  in 
Scotland  under  the  old  title,  ai.d  to  tlie  merry 
old  tune  of  that  name  ;  which  of  course  would 
mar  tlie  )irogress  of  your  song  to  celebrity. 
Your  book  will  be  the  standard  of  Scots  songs 
for  the  future  :  let  this  idea  ever  keep  your 
judjiiuient  on  the  alarm. 

1  sei.d  a  sonir,  on  a  celebrated  toast  in  this 
country,  to  suit  Jianuie  Dundee.  I  send  you 
also  a  ballad  to  the  Mill,  mill  O. 

Ti.e  luit  time  I  came  i>\r  the  moor,  I  would 
fain  attempt  to  n:ake  a  Scots  song  for,  and  let 
Ramsay's  be  the  Knglish  set.  You  shdl  hear 
from  me  soon.  When  you  go  to  London  on 
this  busine5<i,  can  you  come  by  Dumfries?  I 
have  still  several  MS.  Scots  airs  i)y  me  which 
1  have  picked  up,  mostly  fiom  -he  singing  of 
country  lasses.  They  please  n'.e  vastly ;  but 
your  learned  lugs  would  perhaps  be  displeased 
with  the  very  feature  for  which  1  like  them. 
I  call  them  simple  ;  you  Viould  pronounce  them 
silly.  Do  you  kuow  a  fine  air  called  Jackie 
II i/me's  lament  ?  I  have  a  song  of  consider- 
able merit  to  tiiat  air.  I'll  enclose  you  both  the 
song  and  tune,  as  I  had  them  ready  to  send  to 
Juliuson's  Museum.  I  send  you  likewi-ic,  to 
me,  a  beautiful  little  air,  wl  ich  1  had  taken 
down  from  viva  vuce. 

Adiea ! 


No.  XXII. 
THE  POET  TO  MR.  TIIOIMSON. 

Mr  PEAR  SIR,  April,  1793. 

I  HAD  scarcely  put  my  last  letter  into  the 
post-iffiic,  when  I  took  up  the  subject  of  The 
last  time  I  came  (\r  the  nmor,  and  ere  I  slept 
drew  the  outlines  of  the  foregoing.  Mow  far  I 
hive  succeeded,  I  leave  on  this,  as  on  every 
other  occa>ion,  to  ynu  to  decide.  I  own  my 
vatiity  is  flattered,  when  you  give  my  songs  a 
plactf  in  your  elegant  and  superb  work  ;  but  to 
be  of  service  to  the  work  is  my  first  wish.  As 
1  ha^c  often  told  you,  I  do  cot  in  a  single  in- 
Jtance  wish  you,  out  of  compliment  to  me,  to 
itit.ert  any  thing  of  mine.  One  hint  let  me  give 
you — whatever  Mr.  I'leyel  does,  let  him  not  al- 
^•r  one  iota  of  the  original  Scottish  airs  ;  1  mean, 
in  the  song  de))artment ;  but  let  our  national 
nuisic  preserve   its   native    features.      They  are, 

own,  frequently  wild  and  irreducible  to  the 
more  modern  rules  ;  but  on  that  very  eccentri- 
city, perhaps,  dcj)end3  a  great  part  of  their  ef 
feut 


No.   XX III. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

Edinburgh,  26th  April,  1  79Jf. 
T  HEARTILY  thaiik  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  youi 
last  two  letters,  and  the  songs  which  acco.-.ia- 
nied  them.  I  am  always  both  inslructed  in. 
entert.iined  by  your  observation^  ;  and  the  Ir^nk 
ness  w.th  which  you  s])eak  out  your  mind,  is  t: 
me  highly  agreeable.  It  is  very  possibL-  I  may 
not  have  the  true  idea  of  simplicity  in  comjiosi 
tion.  I  confess  there  are  w  cral  songs  of  Allac 
Ramsay's,  for  example,  thit  I  think  silly  enongk 
which  another  person,  mere  conver>ant  than  . 
have  been  with  country  poople,  would  perhaps 
c«ll  simple  and  natuial.  But  the  lowest  scenes 
of  simple  nature  will  not  please  generally,  if  co- 
pied precisely  as  they  «.re.  The  poet,  like  the 
painter,  must  select  what  will  form  an  agreeable 
as  well  as  a  natural  picture.  On  this  subject  it 
were  easy  to  enlarge  ;  but  at  present  snilice  it 
to  say,  that  I  consider  simplicity,  rightly  uniler- 
stood,  as  a  most  essential  ijiialiiy  in  conipo--ition, 
and  the  grouud-w&rk  of  beauty  in  all  the  arts. 
I  will  gladly  appropriate  your  most  interesting 
new  ballad,  When  u-ild  tcar^s  deadly  blu^t,  &c. 
to  the  Mdl,  nidi,  O,  us  well  as  the  two  other 
songs  to  their  respective  airs  ;  but  the  third  and 
fourth  line  of  the  first  verse  must  undergo  some 
little  alteration  in  order  to  suit  the  music.  Pleyel 
does  not  alter  a  single  m.te  of  the  Kuigs.  Tliat 
wo\ild  l)e  absurd  indeed  !  With  the  airs  wlii.-h 
he  introduces  into  the  sonatas,  1  al'ow  him  to 
take  such  liberties  as  he  pleases  ;  but  that  hal 
nothing  to  do  with  the  songs. 


P.  S.— I  wish  you  would  do  as  you  pmposca 
with  your  IUgs  o'  barley.  If  the  loose  senti- 
ment* are  thrathed  out  of  it,  I  will  find  an  tii 
for  it ;   but  as  to  this  there  is  no  huiry. 


No.  XXIV. 
THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOr.ISON. 

June,  1793. 

When  I  tell  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  a  friend 
of  mine,  in  whom  1  am  much  interested,  has 
fallen  a  sacrifice  to  these  accursed  times,  you 
will  easily  allow  that  it  might  unhinge  me  for 
doing  any  good  among  ball. ids.  ]\ly  own  loss, 
as  to  jiecuniary  matters,  is  trifling  ;  but  the  to- 
tal ruin  of  a  much-loved  friend,  is  a  loss  indeed. 
I'ardon  my  seeming  inattention  to  your  last 
commands. 

I  cannot  alter  the  disputed  lines  in  the  Mill, 
mill,   O.      What  you  think  a  defect  I  esteem  ui 
a  positive  beauty  :   so  you  see  how  doctors  dif- 
fer.     I  shall  now,   with  as   mjcli   alacrity  iit< 
can  lEuster,  go  on  with  your  wmmauda. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


Yon  kiinw  Fra«er,  the  hautlidy  jihycr  in 
EilinliurijL — lie  i>  lioro  iiistiiutiii^  a  ImiuI  of 
inu^^ii-  for  11  ffiicible  cor|is  (jiiaitcrcil  in  tliis 
country.  Aniuiij;  many  iit'  his  ulis  that  ])1imsi' 
me.  there  is  one  voll  l;iu)wii  as  a  reel  by  tlic 
name  of  The  Quaker's  Wife  ;  ami  \vliicl\  I  re- 
nieinlier  a  granil  uunt  of  mine  usud  to  sing,  by 
the  name  of  Liytjeram  cos/i,  mi/  bonuy  tcee  lass. 
Wr.  Fraser  ]>\d\s  it  ^Unl■,  and  with  an  expres- 
sion th.it  quite  charms  me.  1  became  sucii  an 
enthu>iust  about  it,  that  I  made  a  song  for  it, 
which  1  here  Milijuin  ;  and  enidose  Frascr's  set 
of  tlie  tune.  If  they  liit  your  fani'y,  they  are 
at  your  service  ;  if  not,  return  nie  the  tune, 
and  I  will  put  it  in  Johnson's  Museum.  I 
t  link  the  song  is  not  in  my  worst  manner. 

{Bli/the  hae  I  been  on  yon  Hill,  p.  193.) 

I  should  wish  to  hear  how  this  pleases  you. 


This  thought  is  inexpressibly  Wa.  tiful ;  snA 
quite,  so  far  as  I  ksiow,  orii^iiiul.  it  is  to* 
short  for  a  song,  else  1  would  forswear  you  ai- 
toijctlur,  uii!e>»  you  pave  it  i  pi. ice.  1  hav? 
olteii  tiieil  to  eke  a  stanza  tu  it,  liut  in  vuin. 
After  balancing  myself  for  a  muring  five  mi- 
nutes on  the  hind-legs  of  my  elbow  chair,  I 
jtroiluced  the  following. 

The  verses  are  far  inferior  to  the  forer,oing, 
I  frankly  confess  ;  but  if  worthy  of  insL'rt>on  at 
all,  they  might  be  first  in  p!ace  ;  as  every  poet, 
who  knows  any  thing  of  his  trade,  will  husband 
his  best  thoughts  fur  a  concluding  stioke. 

O  were  my  love  yon  lilac  fair, 

^\'i'  pur|)le  blossoms  to  the  sjiring  ; 

And  1  a  bird  to  shelter  theie, 

When  wearied  on  my  little  wing  ; 

How  I  w.ul  niniirn,  when  it  was  torn 
liy  aiiluinn  wild,  and  winter  rude  5 

]5ut  I  wad  sing  on  wanton  wing, 

When  youtiifu'  May  its  bloom  recew'd. 


No.  XXV. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

S.^M  June,  1793. 
Have  you  ever,  my  dear  Sir,  felt  your  bo- 
»om  ready  to  burst  with  indignation  on  reading 
or  those  mighty  villains  who  divide  kingdom 
against  kingdom,  desidate  provinces,  and  lay  na- 
tions waste  out  of  the  wantonness  of  ambition, 
ur  often  from  still  more  ignoble  passions  ?  In  a 
mood  of  this  kind  to-d.iy,  I  recollected  the  air 
of  Lagan  water  ;  and  it  occurred  to  me  that 
its  queiulous  melody  probably  had  its  origin 
from  the  plaintive  indignation  of  some  swelling, 
suffering  heart,  tired  at  the  tyrannic  strides  of 
some  pubi'ie  destroyer  ;  and  overwhelmed  with 
private  distress,  the  consequence  of  a  country's 
ruin.  If  1  have  dune  any  thing  at  all  like  jus- 
tice to  my  feelings,  the  following  song,  com- 
posed in  three  quarters  of  an  hour's  meditation 
ia  uiy  elbow  chair,  ought  to  have  some  merit. 

{Logan  JSraes,  p.  209.) 

Do  you  know  the  following  beautiful  little 
fragment  ia  V/itherspooii's  Collection  of  Scots 
Songs  ? 

Tune — "  Hughie  Oraham." 

"  O  pin  my  love  were  yon  red  rose 
"  That  grows  upon  the  castle  wa\ 

"  And  I  mysel'  a  drap  o'  dew, 
"  Into  her  bonuie  breast  to  fa*  ! 

**  Oh,  there  beyoni!  expression  bJest^ 
"  I'd  least  on  beauty  a'  the  night ; 

^  Seal'd  on  her  sllk-saft  fluids  to  re»t, 
"  Till  tlcv'd  awa  by  Puusbua  'i^iht." 


No.    XXVI. 

MR.   THG-AISOX  TO  THE  POET. 

ATonday,  \st  July,  1793 
I  AM  extremely  sorry,  my  good  Sir,  that  any 
thing  should  happen  to  unhinge  yon.    The  timet 
are  terribly  <:ut  of  tune,  and  when  harmony  will 
be  restored,  heaven  knows. 

The  first  book  of  songs,  just  pubHthcd,  will 
be  <lespatched  to  you  along  with  this.  Let  me 
be  favoured  with  your  opinion  of  it  frankly  and 
freely. 

1  shall  certainly  give  a  place  to  the  song  you 
have  written  for  the  Qnahcr's  wife  ;  it  is  qm'e 
enchanting.  Pray,  will  you  return  the  li.t  of 
songs,  with  such  airs  added  to  it  as  you  think 
ought  to  be  included.  The  business  now  rests 
entirely  on  myself,  the  gentleman  who  origiu.d- 
ly  agreeil  to  join  the  speculation  having  rc- 
qiiesteil  to  be  otF.  No  matter  ;  a  loser  1  cannot 
be.  The  superior  excellence  of  thewoik  will 
create  a  general  demand  fur  it,  as  soon  as  it  i.s 
properly  known.  And  were  the  sale  even  slowe 
than  it  promises  to  be,  I  should  be  some- 
wluit  coni|U'iisated  for  my  labour,  by  the  plea- 
siii'e  I  shall  receive  from  the  music.  I  cannot 
express  how  much  I  am  obliged  to  you  fur  tl;e 
9X()iiisite  new  songs  you  are  sending  me  ;  hut 
thanks,  my  friend,  are  a  poor  rttLrn  fur  what 
you  have  done  :  as  I  shall  he  benililed  by  tiie 
publication,  ymi  must  suffer  me  to  enclose  a 
small  mark  of  my  gratitude*,  and  to  lepeit  it 
afterwards  wLt'a  I  find  it  convenient.  Do  not 
return  it,  for,  by  heaven,  if  you  do,  our  corres. 
pondenee  is  at  an  end  :  and  thougii  this  would 
be  no  loss  to  you,  it  would  mar  the  jiublicatiuo, 


402 


which,  under  your  auspices,  cannot  /ail  to  be 
spectable  and  interesting. 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


re- 


Wednesday  IMornxng. 
I  thank  yoj  for  your  delicate  additional  ver- 
ses to  the  old  fragment,  and  for  your  excellent 
song  to  Lofjan  water  :  Thomson's  truly  elegant 
one  will  follow  for  the  English  singer.  Your 
apostrophe  to  statesmen  is  admirable,  but  1  am 
not  sure  if  it  is  quite  suitable  to  the  supposed 
gentle  character  of  the  fair  mourner  who  speaks 
it. 


No.  XXVII. 
THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  July  2,  1793. 

I  HAVE  just  finished  the  following  ballad,  and 
as  I  do  think  it  in  my  best  style,  I  send  it  you. 
Mr.  Clarke,  who  wrote  down  the  air  from  Jlrs. 
Burns'  wood-note  wild.,  is  very  fond  of  it ;  and 
has  given  it  a  celebrity  by  teaching  it  to  some 
young  ladies  of  the  first  fashion  here.  If  you 
do  not  like  the  air  enough  to  give  it  a  place  in 
your  collection,  please  return  it.  The  song  you 
m.ky  keep,  as  I  remember  it. 


(Bonnie  Jean,  p.  IQi.  ) 

I  have  some  thoughts  of  inserting  in  your  in- 
<lex,  or  in  my  notes,  the  names  of  the  fair  ones, 
•the  themes  of  my  songs,  i  do  not  mean  the 
name  at  full  ;  but  dashes  or  asterisms,  so  as  in- 
genuity may  find  them  out. 

The  heroine  of  the  foregoing  is  Miss  M. 
daughter  to  Mr.  M.  of  D.,  one  of  your  subscri- 
bers. I  have  not  painted  her  in  the  rank  which 
she  holds  in  life,  but  in  the  dress  and  character 
ef  a  cottager. 


No.  XXVUI. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  TIIO.^ISON. 

July,  1793. 
I  ASSURE  you,  my  dear  Sir,  that  you  truly 
hurt  me  with  your  pecuniary  parcel.  It  de- 
grades nie  in  my  otvn  eyes.  However,  to  rutui  n 
it  would  savour  of  affectation  ;  but  as  to  any 
niore  tratlic  of  that  debtor  and  cieditur  kind,  1 
swear  by  that  Honour  which  crowns  the  up- 
right statue  of  Robert  Uurns"  Integrity — 
on  the  least  motion  of  it,  I  will  indignantly  spurn 
the  by-past  transaction,  and  fioni  that  nujiucnt 
inmmence  entire  stranger  to  you  !  IUirns'  clia- 
racttr  for  gener;sity  of  iMotiment  and  indejjeu- 


dence  of  mind  will,  1  trust,  long  outlive  any  of 
his  wants,  which  the  cold  unfeeling  ore  csk 
supply  :  at  least,  I  wdl  take  care  that  such  i 
character  he  shall  deserve. 

Thank  you  for  my  copy  of  your  publication. 
Never  did  my  eyes  behold,  in  any  musical  work, 
such  elegance  and  correctness  Your  preface, 
too,  is  admirably  written  ;  ordy,  your  partiality 
to  me  has  made  you  say  too  much  ;  however,  it 
will  bind  me  down  to  double  every  effort  in  the 
future  progress  of  the  work  The  following  are 
a  few  remarks  on  the  songs  in  the  list  you  sent 
me.  I  never  copy  what  I  write  to  you,  so  I 
may  be  often  tautological,  or  perhaps  contradic- 
tory. 

Thcfloicers  of  the  forest  is  charming  as  a 
poem ;  and  should  be,  and  must  be,  set  to  the 
notes  ;  but,  though  out  of  your  rule,  the  thre« 
stanzas,  beginning, 

"  I  hae  seen  the  smiling  o'  fortune  beguiling," 

are  worthy  of  a  place,  were  it  but  to  immorta- 
lize the  author  of  them,  who  is  an  old  lady  of 
my  acquaintance,  and  at  this  moment  living  in 
Edinburgh.  She  is  a  Jlrs.  Cockburn  :  I  for- 
get of  what  place ;  but  from  Roiburghshire. 
What  a  charming  apostrophe  is 

"  O  fickle  fortune,  why  this  cruel  sporting, 
Why,  why  torment  us — poor  sons  of  a  day  !" 

The  old  ballad,  I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
is  silly,  to  contemptihility  *.  My  alteration  of  it, 
in  Johnson's,  is  not  much  better.  Mr.  Pinker- 
ton,  in  his,  what  he  calls.  Ancient  Ballads 
(many  of  them  notorious,  though  beautiful 
enough  forgeries)  has  the  best  set.  It  is  full  of 
his  own  intei'polations — hut  no  matter. 

In  my  next,  I  will  suggest  to  your  considera- 
tion, a  few  songs  which  may  have  escaped  jout 
hurri-ed  notice.  In  the  meantime,  allow  me  to 
congratulate  you  now,  as  a  brother  of  the  quill. 
You  have  committed  your  character  and  fame  ; 
which  will  now  be  tried,  for  ages  to  come,  by 
the  illustrious  jury  of  the  Sons  and  Daughters 
of  Taste — all  whom  poesy  can  please,  or  music 
charm. 

Being  a  bard  of  nature,  I  have  some  preten- 
sions to  secoiid  sight  ;  and  I  am  warranted  by 
the  spirit  to  foretel  and  affirm,  that  your  great^ 
grandchild  will  hold  up  your  volumes,  and  say, 
with  honest  pride,  "  This  so  much  admired  se- 
lection was  the  work  of  my  ancestor." 


•  There  is  a  popv  of  this  Iwllail  pivcn  in  the  iiccount 
ol'tlic  iL-irish  of  Kirkp.itriek-Kkmiiif',  (nh>ch  contains 
the  touil)  of  K.iir  flilcn  Irvine,)  in  the  statist:?'  of  Sir 
John  Sinclair,  Vol  XIII.  p.  "75,  to  tthict  this  chw^ic 
tcr  js  ccrtiuniy  not  applicable. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


403 


No.  XXIX. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

DKAR  SIR,  Edinhurc;h,  \st  Aiirjust,  1793. 

I  HAD  the  pleasure  of  receiving  your  last  two 

.etters,    and   am    happy   to    find    y'.m    are   quite 

I-leased  with  the   appearance   of  the    fiist  iKiuk. 

When  you  come  to  hear  the  soni^s  »ung  and  ac 

oompinied,  you  will  he  charmed  with  "them. 
T/ie  honnie  bruc/tet  Lassie,  certainly  deserves 

hetter  verses,   and   I   hope  you  will   match  her. 

Cuulil  kail  in  Aberdeen,  Let  me  in  this  ae  night, 
and  several  of  the  livelier  airs,  wait  the  muse's 
leisure  :  these  are  peculiarly  worthy  of  her 
choice  gifts  :  besides,  you'll  notice  that  in  airs 
of  this  sort,  the  singer  can  always  do  gieater 
justice  to  the  poet,   than  in   the  slower  airs  of 

The  Bush  aboon  Traqnair,  Lord  Greqnry, 
and  the  like;  for  in  the  manner  the  latter  are 
frequently  sung,  you  must  be  contented  with 
the  sound,  without  the  sense.  Indeed  both 
the  airs  and  words  are  disguised  by  the  very 
slow,  languid,  psalm-singing  style  'in  which 
they  are  too  often  performed  :  they  lose  anima- 
tion and  expression  altogether,  atid  instead  of 
speaking  to  the  mind,  or  touching  the  heart, 
they  cloy  upon  the  ear,  and  set  us  a  yawn- 
ing ! 

Your  ballad,  There  was  a  lass  and  she  ti-ns 
fair,  is  simple  and  beautiful,  and  shall  undoubt- 
edly grace  my  collection. 


I  will.      The  other  passage  you  object  to  does 
r.ot  appear  in  the  same  light  to  me. 

I  have  tried  my  h  md  on  Rubin  Adair,  and 
you  will  pmbably  think,  with  little  success; 
but  it  is  such  a  cursed,  cramp,  out  of  the  way 
measure,  that  1  de>j)air  of  doing  any  thing  bet- 
ter to  it. 


(Phillis  the  fair,  p.  222.) 

So  much  for  namby-pamby.  I  may,  tfter 
a'!,  try  my  hand  on  it  iu  Scots  verse.  There  I 
always  find  my-eif  most  at  home. 

I  have  j'lst  put  the  last  hand  to  tJie  song  I 
meant  for  Cauld  Kail  in  Aberdeen.  U  it  suits 
you  to  insert  it,  I  shall  be  pleased,  as  the  hero- 
ine is  a  favourite  of  mine  :  if  not,  I  shall  also 
be  pleased  ;  because  I  wish,  and  will  be  {;lad, 
to  see  you  act  decidedly  on  the  business.  'Tis 
a  tribute  as  a  man  of  taste,  and  as  an  editor 
which  you  owe  yourself. 


No.  XXX. 
THE  POET  TO  MR.  TIIO^ISON. 

My  DEAR  THOMSON,  Aupnst,  1793. 

I  HOLD  the  pen  for  our  friend  Cliike,  who 
at  present  is  studying  the  music  of  the  spheres 
at  my  elbow.  The  (jtorffiuin  SIdus  he  thinks 
)s  rather  out  of  tune;  so  until  he  rectify  that 
matter,  he  cannot  stoop  to  tenestriil  affairs. 

He  sends  you  six   of  the  Rondeau   subjects, 
ind  if  more  are  wanted,   lie  says  you  shall  have 
kem. 


Confound  ysur  long  stairs  i 

S.   CL.\RKE. 


No.  XXXI. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  S.^ME. 

August,  1793. 
Your  objection,  my  dear  sir,  to  the  passages 
ia  my  song  of  Logan  Water,  is  right  in  one  in- 
•tance  ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  mend  it :   If  I  can. 


No.  XXXII. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

MY  Goon  SIR,  August,  1793. 

I  CONSIDER  it  one  of  the  most  agreeable  cir- 
cumstances attending  this  publication  of  mine, 
that  it  has  procured  me  so  many  of  your  much 
valued  epistles.  Pray  makii  my  acknowledg- 
ments to  St.  Stephen  for  the  tunes  ;  tell  him"l 
admit  the  justness  of  his  coinj)lalnt  on  my  stair- 
case, conveyed  in  his  laconic  postscript  to  jour 
jeu  d'esprit ;  which  I  perused  more  than  dnce, 
without  discovering  exactly  whether  your  discus- 
sion was  music,  astronomy,  or  politics;  though 
a  sagacious  friend,  acipi  jintcd  with  the  convivial 
habits  of  the  poet  and  the  musician,  offered  me 
a  bet  of  two  to  one,  you  were  just  drowning 
care  together  ;  that  an  empty  bowl  w:ls  the 
only  thing  that  would  deeply  atTect  you,  and  the 
only  matter  you  could  then  study  how  to  re- 
medy ! 

I  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  give  Rohin  Adair 
a  Scottish  dre-s.  Peter  is  furnishing  him  with 
an  English  suit  for  a  change,  and  you  are  well 
matched  together.  Robin's  air  is  excellent, 
though  he  ceitainly  has  an  out  of  the  wav  mea- 
sure as  ever  jxior  Parnassian  wight  was  plagued 
with.  I  wish  you  would  invoke  the  muse  for  a 
single  elegimt  stanza  to  be  substituted  for  the 
concluding  objectionable  verses  of  D.>wn  the 
burn  Davie,  so  that  this  most  exquisite  song 
m-iy  no  longer  be  excluded  from  good  company. 

iMr.  Allan  has  made  an  inimitable  drawing 
from  your  John  Anderson  my  Jo,  which  I  acC 
to  have  engraved,  as  a  frontispiece  to  the  hu- 
morous class  of  songs;  you  will  be  quite  charm- 
ed with  it,  I  promise  you.  The  old  couple  are 
seated  by  the  fireside.     Mrs.  Anderson,  in  great 


404 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


good  liumniir,  is  clapping  John's  shoulders, 
while  he  smiles  and  looks  at  her  with  such  glee, 
as  to  sh<i\v  that  he  Jnlty  rciiillects  the  pleasant 
days  and  nights  when  they  were  first  acqvent. 
The  drawing  would  do  honour  to  the  peniiil  of 
Teniers. 


No.  XXXIII. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOiMSON. 

August,  1793. 
That  crinkum-crankum  tune,  Jiobin  Adair, 
».as  run  so  in  my  head,  and  I  suceeeiled  so  ill 
in  my  last  attempt,  that  I  have  ventured,  in  this 
morning's  walk,  one  essay  more.  You,  my 
dear  Sir,  will  remember  an  unfortunate  part  of 
our  worthy  friend  C. 's  story,  which  happened 
about  three  years  ago.  That  struck  my  fancy, 
and  I  endeavoured  to  do  the  idea  justice,  as 
follows. 


{Had  la  cave,  p.  203.) 

By  the  way,  I  have  met  with  a  musical  High- 
lander, in  lireadalbane's  fencildes,  which  are 
quartered  heie,  who  assures  me  that  he  well 
reineniliers  his  niotlier's  singing  Gaelic  songs  to 
both  Rubin  Adair  and  Gramiiclirie.  They 
certainly  have  more  of  the  Scotch  than  Irish 
taste  in  them. 

This  man  comes  from  tlie  vicinity  of  Inver- 
ness ;  so  it  could  not  be  any  intercourse  with 
Ireland  that  could  bring  them  ; — except,  what 
I  shrewdly  suspect  to  be  the  case,  the  wander- 
ing minstrels,  harpers,  and  pijiers,  used  to  go 
frequently  errant  through  the  wilds  both  of 
Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  so  some  favourite  airs 
might  be  common  to  both. — A  case  in  point — 
Tbey  have  lately,  in  Ireland,  published  an  Irish 
air,  as  they  say,  called  Cnun  du  dtlish.  The 
fact  is,  in  a  publication  of  Coiri's,  a  great  v.hile 
ago,  you  will  find  the  same  air,  called  a  High- 
land one,  with  a  Gaelic  song  set  to  it.  Its 
Dame  there,  I  think,  is  Oran  Guoil,  and  a 
fine  air  it  is.  Do  ask  honest  Allan,  or  the  l?ev. 
Gaelic  parson,  about  these  matters. 


No.  XXXIV. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

MT  DEAR  SItt,  August,    1793. 

JLet  me  in  this  ae  night,  I  uill  rccoi'sider. 
I  am  glad  you  are  pleasiii  with  i«y  song.  Had 
I  a  cave,  &c.  as  I  bkeil  it  myself. 

I  walked  out  yesterday  evening  with  a  vo- 
lume of  tlie  Musiiiin  in  niy  hand  ;  vlien,  turn- 
ing up   AlUn    Uti/ir,    "  \Miat   num/iers    shall 


the  muse  repeat,"  &g  »s  the  words  appeared  t<i 
me  rather  unworthy  of  so  fine  an  air  ;  and  re- 
collecting that  it  is  on  your  list,  1  sat  and  raved 
under  the  shade  of  an  old  thorn,  till  I  wiott 
out  one  to  suit  the  measure.  I  may  be  wrong  • 
but  I  think  it  not  in  my  worst  style.  Yof 
must  know,  that  in  Ramsay's  Tea-tai)le,  where 
the  modern  song  first  appeared,  the  ancient 
name  of  the  tune,  Allan  says,  is  Allan  Watei, 
or.  Ml/  love  Annie's  very  bon7iie.  This 
last  has  certainly  been  a  line  ot  the  origina. 
song  ;  so  I  took  up  the  idea,  and,  as  you  w'.U 
see,  have  introduced  the  line  in  its  place,  which 
I  presume  it  formerly  occupied  ;  though  I  like- 
wisie  give  you  a  chousing  li7ie,  if  it  should  not 
hit  t'.e  cut  of  your  fancy. 

(Sg  Allan  streams  I  chanced  to  rove, 
Mhile  Phmbus  sank  beyond Berdtddi,  p.  190  1 

Bravo !  say  I ;  it  is  a  good  song.  Should 
you  think  so  too,  (not  else)  you  can  set  the 
music  to  it,  and  let  the  ot'her  follow  as  En^lisu 
verses. 

Autumn   is  my  propitious  season.     I   make 
more  veises  in  it  than  in  all  the  year  else. 
God  bless  yoti ! 


No.  XXXV. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

August,  1793. 
Is  Whistle  and  Til  cnme  to  ynu,  my  lad, 
one  of  your  airs  ?  I  admire  it  much  ;  and  yes- 
terday I  set  tlie  following  verses  to  it.  Urban:, 
w  horn  I  met  with  here,  begged  them  of  me,  as 
he  admires  the  air  much  ;  but  as  I  uuderstand 
that  he  looks  with  rather  an  evil  eye  on  your 
work,  I  did  not  choose  to  comply.  However, 
if  tlie  song  docs  not  suit  your  t.iste,  I  mav  pos- 
sibly Send  it  him.  The  set  of  the  air  which 
I  had  in  my  eye,  is  in  Johnson's  Museum. 


(  O  whistle  and  Fll  come  to  you,  my  lad, 
p.  Sit-'.) 

Another  favourite  air  of  mine  is.  The  mvckin 
o'  (ieurdie's  byre.  When  sung  slow,  with  ex- 
pression, I  have  wished  that  it  hail  had  bett'T 
p<ictry  :  that  I  have  endeavoured  to  supply,  at 
follows  :  — 

(Phillis  the  Fair,  p.  222.) 

Mr.  Cla-ke  begs  you  to  give  Miss  Phillis  a 
corner  in  your  book,  as  she  is  ajiaiticular  llaiTH 
of  liis.  She  is  a  Miss  P.  M.,  sister  to  bonme 
Jean.  1  hey  ale  both  pupils  of  his.  You  shall 
hear  from  me,  the  very  first  grist  I  get  fronr 
va^   ihyming  mill. 


COIIRESPONDEXCE. 


4C5 


No.   XXXVI. 

THE  S.\ME  TO  THE  S.VME. 

Aiigunt,  170.3. 
That  time,  diiihi  Kail,  is  such  a  favourite 
of  yours,  that  I  once  more  roved  out  jesteiday 
kn-  a  fjloamin-shot  at  tlio  uitises  ;  •  when  the 
nuisc  tliat  presides  o'er  the  sliores  of  Nith,  or 
r.ither  my  o!d  inspiriiiE;  dearest  nyinpli  Coila, 
whisperer!  me  the  foliowiiij;.  I  have  two  rea- 
sons for  thinking  that  it  was  my  early,  sweet, 
simple  insplrer  that  wdt-  hy  my  e!l;ow,  "  smooth 
giidintr  without  step,"  and  pouring  the  song  on 
.iiy  plowing  faney.  In  the  first  place,  since  I 
left  Coila's  native  haunts,  not  a  fragment  of  a 
I'oet  has  arisen  to  cheer  her  solitaiy  Uiusings,  hv 
catcliing  inspiration  fiotn  her  ;  so  I  more  tiian 
suspect  that  she  has  followed  me  hither,  or  at 
least  makes  me  occasional  visits  ;  secondly,  the 
last  stanza  of  this  song  I  send  you  in  the  very 
Words  that  Coila  taught  me  many  years  ago, 
anil  which  I  set  to  au  old  Scots  reel  in  John- 
son's Museum. 

(  Come  let  me  take  thee  to  my  breast,  p.  197.) 

If  you  think  the  ahove  will  suit  your  idea  of 
your  favourite  air,  I  shall  be  highly  pleased. 
7/(e  lust  time  I  came  o'lr  the  Muiir,'  I  cannot 
niedd  e  with,  as  to  mendiMg  it :  and  tlie  musi- 
cal wor^d  have  heen  so  long  accustomed  to  Ram- 
say's words,  that  a  <lilfereiit  song,  though  posi- 
lively  superior,  would  not  be  .so  well  received. 
I  an  not  fund  of  choruses  to  songs,  so  I  have 
BO*  xade  one  for  the  foregoing. 


No.  XXXVII. 

THE  SA.ME  TO  THE  SAME. 

{Dainty  Davie,  p.  I9S.) 

Avpust,  170.3. 

So  much  for  Davie.  The  chorus,  you  kuo«, 
s  to  the  low  pirt  of  the  tune.  See  Clarke's 
get  of  it  in  the  Museum. 

N.  15,  In  the  IMuaeum  they  hai'e  drawled  out 
the   tune   to   twelve     lines   of  poetry,   w  hicl.  is 

nonseiise.      Four  lines  of  song,  and  four 

of  chorus,  is  the  way. 


•  Clo.nmip— twilight,  properly  from  plonminfj.  A 
roajiifiil  !<>.  tic.il  word  wli:ch  oi'iglit  to  bo  adoptevl  in 
tr.gland.     \  fliiamiu-iliot,  a  twilij^hl  iiUeniew. 


No.   XXXVIII. 
MR.   THO.MSON  TO  THE  POET. 

MV  nEAR  SIR,         Edinbtirgh,  ]st  Sijit.    1793. 

Since  writing  you  last,  1  have  received  haW 
.1  dozen  songs,  with  which  I  am  lielighted  l)ey(ind 
expression.  The  humour  and  f.incy  of  M'/iiitU 
anil  I'll  cimie  to  ymi,  my  lad,  will  render  it 
nearly  as  great  a  f.ivourite  as  Duncan  Gray, 
CiiniK  lit  me  tukt  thte  to  my  breast,  Adown 
vindniy  Nith,  and  J>y  Altiiri  ilruun,  &c.  are 
full  of  imagination  and  feeling,  and  swtetlv  suit 
the  airs  for  which  they  are  intended.  JJail  1 
a  cave  on  stime  wild  distaid  shore,  is  a  strik- 
ing and  affecting  composition.  Our  friend,  to 
whose  story  it  refers,  read  it  with  a  swe  ling 
heart,  I  assiiie  you.  The  union  we  are  now 
forming,  1  thirds,  can  never  be  bioken  ;  tliese 
songs  of  yours  will  descend  with  the  music  to 
the  latest  posterity,  and  will  be  fuidly  cherished 
so  long  as  genius,  taste,  aud  sensibility  exist  in 
our  isi.ind. 

While  the  muse  seems  so  propitious,  I  tliink 
it  right  to  enclose  a  list  of  all  the  favouis  I  have 
to  ask  of  her,  no  fewer  tliati  twenty  and  three  ! 
I  have  burdened  the  pleasant  Peter  with  as  many 
as  it  is  jirobable  lie  will  attend  to:  most  of  the 
remaining  airs  would  puzzle  the  English  poet 
not  a  little  ;  they  are  of  that  peculiar  measure 
and  rhythm,  that  they  must  be  familiar  to  him 
who  writes  for  them. 


No.  XXXIX. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Se,.f.  1703. 
Yoi;  may  readily  trust,  my  dear  Sir,  tiiat  any 
exei  tion  in  my  power  is  heartily  at  vour  sc.-- 
vice.  Rut  one  thing  I  must  hint  to  you  ;  the 
very  name  of  Peter  Pindar  is  of  great  service 
to  your  pidilicatiim,  so  (let  a  verse  from  him 
now  and  then  ;  though  !  have  no  ohjectlon,  as 
well  as  I  can,  to  hear  the  burdeu  of  the  busi- 
ness. 

Vou  know  that  my  pretensions  to  musical 
taste  are  merely  a  (i:\v  of  nature's  instincts,  un- 
taught and  untutored  by  art.  For  this  reason, 
many  niu«ical  compositions,  particularly  where 
much  of  the  merit  lies  in  counterpoint  ;  how- 
ever they  may  transpurt  and  ravish  the  eais  of 
you  connisseors,  alFect  my  sim|de  lug  no  other- 
wise than  merely  as  melodious  din.  On  the 
other  hand,  by  way  of  amends,  I  am  delighted 
with  many  little  mehid  es,  whiih  the  learned 
musiciin  despises  as  silly  and  insipid.  I  do  not 
know  whether  the  old  air  Jley  titilie  taitie 
may  rank  among  this  number  ;  but  well  1  know 
that,  with  Fraser's  i.authoy,  it  has  often  tilled 
my  eyes  with  te.irs.  There  is  a  tradition,  which 
I  have  met  with  in  n: my  places  of  .Scotlan.i, 
that  it  was  Robert  Bruces  inarch  ut   the  battle 


406 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


of  BannocVburn.  Tliis  thought,  in  my  solitary 
wanderings,  warmed  me  to  a  pitch  jf  enthu- 
siasm on  the  theme  of  Liberty  and  Indepen- 
dence, which  I  threw  into  a  kind  of  Scottish 
ode,  fitted  to  the  air  that  one  might  suppose  to 
be  the  gallant  Royal  Scot's  address  to  his  he- 
roic followers  on  that  eveutful  morninsr 


{Scots  wha  hue  tut'  Wallace  hied,  p.  195.) 

So  may  God  ever  defend  the  cause  of  Truth 
and  Liberty,  as  he  did  tli.it  day  ! — Amen. 

P.  S. — I  showed  the  air  to  Urbani,  who  was 
highly  pleased  with  it,  and  begged  me  to  make 
soft  verses  for  it  ;  but  I  had  no  idea  of  giving 
myself  any  trouble  on  the  subject,  till  the  acci- 
dental recollection  of  that  glorious  struggle  for 
freedom,  associated  with  the  glowing  ideas  of 
some  other  struggles  of  the  same  nature,  not 
quite  so  ancient,  roused  my  rhyming  mania. 
Clarke's  set  of  the  tune,  with  his  bass,  you  will 
find  in  the  Museum  ;  though  I  am  afraid  that 
the  air  is  not  what  will  entitle  it,  to  a  place  in 
your  elegant  selectioa 


No.  XL. 
THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Sfpt.  1793. 

I  DARE  say,  my  dear  S'r,  that  you  will  begirt 
to  tliinlv  my  correspondence  is  persecution.  IS'o 
matter,  I  can't  help  it  ;  a  hallrid  is  my  hobby- 
horse ;  which,  though  otherwise  a  simple  sort 
of  harmless,  idioticil  beast  enow.;!!,  has  yet  this 
blessed  headstrong  property,  that  when  once  it 
has  fairly  maile  otf  witli  a  b  ijiless  wight,  it  gets 
BO  enamoured  with  the  tiukle-giugle,  tinkle- 
gingle  of  its  own  bells,  that  it  is  sure  to  run 
poor  ))dgarlick,  the  bedlam  jockey,  quite  be- 
yond any  useful  point  or  post  in  the  common 
race  of  man. 

Tbe  following  song  I  have  composed  for 
Onin-ijuiiil,  the  Higlilinil  air  that,  you  tell  me 
in  your  la>t,  you  have  loolved  to  give  a  place 
to  in  )()ur  book.  1  have  this  moment  finislied 
tie  Sung  ;  so  you  have  it  glowing  fioin  the  mint. 
II  it  suit  you,  well  !   if  not,  'tis  also  well  ! 


Behold  Ihe  hour  the  boat  arrives,  p.  193.) 


No.  XLI. 
MR.  THO.MSON  TO  THE  POET. 

Kilhihunih,  bill    Sr;it.    1793. 
I    aiLlKVK    it    is  gLiieially   alloucd    that   thej 


greatest  modesty  is  the  sure  attenilant  of  thi 
greatest  merit.  While  you  are  sending  me  verses 
that  even  Shakspeare  might  be  proud  to  own 
you  speak  of  them  as  if  they  were  ordinary  pro 
ductions  !  Your  heroic  ode  is  to  me  the  noblest 
composition  of  the  kind  in  the  Scottish  Ian- 
guage.  I  happened  to  dine  yesterday  with  a 
party  of  your  friends,  to  whom  I  read  it.  They 
were  all  charmed  with  it,  entreated  me  to  find 
out  a  suitable  air  for  it,  and  reprobated  the  idea 
of  giving  it  a  tune  so  totally  devoid  of  interest 
or  grandeur  as  He;/  tuttit  taitie.  Assuredly 
your  partiality  for  this  tune  must  arise  from  the 
ideas  associated  in  your  mind  by  the  tradition 
concerning  it,  for  I  never  heard  any  person,— 
and  I  have  conversed  again  and  again  with  the 
greatest  enthusiasts  for  Scottish  airs, — I  sav  I 
never  heard  any  one  speak  of  it  as  worthy  olf 
notice. 

I  have  been  running  over  the  whole  hundred 
airs,  of  which  I  lately  sent  you  the  list ;  and  1 
think  Lewie  Gordon  is  most  happily  ada])ted 
to  your  ode  ;  at  least  with  a  very  slight  varia- 
tion of  the  fourth  line,  which  I  shall  presently 
submit  to  you.  There  is  in  Lewie  Gnrdon 
more  of  the  grand  than  the  plaintive,  particu- 
larly when  it  is  sung  with  a  degree  of  spirit, 
which  your  words  would  oblige  the  singer  to 
give  it.  I  would  have  no  scruple  about  substi- 
tuting your  ode  in  the  room  of  Letcie  (iordon, 
which  has  neither  the  interest,  the  grandeur, 
nor  the  jioetry  that  characterise  your  verses. 
Now,  the  variation  I  have  to  suggest  upon  the 
last  line  of  each  verse,  the  only  line  too  short 
tor  the  air,  is  as  follows  :  — 

Verse  \st,  Or  to  glnriotts  victorie. 

2f/,  Chains — chains  and  slaverie. 

Sil,  Let  him,  let  him  turn  and  flie. 

Ath,  Let  him  bravely  follow  me. 

bth,  But  theij  sh(dl,  they  shall  be  free. 

6th,  Let  us,  let  us  do,  or  die  ! 

If  you  connect  each  line  with  its  own  verse,  I 
do  n  t  think  you  will  find  that  either  the  senti 
iiuiit  or  the  expression  loses  any  of  its  energy 
The  only   line  which  I  ilislike   in  the  whole   ol 
the   song   is,    "  Welcome   to    your   gory    I  ed.' 
Would    not   another   word  be  preferable   to  «-t/- 
come  ?    In   your    next  I  « ill   expect   to   be    in 
formed   whether  you  agrtn  to  what  I  hive  pro- 
posed.    These  little-   alterations  I  submit   with 
the  greatest  deference. 

The  beauty  of  the  verses  you  have  made  for 
Oran-ffuoil  will  insure  celebrity  to  tte  »ir. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


407 


No.  XLII. 
THE  TOET  TO  JIR.  THOMSON. 

September,  1793. 

T  HAVE  rcccivcil  your  list,  my  dear  Sir,  and 
bcre  no  iin  olisorvatioiis  on  it.* 

IX'wn  t.'ie  burn  Davie.  I  have  this  nio- 
meiit  tried  an  alteration,  leavine;  out  the  '.a-.t 
half  of  the  third  stanza,  and  the  tirst  hall  of  the 
last  stanza,  thus  :  — 

Ab  down  the  burn  they  took  their  way, 

And  thro'  the  flowery  dale  ; 
His  rheik  to  liers  he  att  ilid  lay. 

And  love  was  aye  the  tale. 

M'ith  "  Miry,  when  shall  we  return, 

Sic  ])li'asiiie  to  renew  ?' 
Quoth  »Mary,  "  Love,  I  like  the  bum. 

And  aye  s>hall  lollow  you."-j- 

Thro'  the  wood  laddie — I  am  deridedly  of 
opinion,  that  lioth  in  this,  ami  There  U  ruver  be 
peurc  till  Jamie  ciiiiiei>  haine,  the  second  or  hiijh 
put  of  the  tune  being  a  repetition  of  the  tirst 
p.irt  an  oi-tave  hij^her,  is  only  for  iiistrumeiital 
music,  and  would  be  niucii  better  omitted  in 
siii<;inj;. 

Qncden-hiowes.  Remember  in  your  index 
that  the  soui'-  in  uure  English  to  this  tune,  be- 
ginning 

"  When  summer  comes,  the  swains  on  Tweed," 

IS  th'i  production  of  Crawford  :  Robert  was  his 
Chrwtian  name. 

Laddie  lie  near  me,  mu«t  lie  hi/  me  for  some 
time.  I  do  not  know  the  air;  and  until  I  am 
coni|ilLte  master  of  a  tune,  in  my  own  singing, 
(such  as  It  is),  I  can  never  compose  for  it. 
My  way  is :  I  consider  the  poetic  sentiment 
coi  respondent  to  my  idea  of  the  musical  expris- 
fcion  ;  then  choose  niy  theme  ;  begin  one  stan- 
za ;  when  th.it  is  composed,  which  is  generally 
the  most  difficult  part  of  the  business,  I  walk 
out,  sit  dou  n,  and  then  look  out  for  objects  in 
nature  aioiuid  me,  that  are  in  unison  or  har- 
moriv  with  the  cogitations  of  my  fancy,  and 
workings  of  my  bosom  ;  humming  every  now 
and  then  the  air.  with  the  verses  I  have  fra- 
med. \Vhen  I  feel  my  tnuse  beginning  to  jade, 
1  retire  to  the  solitary  liieside  of  my  study,  and 
there  commit  my  etfusions  to  paper  ;  swinging 
at  intervals  on  the  bind  legs  of  my  eliiow-chair, 
by  way  of  calling  foiili  my  own  critical  stric- 
tures, as  my  ];en  goes  im.  Seriously,  this,  at 
home,  is  almost  invariably  my  way. 

What  curse<l  egotism  I 

•  Mr.  'I'honisiio's  list  of  songs  for  liis  publication. 
In  h:s  remarks,  ihe  liav.l  proceeds  in  onlcr,  aiul  t;oe» 
ll.Tougli  ttie  whole:  but  on  iii;iiiv  of  thcin  he  merely 
si.niiJies  bis  ap'.iroh.itmn.  All  bis  remarks  of  any  im- 
portaiH'C  a'-e  piesen'dl  to  the  reailer. 

t  rlus  alteration  Mr.  I'lionwiii  bas  .idoptcd,  (CT  at 
least  iiiteuteil  loailopi),  iiistcail  of  llie  last  stanza  of 
the  original  song,  w»  ich  U  objttioimbJe  in  jioiut  uf 
tlcliincv. 


Gill  Morice  I  am  for  letiving  out.  t  is  a 
|)ligiiey  length;  the  air  itself  is  never  sung  ; 
and  its  jilacc  can  well  be  supplied  by  one  or  two 
songs  for  fiiit  .lirs  that  are  not  in  your  list.  For 
instance,  Cr<ii<;ieburn-u-i)Oil  and  lini/'s  Wife. 
The  first,  beside  its  intrinsic  iiiei  it,  has  novelty  ; 
and  the  last  has  high  merit,  as  well  as  great  ce. 
lebrity.  I  have  the  original  words  of  a  song 
for  the  last  air,  in  the  band-writing  of  the  iady 
who  coni])osed  it  ;  and  they  are  superior  to  any 
edition  of  the  song  whic.i  the  public  has  yet 
seen. 

Iliphland  Laddie.  The  old  set  will  ple.ise  a 
mere  Scotch  ear  best  ;  and  the  new  an  Ital- 
ianized one.  There  is  a  third,  ami  what  Os- 
wald calls  the  old  Ilii/ldand  Litddie,  which 
])ieases  me  more  than  either  tif  thein.  It  is 
sometimes  called  (ii/ij/lan  Jnhnttie  ,-  it  being 
the  air  of  an  old  humorous  tawdry  song  of  that 
name.  You  will  find  it  in  the  Museum,  /  hat 
been  at  Craokii-den,  fee.  I  would  advise  you. 
in  this  musical  fjuandiiy,  to  offei  up  your  pray- 
ers to  the  muses  for  inspiring  direction  ;  and  in 
the  meantime,  waiting  for  this  d;iection,  bestow 
a  libation  to  Bacchus  ;  and  there  is  not  a  dmibt 
but  you  will  liit  on  a  judicious  choice.  I'lO- 
batiiin  est. 

Aitld  Sir  Siinon,  I  must  beg  you  to  leave 
out,  and  put  in  its  place.   The   Qmi/ter'.i  u-ife. 

IHl/the  h(te  I  hieii  o'er  ilie  hill,  is  one  of  the 
finest  songs  ever  I  made  in  my  life  ;  and  besides, 
is  composed  on  a  young  l.i<ly,  positively  the 
most  beautiful,  lovely  woman  in  the  world.  .\s 
I  purpose  giving  you  the  names  and  designa- 
tions of  all  my  heroines,  to  appear  in  some  fu- 
ture edition  of  your  work,  pcihaps  halt  a  cen- 
tury hence,  you  must  certainly  include  the  b(in~ 
niest  lass  in  a'  the  nuirld  in  \oiir  collection. 

Daiiitie  Davie,  I  have  bearil  >ung,  nineteen 
thousand  nine  bundled  and  iiinety-iiiQe  times 
and  always  with  the  chorus  to  the  low  jiart  ol 
the  tune  ;  and  nothing  has  surprised  me  so  much 
as  your  opinion  on  this  subject.  If  it  will  not 
suit,  as  I  proposed,  we  will  lay  two  of  the  stan- 
zas together,  and  then  make  the  chorus  follow. 

Fee  hivi  fither — I  enclose  you  Fraser's  set 
of  this  tune  when  be  plays  it  slow  ;  in  fact, 
be  makes  it  the  language  of  despaif.  I  shall 
here  give  you  two  stanzas  in  that  style  ;  merely 
to  try  if  it  will  be  any  improvement.  Were  it 
possible,  in  singing,  to  give  it  half  the  (.athos 
which  Fraser  gives  it  in  ]ilaying,  it  would  make 
an  admiiabie  pathetic  song.  1  do  not  give  these 
verses  for  anv  merit  they  have.  I  composeil 
them  at  the  time  in  which  I'atie  Allnn's  wi- 
ther died,  that  was  about  the  back  o'  iniduiyUt ; 
and  by  the  leeside  of  a  bowl  of  ]>unch,  which 
hail  overset  every  mortal  in  company,  txcei> 
the  liautbuis  and  the  muse. 


(  Thou  hail  left  me  ever   Jamie,  p.  239.) 

Jackie  and  Jenny  I  would  disciid,   and    iia 
its   place   wouid    put    There's  nae   luck   about 


108 


■  he  house,  wnich  lias  a  very  pioa'^.int  air  ;  ami 
wliiili  is  positively  the  finest  luve-liall.id  in  tliat 
style  in  the  Scotti^li,  or  peihaps  in  any  othei 
.angiiiige.  When  she  cum  ben  sfie  hohhit,  as  an 
sir,  is  more  heautifiil  than  either,  and  in  the  an- 
dante  wiiv,  would  unite  with  a  charming  senti- 
mental hallad. 

S(iw  ye  my  father,  is  one  of  my  greatest  fa- 
vourites. The  evening  hefore  last,  1  wandered 
out,  and  hegan  a  tender  song  ;  in  what  I  think 
is  its  native  style.  I  must  premise,  that  the 
old  wav,  and  the  way  to  give  mo-t  effect,  is  to 
iiave  no  starting  note,  as  the  fiddlers  call  it, 
but  to  *iurst  at  once  into  tl;o  pathos.  Every 
counfrs  girl  sings — Saw  ye  my  fntlier,  &fc. 

Mv  song  is  but  just  begun;  and  I  shouli! 
like,  before  I  proceed,  to  know  your  ojtinion  of 
it.  I  have  sprinkled  it  with  the  Scottisli  dia- 
ect,  but  it  may  be  easily  tuineJ  into  correct 
linglish.— (;*.  ii-Z.) 


ToJlin  hiime.  Urliani  mentioned  an  idea 
of  hiM,  which  has  long  been  n:::!e  ;  that  this  air 
is  highly  susce|.tible  of  pathos  ;  accordingly, 
you  will  soon  hear  him,  at  your  concert,  try  it 
to  a  song  of  mine  in  the  Museum,  Ye  banks 
anil  Irties  o'  bunnie  Doon. — One  song  more 
ai:d  I  liave  done  :  Auld  In  ng  syne.  The  air 
is  but  ntcili'jcre ;  but  the  following  song,  the 
oid  si.ng  of  the  olden  times,  and  which  has 
never  been  in  print,  nor  even  in  m.inuscri|)t,  un- 
til I  took  it  down  from  an  old  man's  singing,  is 
enough  to  recommend  any  aii. 


(Auld  lung  syne,  p.  191.) 

Now,  I  suppose  I  have  tired  your  patience 
fahiy.  You  must,  after  all  is  over,  have  a  num- 
ber of  ballads,  properly  so  called.  Gill  Moricc, 
'J'ruuc-it  Muir,  iM' I'hersun's  Farcwtll,  liat- 
t/e  of  Sheri^-nivir,  or  Me  ran  anil  thry  ran, 
(  I  kaow  the  author  of  this  charming  b.illad, 
and  his  history),  Ilarilyhniite,  liarbura  Ailun, 
(I  can  furnish  a  finer  set  of  this  tune  than 
any  thing  that  has  yet  appeared);  and  besides, 
do  \(iu  know  that  I  really  have  the  old  tune  to 
which  The  Cher"!  and  the  .S7«e  w.is  sung  ; 
anil  which  is  mentioned  as  a  well  known  air  in 
Scotlaiiil's  Com|daint,  a  book  jiublished  before 
poor  Mary's  days.  It  was  then  callvd  'J  he 
bunks  </  lielicnn  ;  an  old  poem  which  I'uiker- 
ton  has  brought  to  light.  You  will  see  ail  this 
in  Tytlei's  History  of  Scottish  Music.  The 
tunc,  to  a  learned  car,  may  have  no  great  merit ; 
Jiiil  it  is  a  g'-eat  cnriovily.  I  have  .1  good  many 
OrigLlal  tilings  of  this  kind. 


No.   XL- II. 

THE  rOET  TO  MR.  THOMSON 

Sepletnher,  179:?. 
I  AM  happy,  my  dear  sir,  that  my  ode  ple;L<!si 
you  so  nuuli.  Your  ide;i,  "  Viciiour"s  be)l,"  is, 
though  a  beautiful,  a  hackneyed  idea  ;  so,  if  you 
please,  we  will  let  the  line  stand  as  it  is.  1 
have  altered  the  song  as  follows  :  — 

(^Cannoch-burn,  p.  lOJ.) 

N.  B. — I  have  borrowed   the  last  stanza  fron 
the  common  stall  edition  of  Wallace. 

"  A  false  usurper  sinks  in  every  foe, 
And  liberty  returns  with  evtry  blow.*' 

A  couplet  woi  thy  of  Homer.  Yesterday  you 
had  enough  of  my  corres]iondcnce.  The  post 
goes,  and  my  head  aches  miserably.  One  corn- 
fort  ;  I  suffer  so  much,  just  now,  in  this  world, 
for  last  night'sjoviality,  that  I  shall  escape  scot- 
free  for  it  in  the  world  to  come.     Aaien  ! 


No.  XL IV. 
MR.  TIIO.MSON  TO  THE  POET. 

\2th  September,  1793. 

A  THOUSAND  thanks  to  you,  my  dear  SirJ  fur 
your  observations  on  the  list  of  my  songs.  I 
am  happy  to  find  your  ideas  so  much  in  unison 
with  my  own  respecting  tlie  generality  of  tl:e 
airs,  as  well  as  the  verses.  About  some  of  them 
we  differ,  but  there  is  no  disputing  about  hi'bbv 
horses.  I  sh.ill  not  fail  to  profit  by  the  remarks 
you  make  ;  and  to  le- consider  the  whole  with 
atteiitioM. 

Diiinlie  Davie  must  be  sung,  two  stanzas 
together,  and  then  the  chorus — 'lis  the  proper 
way.  I  agree  with  you,  that  there  may  I.e 
something  of  pathos,  or  tenderness  at  least,  in 
the  air  of  I-\e  Iiiiii,  fuiher,  when  performed 
with  feeling  ;  but  a  tender  cast  may  be  given 
almost  to  any  livtly  air,  if  you  sing  it  very  slow. 
1\,  expressively,  and  v.ilh  serious  words.  I  am, 
however,  c!ea".  ly  iiiid  invanaldy  fijr  retaining  the 
cheerful  tunes  joined  to  their  uwii  hiiniuroiM 
verses,  wherever  the  versus  are  passuble.  But 
the  sweet  song  for  let  him,  futher,  which  you 
began  about  the  back  of  midnighl,  I  will  pub- 
lish as  an  additional  <uie.  I\li.  Jjiiies  lialli  or, 
the  king  of  fjood  fi  Hows,  and  the  best  singer 
of  the  lively  Scottish  balLids  that  ever  existed, 
his  charmed  thou-auds  of  conijiinics  With  I'le 
him,  father,  and  with  ToiUm  Jiame  ■d]^o,  to  the 
old  wolds,  whiidi  never  should  beiiisamted  from 
either  of  tliese  airs.  Some  BaiclianaU  I  would 
wish  to  discard.  I'y  let  us  a'  to  the  bndal,  for 
instance,  is  so  coarse  and  vuluiii,  that  I  think  it 
tit  only  tr  be  sung  in  a  company  of  dninkeu  cul 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


/ier'»  ;  ami  Saw  t/e  mt/  father  appears  to  me 
both  iiidoiiiMtu  1111(1  silly. 

Ont-  Wind  more  with  rcjjaril  to  your  heroic 
0'!c.  I  tliiiik,  with  great  defereiire  to  the  |)oet, 
tl'.it  a  piiiileiit  treneral  would  avoid  s-avini;  any 
thiiii;  to  his  soldiers  whu'h  might  tend  to  make 
deith  iiioio  liii;litfiil  th.in  it  is.  Gory  presents  a 
disa.neealile  image  tu  the  mind  ;  anil  to  tell  tliem, 
"  \Se!conie  to  your  fjory  hed,"  seems  rather  a 
discouraging  address,  uotwithsfanding  the  alter- 
native which   follows.      I   have  shown  the  sonir 

1  •  ■ 

to  three  trienils  of  excellent  taste,  and   each  of 

them  uhjected  to  this  line,  which  eiuholdens  me 
to  use  tiie  fre  'doni  of  hringing  it  again  undea'  your 
Dotice.      I  would  suggest, 

"  Now  prepare  for  honour's  bed. 
Or  for  glorious  victorie." 


(  Where  are  the  jni/s  I  hne  mcl  in  the  morning 
p.  2  12.) 

Adieu,  my  dear  Sir  !    The  post  goe<,  sn  I  sIjlQ 
defer  Mime  other  lemaiks  unti!  mon  leisure. 


No.  XLV. 
TIIE  POET  TO  MR.  TIIO.\IS0N. 

September,  1 793. 

"  AViio  shall  decide  when  doetois  disagree  .?" 
Aly  oile  jiieases  me  so  much  that  1  cam.ot  alter 
it.  Yt  tir  proposed  alteiations  would,  in  my  o- 
pinion,  make  it  tame.  I  am  exceedingly  oblig- 
ed to  you  for  putting  me  on  re-considering  it  ; 
us  1  tliink  I  have  nuich  improved  it.  Instead 
of  "  sodger  !  hero!"  I  will  have  it  "  Caledo- 
oian  !  on  wi'  me  !" 

I  have  scrutinized  it  over  and  over;  and  to 
.he  world  some  Way  or  other  it  shall  g<o  as  it  is. 
At  the  Siine  time  it  will  not  iu  the  least  hurt 
me  slmuld  you  leave  it  out  altogether  and  adhere 
toyour  riisi  intention  of  adopting  Logan's  verses.  • 

I  hive  tiiiished  my  song  to  Hiiiv  ye  vii/  fa- 
ther ;  and  in  English,  as  you  will  see.  That 
there  is  a  syllable  too  much  for  the  expressinn  of 
the  air,  is  true  ;  but  allow  me  to  siv,  that  the 
Bieie  dividing  of  a  dotted  crotchet  into  a  <rot- 
.•liet  and  a  ipiaver,  is  not  a  great  matter:  how- 
ever, in  that  I  have  no  preten-ions  to  cope  in 
)uilgiiient  with  you.  Of  the  poetiy  I  speak  with 
(xintidtnce  ;  but  the  music  is  a  business  where  1 
hint  my  ideas  with  the  utmost  d.lfidence. 

The  old  verses  Lave  merit,  though  unequal, 
and  are  pojuilir;  my  advice  is  to  set  the  air  to 
the  old  words,  and  let  mine  follow  as  English 
verses.      Here  they  ain — 


•  Mr.  liomsnn  lias  very  projiprly  adopted  Itiis  sting 
(if  It  u.ay  lie  so  ealleil)  as  llii  lianl  ),'rcseiileil  it  l.i  liiiii. 
lie  liah  at'.ueliecl  il  to  the  air  uf  l.rwv  l!ii  dim,  anil  per 
ha|is  aiuiiii^  ilie  exist:  iig  airs  lie  .•on  i  not  fiml  a  belter: 
bin  llie  poetry  is  suiiiil  to  a  nioeli  higher  strain  of  imi- 
tie,  aiul  iiiav  employ  the  qeiiiu*  of  some  beottish  llail- 
del,  I  aii\  Mu  11  shoulil  ill  futiire  arise.  'Ihe  reailiT 
Kill  lia>e  o!fr.eiveil,  il.al  liiiriis  aitopied  the  alleralions 
piopoai-il  b>  Ins  friciiil  aiiilenriesi  otiileiit  m  former  in- 
>iai/ei  s  »illl  great  leailiiiess  ;  perh  ins,  m 'ee,l,  on  all 
inil<ttetei:t  oe«  as.ons.  hi  (ht-  present  mslanep,  however, 
he  rrjeeUil  li.eiii,  tlio'j.^.li  tepeaieilly  unjed,  Willi  ilcter- 
Ulilitii  feMilutloll.  v" 


No.  XLV  I. 
THE  same' TO  TIIE  SAME. 

St/>fimicr,  1  r93. 

I  HAVE  been  turning  over  some  volnrnes  of 
songs,  to  lind  verses  whose  measures  would  suit 
the  airs  fur  which  you  have  allotted  me  to  find 
English  soni;s. 

For  JMiiirland  Willie,  you  have,  in  Ramsav'f 
Tea-table,  an  excellent  »<ing,  beginning  "  Ah, 
why  those  tears  in  Nelly's  eyes?"  \^  f.ir  The 
Collier's  Docliler,  take  the  following  iW  Eac- 
chaDal. 


(Dclwled  Swain,  p.  19S.) 

The  faulty  line  in  Logan- water,  I  mend  thus: 

"  How  can  your  (linty  lieaits  enjoy 

The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry?" 

The  song,  otherwise,  will  pass.  As  to  M'- 
Greguira-Hna-Huth.  you  will  see  a  song  of 
mine  to  it,  with  a  set  of  the  air  sujierior  to  voiirs, 
in  the  IMuseuni,  Vol.  ii.  p.  181.  The  sung  he- 
gins, 

"  Raving  winds  around  her  blowing." 

Your  Irish  airs  are  prettv  but  they  are  down- 
right Irish.  If  they  were  like  the  Banks  of 
liannn,  for  instance,  though  really  Irish,  vet  in 
the  Scottish  t  iste.  yon  might  adopt  tliein.  Since 
you  are  so  fond  of  Iri^h  iiiusii-,  what  say  vou  to 
twenty-five  of  them  in  an  ;.d  I  tional  numlier  ? 
We  could  easily  lind  this  quantity  of  charmin" 
airs  ;  I  will  take  care  that  you  shall  not  want 
songs  ;  and  I  assure  you  that  you  will  find  it 
the  most  sa  cable  of  the  whole.  If  you  do  not 
approve  of  /?'>//'«  wife,  for  the  music's  sake,  we 
~ha'l  not  insert  it.  Deil  Ink'  the  wars,  is  a 
charming  song;  so  is,  Saw  ye  tn;/  l\(jcjyf 
'I'here'i  nae  lack  tdymt  the  himse,  well  desirves 
a  pl.ice  ;  I  cannot  say  that  O'er  the  hills  niid 
far  awu  strikes  me  as  equal  to  your  selection. 
This  is  no  my  ain  house  is  a  great  favourite  air 
of  mjie  ;  and  if  \,iu  send  n.e  your  set  of  it,  I 
ivill  task  my  muse  to  her  Lighe-t  etfort.  What 
IS  your  opinion  of  I  hue  laid  a  hirrin  ia  sawtf 
1  like  it  mueh.  Your  Jacobite  airs  are  prettv  ; 
iiid  tlieie  are  m my  others  of  the  s.iii.e  kind, 
pietiy — but  you  ha>e  i.ot  room  fir  them.  You 
cannot,  I  (JKiik,  insert,  I y  let  us  u  tu  tie  Lrtdla, 
to  any  other  words  than  us  own. 


flO 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


What  pleaws  me,  as  simple  and  naive,  dis- 
trusts you  a.s  ludicrous  and  low.  For  this  reason, 
Fye,  pie  me  wy  cngyie,  sirs — Fi^e,  let  us  a'  to 
the  briddl,  with  sevtral  others  cf  that  cast,  are, 
to  nie,  highly  pleasing  ;  while,  Saw  ye  my  father, 
cr  saw  ye  my  Muilier,  delights  me  with  its  dis- 
criptive  sim|)le  pathos.  Thus,  my  song.  Ken 
ye  what  Meg  o'  the  mill  has  gotten  ?  pleases 
jnyselt'  so  much,  that  I  cannot  try  my  hand  at 
another  song  to  the  air  ;  so  I  shall  not  attempt 
it.  I  know  you  will  laugh  at  all  this;  but, 
"  ilka  mau  wears  his  belt  his  ain  gait." 


No.  XLVIL 
THE  SAJIE  TO  THE  SAME. 

October,  179.'}. 

Your  last  letter,  my  dear  Thomson,  was  in- 
deed laden  with  heavy  news.  Alas,  poor  Ers- 
Kine  !*  The  recollection  that  he  was  a  coadju- 
tor in  your  publication,  has,  till  now,  scared  me 
from  writing  to  you,  or  turning  my  thoughts  on 
com])osiiig  for  you. 

1  am  pleased  that  you  are  reconciled  to  the 
air  of  the  Quaker's  Wife,  though,  by  the  bye, 
an  old  Highland  gentleman,  and  a  deep  antiqua- 
rian, tells  me  it  is  a  Gaelic  air,  and  known  by 
the  name  cf  Leiger  'm  choss.  The  fo  lowing 
verses  I  hope  will  plea.se  you,  as  an  English  song 
to  the  air  t 

Thine  am  T,  my  faithful  fair, 

Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy,      (p.  214.) 

The  rest  of  your  letter  I  shall  answer  f.t  some 
other  opportunity. 


No.  XL  Via 
BIR.  THOJISON  TO  THE  POET. 

ify  GOOD  SIR,  7th  November,  1793. 

After  so  long  a  silence,  it  gives  me  peculiar 
pleasure  to  recognize  your  well  known  hand, 
for  I  liiid  begun  to  be  apjtrehensive  that  all  was 
not  well  with  you.  I  am  happy  to  find  however, 
that  fwur  silence  did  not  proceed  from  that  cause, 
and  that  you  have  got  among  the  ballads  once 
more. 

I  have  to  thank  you  for  your  English  song  to 
Leii,er  'in  chnss,  which  I  think  rxtremly  good, 
althiiigh  the  colouring  in  warm.  Your  friend 
Mr.  Turnbull's  songs  liave  doubtless  consider- 
able merit  ;   and  us  you  have  the  command  of 


his  manuscripts,  I  hope  ycu  may  find  otfi;  some 
that  will  answer  as  English  songs  to  the  airs  yel 
unprovided. 


No.  XLIX. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

December,  1793. 
Tell  me  how  you  like  the  following  verse* 
to  the  tune  of  Jo  Janet. 

(  Husband,  husband,  cease  your  strife,  p,  213.) 
(  Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ?  p.  242.) 


NoL. 


•'Hip  lloni>iirable  A.  rr<;kinc,  brothcrto  I.otd  Kcl- 
]y,  wti'tir  in;!;iiirlinly  (Um'Ii  Mr  i'himisnii  h.iil  coinniu- 
Qiiateil  II  an  ixcL-iljnl  IcIlct,  wiiicli  liu  lias  tujiprcsicU. 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

JIY  DEAH  SIR,    Edinburgh,  \1th  April,  1794. 

Owing  to  the  distress  of  our  fiiend  fur  the 
loss  of  his  child,  at  the  time  of  his  receiving 
your  admirable  but  melancholy  lettei,  I  had 
not  an  oppoitunity 'till  lately  (jf  ])eruhing  it.* 
How  sorry  am  I  to  find  Burns  saying,  "  Car-st 
thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ?"  wh-''? 
he  is  delighting  others  from  one  end  of  the 
island  to  the  other.  Like  the  hypochondiiae 
who  went  to  consult  a  physician  upon  his  case: 
Go,  says  the  doctor,  and  see  the  famous  Carlini, 
who  keeps  all  Paris  in  good  humour.  Alas  ! 
Sir,  replied  the  patient,  1  am  that  unhappy 
Carlini  ! 

Your  plan  for  our  meeting  together  pleases 
me  greatly,  and  I  trust  that  by  some  means  or 
other  it  will  soon  take  jdace  ;  but  your  Bac- 
chanalian challengt!  almost  frightens  me,  for  I 
am  a  miserable  weak  Irinker  ! 

Allan  is  much  gratified  by  your  good  opinion 
of  his  talents.  He  has  just  begun  a  sketch 
from  ycur  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  and  if  it 
pleases  himself  in  the  desii;n,  be  will  piobably 
etch  or  engrave  it.  In  subjects  of  the  pa>t(iral 
or  humorous  kind,  he  is  perhajis  unrivalled  by 
any  artist  living.  He  fails  a  little  in  giving 
beauty  and  grace  to  his  females,  and  his  colour- 
ing is  sombre,  otherwise  his  paintings  anil  draw- 
ings would  be  in  greater  request. 

I  like  the  music  of  the  Sutnr's  Dochter, 
and  will  consider  whether  it  shall  be  added  to 
tlie  last  volume  ;  yeur  verses  to  it  are  prettv  ; 
but  your  bimiormi'*  Engii-h  song,  to  suit  Jo 
Janet,  is  inimitable.  What  think  you  of  the  air, 
"  Within  a  mile  of  Edinburgh  ?"  It  has  alwavi 
struck  me  as  a  modern  luigliih  imitation  ;  but 
is  said  to  be  Oswald's,  and  is  so  much  liked,  that 
I  believe  I  must  include  it.      The  verses  arc  lit- 


•    A   letter   to    Mr.  Cunningluim,    to    be    tounc 
in  p.  oTJ. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


411 


tie  better  tha'i  namhy  pnmhy.     Do   you   ton 
tider  it  worth  a  stinza  or  two  ? 


N  >.  LI. 
THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

MY   DEAH   SIR,  ]\l(tlj,    n9k 

I  iiETUKN  you  tlie  i)l,ites,  with  ivliich  I  am 
his^hly  pleased  ;  I  would  liunihly  prjpose,  in- 
stead of  the  younker  knittinc:  stockings,  to  put 
a  stOfk  and  horn  into  his  hands.  A  friend  of 
mine,  who  is  positively  the  ablest  judije  on  the 
suliject  I  have  ever  met  with,  and  though  an 
unknown,  is  yet  a  superior  artist  with  the  Uu- 
rin,  is  cjuite  charmi'd  with  Allan's  manner.  I 
^ot  hii'i  a  peop  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd;  and 
he  pronounces  Allan  a  most  original  artist  of 
great  excellence. 

For  my  part,  I  look  on  Mr.  Allan's  choosing 
my  fivoiirite  poem  for  his  subject,  to  hi;  one 
of  the  highest  compliments  I  have  ever  re- 
ceive<l. 

I  am  quite  vexed  at  Pleyel's  heing  conperl  up 
in  France,  as  it  will  put  an  entire  stop  to  our 
work.  Now,  and  for  sis  or  seven  months,  / 
shall  be  quite  in  song,  as  you  shall  see  by  anil 
by.  I  got  an  air,  pretty  enough,  composed  by 
Lady  Elizabeth  Heron  of  Heron,  which  she 
calls  The  Hanks  of  Cree.  Cree  is  a  beautiful 
lomantic  stream  :  and  as  her  Ladyship  is  a  pir- 
Vcuiit  friend  of  nr.ine,  1  have  written  the  fol- 
jw  ing  song  to  it. 


(  The  Banks  of  Cree,  p.  226.) 


No.  LIL 
THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

July   1794. 

Is  there  no  news  yet  of  Pleyel  ?  Or  is  your 
work  to  be  at  a  dead  stop,  uiitil  the  allirs  set 
3ur  modern  Orpheus  at  liberty  from  the  sa- 
vage thraldom  of  democratic  iliscords  ?  Alas 
the  day !  And  wih-'s  me  !  That  auspicious 
period,  pregnant  with  the  happiness  uf  mil- 
lion?. * — 

I  have  presented  a  copy  of  your  songs  to  the 
daughter  of  a  much-valued,  and  much-lmnoured 
friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Graham  of  Fintry.  I  wrote, 
•c  the  I/lank  >ide  of  the  title  page,  the  following 
address  *,o  the  young  lady. 


Here,  where  the  Scottish  muse  immortal  live*. 

In  sacred  strains  anil  tiuielnl  numbers  join  d, 
Accept  the  gift ;   though  humble  he  who  gives. 

Rich  is  the  tribute  uf  the  grateful  mind. 

So  may  no  ruflfian  feeling  in  thy  breast. 
Discordant  jar  thy  bosiiin-chtirds  among  ; 

But  peace  attune  th)  gentle  soul  to  rent, 
Or  love  ecstatic  wake  his  seraph  sung. 

Or  pity's  notes,  in  luxury  of  tears. 

As  modest  want  the  tale  of  woe  reveals  ; 

While  conscious  virtue  all  the  strain  endears, 
And  heaven-burn  piety  her  sanction  seals. 


No.  LIIL 


MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

MV  DEAR  sm,  E'lhibnrqh,  lOM  Ang.-\79l. 
I  OWE  you  an  apology  for  having  ^o  long  de- 
layed to  ackiiiiwledge  the  favour  of  your  hue. 
I  fear  it  will  be  as  yon  say,  I  Nhall  have  nc 
more  songs  from  Pleyel  till  France  and  wc  are 
friends;  but,  neveitheless,  I  am  very  desirous 
to  be  prepared  with  the  poetry,  and  as  the  sea- 
son approaches  in  which  your  muse  of  Coila  vi- 
sits you,  I  trusr  I  shall,  as  formerly,  be  freijuent- 
!y  gratified  with  the  result  of  yuur  amorous  and 
tender  interviews  ! 


No.  LIV. 


•   A  portion  of  thi-;  le  ter  ha-  been  left  out,  fot  it 
ons  (IliI  will  u- easily  iin.it;iiied.— Clhuie. 


THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

SO//i  Airjust.  179i. 

The  last  evening,  as  I  w  is  straying  out  mid 
thinking  of,  0\r  the  hills  imd  Jar  aim,  I 
spun  the  following  stanza  for  it  ;  but  whether 
my  s|)inning  will  deserve  to  be  laid  iij)  in  ^to|•e 
like  the  piecious  thread  of  the  silk-worin,  or 
brushed  to  tlie  devil,  like  the  vile  manutactuie 
of  the  sjiidei.  I  leave,  my  dear  Sir,  to  your  usuu 
candid  critiii'^in  I  was  pleased  wiih  several 
lines  in  it  at  tir^t ;  but  I  own,  that  now,  it  up- 
pearN  rather  a  flimsy  business 

This  is  ju>t  a  hasty  sketch,  until  I  see  whe 
thcr  it  be  woith  a  critiijue.  We  have  many 
sailor  songs  ;  but,  as  far  as  I  at  present  recol- 
lect, they  are  mostly  the  ilTii-ions  of  the  jo.'ia! 
sailor,  not  the  waiiing-«  of  his  love-lnrn  mis- 
tress. I  n:ii-t  here  make  one  sweet  exception 
—  Swett  Annie  J'rue  the  Seu-Oeuch  caint 
Now  lor  the  song. 

(  On  the  seas  and  Jar  awai/,  p,  219.) 


412 


BURNS'S  WORliS 


I  give  y«;i  le.iVo  -o  abuse  this  song,   but  do  it 
in  the  spirit  of  christian  nittkness. 


No.  LV. 


MR.   THO.AISON  TO  THE  POET. 

•IT  DEAR  ?IR,      Edinburgh,  \&th  Sept,  179i. 

You  have  anticipati-d  my  opinion  of,  On  the 
seas  atu/  fur  away;  I  do  not  tliink  it  one  of 
yiiiir  very  happy  product, ons,  though  it  cer- 
titinly  ciiiitaiiis  stanzas  that  are  worthy  of  all  ac- 
CeiJtation. 

TliH  second  Is  the  least  to  my  liking,  ptrti- 
cuiurly  "  nidlets,  spare  my  only  joy."  Con- 
found'the  huilets!  It  might  jieriiaps  be  object- 
ed to  the  third  verse,  "  At  the  starless  mid- 
night hour,"  that  it  has  too  much  granileur  of 
iniagery,  and  that  greater  simplicity  of  thought 
would  have  better  tinted  the  character  of  a  sai- 
lor's sweetheart.  The  tune,  it  must  be  re- 
membered, is  of  the  brisk,  cheerful  k:nd.  Upon 
the  whole,  therefore,  ni  my  humble  opinion,  the 
song  would  be  b<  tter  adapted  to  the  tune,  if  it 
consisted  only  of  the  first  and  last  verjes,  with 
the  chorusses. 


(  Ca   the  yiiwes  to  the  knowes,  p.  196 

1  shall  give  you   my  opinion  of  your  o&et 
newly  adopted  songs  my  first  scribbling  fit. 


No.  LVI. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

Sept.   179i. 

I  SHALL  withdraw  my,  On  the  seas  and  fur 
•in-iii/,  altogether:  it  is  unt(juil.  anil  uiiw(uthy 
the  work.  .Making  a  poem  is  like  begetting  a 
son  :  you  cannot  know  whether  you  have  a  wise 
man  or  a  piol,  until  you  produce  him  to  the 
woild  and  tiy  him. 

Fcjr  that  reason  I  H'nd  you  the  offspring  of 
niv  brain,  ab  rtinns  and  all  ;  and,  as  such,  pray 
luok  over  them,  and  fmgive  them,  and  burn 
tlieiu.*  1  am  flattered  at  your  ai.o]iting,  Ca 
the  i/otces  to  the  kiiim-es,  as  it  was  owing  to  me 
that  ever  it  saw  the  light.  A!)out  seven  years 
Ego  I  was  well  acquainted  with  a  worthy  little 
foiluw  of  a  clergyman,  a  Mr.  Clunie,  who  sung 
it  eliarmingiy  ;  and,  at  my  lequest,  Mr.  Clarke 
took  it  down  from  his  sing  ng.  When  I  gave 
it  to  JoliMM>n,  i  added  some  stanzas  to  the  song, 
and  mended  oti.ers,  but  stdl  it  wdl  not  do  lor 
you.  In  a  sobtary  stroll  wliieh  I  took  to-ilay, 
I  tried  my  I  and  on  u  few  pa-toral  lines,  fullow- 
i.ng  up  the  idea  of  the  cboru^,  which  I  would 
|)r<'seive.  Here  it  is,  with  all  its  crudities  and 
imperlections  on  its  head. 


•  Ihis  Virpill.nn  onlerof  the  poet  should,  I  think, 
b>  (li«)lif\eil  with  respect  to  the  sou^;  in  (luetction, 
th»'  keei.oil  hlaiiita  exii  iiie.l.— .W/f  t-ii  Mi.  T'limtun. 

Doeiois  (l.lli  r.  The  ulijueiiiii  lo  the  ttcuinl  stanza 
iuLk  not  ktrike  the  Ktiilur — Ct/itiiit:.. 


No.  Lvn. 
THE  SA:^IE  to  THE  SAME.  • 

SepteTiiher,  1794. 

Do  you  know  a  blackguard  Iiish  song,  called 
Onayh's  Water-fall?  The  air  is  charming, 
and  i  have  often  regretted  the  want  of  decent 
verses  to  it.  It  is  too  much,  at  least  for  my 
humble  rustic  muse,  to  expect  that  every  effort 
of  hers  shall  have  merit  ;  still  I  think  that  it  is 
better  to  have  mediocre  verses  to  a  favourite 
air.  than  none  at  all.  On  thi-  principle  I  have 
all  along  proceeded  in  the  Scots  Mu-ical  Mu- 
seum, and  as  that  publication  is  in  its  last  vo- 
lume, I  intend  the  following  song,  to  the  air 
above  mentioned,  for  that  work. 

If  it  does  i:i>t  suit  you  as  an  editor,  you  may 
be  pleased  to  have  verses  to  it  that  you  can  sing 
before  ladies. 

(Saefaxsn  were  her  ringlets,  p.  223.) 

Not  to  compare  small  things  with  great,  my 
taste  in  music  is  like  the  mighty  Frederick  of 
i'rus^ia's  taste  in  painting:  we  are  told  that  he 
fie.pientiv  admired  what  the  connoisseurs  de- 
cked, and  always  without  any  hypocrisy  con- 
h-.-sed  his  admiration.  I  am  sensible  that  my 
taste  in  music  mu>t  be  inelegant  and  vulgar, 
iKcause  people  of  undisputed  anil  cultivated  taste 
can  find  no  merit  in  my  favourite  tunes.  Sti.., 
because  I  am  cheaply  pleased,  is  that  any  rea- 
son why  I  shouM  deny  myself  that  pleasure  ? 
Many  <i'f  our  strathspeys,  ancient  and  modern, 
give  me  the  most  exipiisite  enjoyment,  where 
yiiu  and  other  judges  would  probably  be  show- 
ing disgust.  For  instatice,  I  am  just  now  mak- 
in"'  verses  for  Rolliemnrche's  Rant,  an  a\l 
wiiich  |"its  me  in  raptures  ;  and  in  fact,  unless 
I  be  pleased  with  the  tune,  I  never  can  make 
verses  to  it.  Here  I  have  Clarke  on  my  side, 
who  is  a  judge  that  I  will  pit  against  any  oi 
von.  "  Rotlamiirehe,"  he  says,  "  is  an  air 
'both  original  and  beautiful  ;"  and  on  his  recom- 
mendation I  have  taken  the  fitst  put  of  the 
tune  for  a  chorus,  and  the  fourth  or  last  part 
for  the  song.  I  am  but  two  stanzas  deep  in  thu 
work,  and  po-sibly  yon  may  think,  and  ju-tly, 
that  the  poetry  is  as  little  worth  your  .rUention 
as  the  music* 

I  have  begun  anew.  Let  me  in  this  ae  night. 
Do  you  thlilk  that  we  ought  to  retain  the  old 
choi'us?      I  think  we  must  letain  both  the  old 


•  In  the  orii;in»l  follow  here  two  stanzas  ol  the  totig 
"  l.u^ie  wi'  the  hiiuwhile  ioeki." 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


413 


elionis  ami  the  first  Rfanza  of  the  o!il  sonj;  1 1 
do  not  :ilto<rethcr  like  the  third  lino  of  the  first 
stanza,  but  cannot  alter  it  to  please  myself.  I 
Rni  just  three  star.zis  deep  in  it.  Would  you 
have  the  rlcnnucmfiit  to  he  successful  or  other- 
wise ? — should  she  "  let  him  in"  or  not. 

Did  vou  not  once  propose  The  Snw's  tail  to 
Ge.ordie.  as  an  air  for  your  work  ?  I  am  quite 
d»;!iglited  with  it  ;  but  I  acknowledge  that  is 
no  niaik  of  its  real  excellence.  I  once  set  uhoui 
verses  for  it,  which  I  meant  to  he  in  the  alter- 
nate way  of  a  lover  and  his  mistress  chanting 
together.  1  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing 
Jlrs.  Thomson'^  Christian  name,  and  yours,  I 
am  afraiil,  is  rather  burles(|iie  for  sentiment, 
el-e  I  had  meant  to  have  made  you  the  hero 
and  heroine  of  the  little  ])iece. 

How  do  yon  like  the  f.iilowing  epigram, 
which  I  wrirte  the  other  d  ly  on  a  lovely  young 
girl's  recovery  from  a  fever  .'  Doctor  ftl.ixwell 
was  the  physician  who  seemingly  saved  her 
from  the  grave ;  and  to  him  I  address  the  fol- 
lowing: — 


TO  DR.  MAXWELL, 

ON  MISS  JESSV  STAIg's   RECOVERY. 

ALwwELi,,  if  merit  here  you  crave, 

That  met  it  I  deny  : 
You  save  fair  Jessy  from  the  grave  ! 

An  angel  could  not  die  I 

God  grant   you    patience   with    this   stupid 
epistle  I 


No.  LVIIL 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

I  PERCEIVE  the  sprightly  muse  is  now  at- 
tendant upon  her  favourite  poet,  whose  wonil- 
notes  wild  are  become  as  enchanting  as  ever. 
She  sai/s  she  h'es  me  best  o'  a,  is  one  of  the 
ple.isantest  t.ihle  songs  I  have  seen,  and  hence- 
forth shall  be  mine  when  the  song  is  going 
round.  I'll  give  Cunningham  a  copy  ;  he  can 
more  powerfully  proclaim  its  merit.  I  am  far 
fiom  undervaluing  your  taste  for  the  straths, ley 
music  ;  on  the  contrary,  I  think  it  highly  ani- 
mating and  agreeable,  and  that  some  of  the 
strathspeys,  when  graced  with  such  verses  as 
yours,  will  make  very  pleasing  songs,  in  the 
same  way  that  rough  Christians  are  tempered 
»ad  softened  by  lovely  woman,  without  whom, 
jrou  know,  they  hid  been  brutes. 

I  am  c  ear  for  having  the  Sow's  tall,  parti- 
cularly as  you  proposed  verses  to  it  are  so  ex- 
tremely promising.  Geordie,  as  you  observe, 
is  a  name  oniv  tit  for  burlesque  composition. 
Mj».    Thomson's   name  (Katharine)    it  not  at 


all  j)octical.  Retain  Jeanie,  thcrrfo.e,  anc 
make  the  other  Jamie,  or  any  other  that  sound* 
agreeably. 

Your  Cn'  the  yeires,  is  a  precious  little  mor 
ceau.  Indeed  I  am  perfectly  vtonislied  and 
charmed  with  the  endl -ss  variety  of  your  fancy. 
Here  let  me  ask  you.  v,  nether  you  never  s<'riiius- 
ly  turned  your  thoughts  upon  dramat.c  writing  ? 
That  is  a  tield  worthy  of  your  genius,  in  which 
it  might  shine  foith  in  all  its  splendour.  On« 
or  two  successful  pieces  upon  the  Loudon  stage 
would  make  your  fortune.  The  rage  at  piesent 
is  for  musical  dramas  ;  few  or  nune  of  tho-e 
which  have  appeared  since  the  Duenna,  pos- 
sess much  poetical  merit  :  there  is  little  in  the 
conduct  of  the  fable,  or  in  the  dialogue,  to  inter- 
est the  audience.  They  are  chiefly  vehicles  for 
music  and  pageantry.  1  tliinkyou  might  produce 
a  comic  opera  in  three  acts,  which  wouM  live 
by  the  poetry,  at  the  same  time  that  it  would  be 
proper  to  take  every  assistance  fnnn  her  tune- 
ful sister.  Part  of  the  simgs  of  couise  would 
be  to  our  favourite  Sfotti.^h  airs  ;  the  rest  might 
be  left  with  the  London  comi'oser — Storace  for 
Drury-lane,  or  Shield  tor  Covent-g iiden  ;  both 
of  them  veiy  able  and  popular  nius:cians.  I  be- 
lieve that  interest  and  manuiuvring  are  often  ne- 
cessary to  have  a  d-iima  brought  oii  :  so  it  ir«v 
be  with  the  iiamby  inimby  tribe  of  flow  cry 
sciinblers;  but  were  you  to  address  Mr.  Sheri- 
dan himself  by  lettei-,  and  send  him  a  dramatic 
piece,  I  am  jjersuaded  l.e  would,  for  the  honour 
of  genius,  give  it  a  fair  and  candid  trial.  Ex- 
cuse nie  for  obtruding  these  hints  upon  your  con- 
sideration. • 


No.  LIX. 
THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Edhihiiriih,  \^th   October,  179+. 

The  last  eight  days  have  been  devoteil  to  the 
re-examination  of  the  Scottish  collections.  ] 
have  read,  and  sung,  and  tiddleri,  ami  consider- 
ed, till  I  am  half  Id  ml  and  wholly  stupid.  The 
few  aits  I  have  added,  are  ericlo-cd. 

Peter  Pindar  has  at  length  sent  me  all  the 
songs  I  expected  from  him,  which  are  in  gener- 
al elegant  and  beautiful.  \\,i\>i  you  heard  of  a 
London  collection  of  Scottish  airs  and  son^'s, 
just  i)ublished  by  i\Ir.  Uitson,  an  Englishman. 
I  shall  send  you  a  copy.  His  introductory  es- 
say on  the  subject  is  curious,  and  evince*  gieat 
reading  and  research,  but  does  not  decide  the 
question  as  to  the  oiigiii  of  our  melodies; 
thou^'h  he  shows  clearly  that  Mr.  'I'ytler,  in  his 
ingenious  dissertation,  has  aihlncel  no  sort  of 
proof  of  the  hypothesis  he  v/ishcd  to  establish; 
and  that  hi^  classilication  of  the  airs,   accurding 


•  Our  bird  hait  before  received  ihe  same  advice,  .inij 
certainly  took  it  so  far  into  eooMdeialion,  as  to  liave 
c^l  about  for  a  sv.UJeet. 


il4 


BURNS   WORKS. 


to  the  eras  when  they  were  composed,  is  mere 
fancy  and  conjecture.  On  Jolin  Pinkerton,  Esq. 
he  has  no  ninrcy  ;  but  consigns  him  to  damna- 
tion !  He  sn:irls  at  my  public;i*on,  on  the  score 
of  Pindar  being  engasred  to  write  songs  fir  it; 
uncandidly  and  unjustly  leaving  it  to  be  inferred, 
that  the  songs  of  Scottish  writers  had  been  sent 
a-packintr  to  make  room  for  Peter's  !  Of  you  he 
Bjitaks  with  some  respect,  but  gives  you  a  pass- 
ing hit  or  two,  for  daring  to  dre^s  up  a  little 
sume  old  foolish  songs  for  the  Museum.  His 
sets  of  the  Scottish  airs  are  taken,  he  says,  from 
the  oldest  collections  and  the  Viest  authorities  : 
many  of  them,  however,  have  such  a  strange  as- 
pect, and  are  so  unlike  the  sets  which  are  sung 
by  every  persim  of  taste,  old  or  young,  in  town 
or  cnuntiy,  that  we  can  scarcely  recognize  the 
features  of  our  favourites.  By  going  to  the  oldest 
collections  of  our  music,  it  does  not  follow  that 
we  find  the  melodies  in  their  original  state. 
The'^e  melodies  had  been  preserved,  we  know 
not  how  long,  by  oral  conimunicat  on,  befiie  be- 
ing collected  and  printed  ;  and  as  different  per- 
sons sing  the  same  air  very  differently,  accord- 
ing to  their  accurate  or  confused  recollection  of 
it,  so  even  suppof-ing  the  first  collectors  to  have 
possessed  the  ind'istry,  the  taste  and  discernment 
to  choose  the  best  tliey  could  hear,  (which  is  far 
from  certain),  still  it  must  evidently  be  a  chance, 
whether  the  collections  exhibit  any  of  the  me- 
lodies in  the  stite  they  were  first  coniposed. 
In  selecting  the  melodies  for  my  own  coUectidn, 
I  have  been  as  much  guided  by  the  living  as  bj 
the  dead.  Where  these  differed,  I  preferred  the 
sets  that  appeared  to  me  the  most  simple  and 
beautiful,  and  the  most  generally  ajiproved  ; 
and,  without  meaning  any  compliment  to  n'y 
own  capability  of  choosing,  or  speaking  of  the 
pains  I  have  taken,  I  flatter  myself  that  my  sets 
will  be  four>d  equally  freed  from  vulgar  errors  on 
the  one  hand,  and  affected  graces  on  the  other. 


No.  LX. 


THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

MY  DJAR  FRIEND,  IQth  Octohef,  1794-. 

By  this  morning's  post  I  have  your  list,  and, 
in  general,  I  highly  approve  of  it.  1  shall,  at 
more  leisure,  give  you  a  critique  on  the  whole. 
Clarke  goes  to  your  town  by  to-day's  fly,  and 
I  wish  you  wiiuld  call  on  him  and  take  his  opi- 
nion in  geiieril  :  you  know  his  taste  is  a  stand- 
jrd.  He  will  return  here  again  in  a  week  or 
two  ;  so,  please  do  not  miss  asking  for  him.  One 
thing  I  lio|)e  he  will  do,  persuade  you  to  a- 
dopt  my  favourite,  Craigie-burn-wooil,  in  your 
•election  :  It  is  as  great  a  favourite  of  his  as  of 
mine.  The  lady  on  whom  it  was  made  is  one 
iif  the  finest  women  in  Scotland  ;  and,  in  fact, 
(eiilre  nims)  is  in  a  >iianner  to  me  what  Sterne*« 
Cllz.i  was  to  him — a  mistress,  a  friend,  or  what 
vou  wdl,   in  the  guileless  bimplicity  of  I'latuuic 


love.  (Now  ion  t  put  any  of  -out  sfji.inting 
constructions  on  this,  or  have  an-  disiimaclaivei 
about  it  among  our  acquaintances.)  I  assure 
you  that  to  my  lovely  friend  you  are  irxiebted  for 
many  of  your  best  songs  of  mine.  Do  you  think 
that  the  sober  gin  horse  routine  of  existence, 
could  inspire  a  man  with  life,  and  love,  and  joy 
— could  fire  liiin  with  enthusiasm,  or  melt  him 
with  pathos,  equal  to  the  genius  of  your  book  ? 
— No  !  no  ! — Whenever  I  want  to  be  more  than 
ordinary  in  song :  to  be  in  some  degree  equal 
to  your  diviner  airs — do  you  imagine  I  fast  and 
pray  for  the  celestial  emanation  ?  Tout  au 
col.traire  !  I  have  a  glorious  recipe  ;  the  very 
one  that  for  his  own  use  was  invented  by  the  di- 
vinity of  healing  and  poetry,  when  eist  he  piped 
to  the  flocks  of  Admttus.  I  put  myself  in  a  re- 
gimen of  admirmg  a  fiae  woman  ;  and  in  ]iropor- 
tion  to  the  adorability  of  her  charms,  in  propor- 
tion you  are  delighted  with  my  verses.  The  light- 
ning of  her  eye  is  the  godhead  of  Parnassus,  and 
the  witchery  of  her  smile  the  divinity  of  Heli- 
con ! 

To  descend  to  business  ;   if  you  like  my  idea 
of,  Wlien  she  cam  hen  she  hohbit,  the  following 
stanzas  of  mine,   altered  a  little  from  what  they 
were  form.erly  when  set  to  another  air,  may  per 
haps  do  instead  of  worse  stanzas. 

SAW  YE  MY  PHELY. 

(  Quasi  dical  PldlUs.) 

Tune—"  When  she  came  ben  she  bobbit." 

O  saw  ye  my  dear,  my  Phely  ? 
O  saw  ye  mv  dear,  my  Pliely  .' 
She's  down  i'  the  grove,  wi'  a  new  love, 
She  winna  come  hame  to  her  Wilhe. 

What  says  she,  n  t  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 
What  says  she,  my  dearest,  my  Phely  ? 
She  lets  thee  to  w.t  that  she  has  thee  forgot, 
And  for  ever  disowns  thee  her  Willie. 

O  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  ir.y  Pliely  ! 
O  had  I  ne'er  seen  thee,  my  Phely  ! 
As  light  as  the  air,  and  fause  as  thou's  fair, 
Thou's  broken  the  heart  o'  thy  Willie. 


Now  for  a  few  miscellaneous  remarks.  Tl.t 
Posie  (in  the  Museum),  is  my  c('.iii))ositinn  : 
the  air  was  taken  down  from  Mis.  Bums 
voice.  It  is  well  known  in  the  West  Cnuii- 
try,  but  the  old  words  are  trash.  By  tli«  bye, 
take  a  look  at  the  tune  again,  and  tell  me  if  you 
do  not  think  it  is  the  original  from  which  Ii:>s- 
I  Itn  Castle  is  composed.  The  second  part,  in 
I  jiarticular,  for  the  first  two  or  three  bars,  is  ex- 
actly the  old  air.  Strathallan' s  Lumiut  is 
mine  ;  the  mii^ic  is  by  our  right-trusty  ai\ii  de- 
servedly well-beloved,  Allan  Masterton.  J)o- 
noclit-liead,  is  not  mine :  I  would  give  ten 
pounds  it  were.     It  appeared  first  in  the  Edin- 


CORRESPONDENICE. 


415 


Sjrph  Herald  ;  and  came  to  the  Editor  of  that 
pn!)er  with  tlie  Newcastle  post-mark  on  it.* 
Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't  is  mine  ;  the  music 
said  to  he  by  a  Johu  Bruce,  a  celebrated  violin 
player  in  Dumfries,  about  the  be;;inriing  of  this 
century.  This  I  know,  Bruce,  who  was  an 
honest  man,  though  a  red-wud  Iliijhlandman, 
constantly  claimed  it ;  and  by  all  the  old  musi- 
cal people  heie,  is  believed  to  be  the  author  of  it. 

Aiidretu  and  his  cutty  gun.  The  sonjj  to 
which  this  is  set  in  the  iMuseum,  is  mine  ;  and 
was  composed  on  Miss  Euphemia  Murray,  of 
Linttose,  commonly  and  deservedly  called  the 
Flower  of  Stratlimore. 

How  long  and  drcarg  is  the  night.  I  met 
with  some  such  words  in  a  collection  of  soni,'s 
somewhere,  which  I  altered  and  enlarged  ;  and 
to  please  you,  and  to  suit  your  favourite  air,  I 
have  taken  a  stride  or  two  across  my  room,  and 
have  ai  ranged  it  anew,  as  you  will  find  on  the 
other  page. 

(How  long  and  dreary  is  the  night,  p.  205.) 

Tell  me  how  you  like  this.  1  differ  from 
your  idea  of  the  expression  of  the  tune.  There 
is,  to  me,  a  great  deal  of  tenderness  in  it.  You 
cannot,  in  my  opinion,  dispense  with  a  bass  to 
your  addenda  airs.  A  lady  of  my  acquaintance, 
a  n(ted  performer,  plays  and  sings  at  the  same 
time  so  charmingly,  that  1  shall  never  bear  to 
see  any  of  her  songs  sent  into  the  world  as  na- 
kw*  as  Mv.  What-d'ye-call-um  has  done  in  his 
Lundon  collection.f 

These  English  songs  gravel  me  to  death.  I 
have  not  that  command  of  the  language  that  I 
h;ive  of  my  native  tongue.  I  have  been  at 
Duncan  (jrag,  to  diess  it  in  English,  but  all  I 
can  do  is  deplorably  stupid.      For  instance  : 

(Let  not  woman  e'er  complain,  p.  209.) 

Since  the  above,  I  have  been  out  in  the  coun- 
try t, iking  a  dinner  with  a  fi  iend,  whore  I  met 
with  the  lady  whom  I  mentioned  in  the  second 
page  in  this  odds-and-ends  of  a  letter.  As  usu- 
al, I  got  into  song ;  and  returning  home,  I  com- 
posed the  following. 

(Sleep\t  thou,  or  wak' st  thou,  fairest  creature, 
p.  235.) 

If  you  honour  my  verses  by  setting  the  air  to 
them,  I  will  vamp  up  the  old  song,  and  make 
it  English  enoiigh  to  be  understood. 

I  enclose  you  a  musical  ctr.osity,  an  East 
Indian  air,  which  you  wool.,  swear  was  a  Scot- 
tish one.  I  know  the  authenticity  of  it,  as  the 
gentleman  who  brought  it  over  is  a  particular 
acquaintar  >-e  of  mine.  Do  preserve  me  the 
copy  I  send  you,  as  it  is  the  only  one  I  have. 


Clarke  has  set  a  bass  to  it,  and  I  ir.tcnd  p^  b. 
ting  it  into  the  Musical  Museum.  Here  fol- 
low the  verses  I  intend  fur  it. 

(  The  auld  man,  p.  225.^ 

I  would  he  obliged  to  you  if  you  would  pro- 
cure me  a  sight  of  Ritson's  collection  'of  Eng- 
lish songs,  which  you  mention  in  your  letter. 
I  will  thank  you  for  another  irifurniation,  and 
that  as  speedily  as  you  please  •  whether  this 
miserable  drawling  hotch-potch  epistle  has  not 
completely  tired  you  of  my  correspondence  ? 


•  The  reader  will  \)e  curious  to  see  this  poem  to 
V^'  ~  rrtilMil  Ijy  Uarn»     See  p.  151. 
t  Ml.  Riuon. 


No.   LXI. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET 

Edinburgh,  27 th  October,  1794.. 

I  AM  sensible,  my  dear  friend,  that  a  genuini 
poet  can  tio  more  exist  without  his  mistress  than 
liis  meat.  I  wish  1  knew  the  adorable  slie, 
whose  bright  eyes  and  witching  smiles  have  so 
often  enraptured  the  Scottish  b nil  !  that  I  might 
drink  her  sweet  health  when  the  toast  is  going 
round.  Craigie-burn-wood,  must  certainly  be 
adopted  into  my  family,  since  she  is  the  object 
of  the  song  ;  hut  in  the  name  of  decency,  I  must 
beg  a  new  chorus  verse  from  you.  O  to  be  ly- 
ing beyond  thee,  dearie,  is  perhaps  a  consum- 
mation to  be  wished,  but  will  not  do  for  singing 
in  the  company  of  ladies.  The  songs  in  youi 
last  will  do  you  lasting  cicdit,  and  suit  the  re- 
spective airs  charmingly.  Iain  j)erfectly  of  your 
opinion  with  respect  to  the  additional  airs.  The 
idea  of  sending  them  into  the  world  nakerl  as 
they  were  born  was  ungenerous.  They  must  all 
be  clothed  and  made  decent  by  our  fiiend  Clarke. 

I  find  1  am  anticipated  by  the  friendly  Cun- 
ningham, in  sending  your  Ritson's  Scottish  col- 
lection. Permit  me,  therefore,  to  present  you 
with  his  English  collection,  which  you  will  re- 
ceive by  the  coach.  I  do  not  finil  his  historica 
essay  on  Scottish  song  interesting.  Your  anec- 
liiites  and  miscellaneous  remarks  will,  I  am  sure, 
be  much  more  so.  Allan  has  just  sketched  a 
charming  design  from  Maggie  Lauder.  She  is 
ilancing  with  such  spirit  as  to  electrify  the  Jjiper, 
who  seiiiis  almost  dancing  too,  while  he  is  play- 
ing with  the  most  exquisite  glee. 

I  am  much  inclined  to  get  a  small  copv,  and 
to  have  it  engraved  in  the  style  of  Ritson's 
prints. 

P.  S. — Pray,  what  do  your  anecdotes  say 
concerning  Maggie  Lauder  ?  was  she  a  rea. 
personage,  and  of  what  rank  ?  You  would  sure* 
ly  sjiier  for  Iter  if  you  ca'd  at  .^ustrutJta 
'■jwn. 


4i5 


BURNS*  WORKS. 


No.  LXII. 

TflE  POET  T{)  MR.  THOMSON. 

November,  1791. 
Many  thanks  to  yoti,  aiy  dear  Sir,  for  your 
present  :  it  is  a  book  of  the  utinos-t  importance 
to  nil'.  I  have  yesterday  l)e<ruu  my  anecdotes, 
&c.  for  your  work.  I  intend  drawing  it  up  in 
the  fi>rin  of  a  letter  to  you,  which  wiil  save  me 
fr(Mii  the  tedious  dull  business  of  systematic  ar- 
rangement. Indeed,  as  all  I  have  to  say  con- 
sists of  uriconnected  remarks,  anecdotes,  scraps 
of  old  snn!;s,  &c.  it  would  be  impnssible  to  give 
th->  work  a  beijinninp;,  a  middle,  and  an  end  ; 
which  the  critii-s  insist  to  be  ab>(ilutely  neces- 
sary in  a  work.  In  my  last,  I  told  you  my 
objections  to  the  sono;  you  had  selected  for  Mil 
ledijing  is  on  (lie  cold  grovnil.  On  my  visit 
the  other  day  to  my  fiir  (,'hluris,  (that  is  the 
poetic  name  of  the  lovely  j^oddess  of  my  inspi- 
ration), she  sup;ijeNted  an  idea,  which  I,  in  my 
return  from  the  visit,  wrought  into  the  follow- 
IDSJ  son"  ;  — 


{Chloris,p.  197.) 

How  do  you  like  the  sim])licity  and  tenderness 
of  this  pastoral  ?      I  think  it  pietty  well. 

I  like  you  for  enteiing  so  candidly  and  so 
kindly  into  the  story  of  Md  there  Amis.  I  as- 
sure vou,  I  was  never  more  in  earnest  in  my 
life,  than  in  the  account  of  th.it  alTair  wliich  I 
sent  vou  in  niv  last.  Conjut^al  love  is  a  passion 
whii-li  I  deeply  feel  and  lii;;hly  venerate  ;  but, 
soniehiiw,  it  does  not  ma-ke  such  a  figure  in 
poesy  as  that  other  species  of  the  passion, 

*'  Where  Love  is  liberty,  and  Nature  law." 

Musically  speaking,  the  first  is  an  instrument 
of  wliich  the  gamut  is  scanty  and  conhned,  but 
the  tones  inexpiessioly  sweet  ;  while  the  last 
has  powers  equal  to  all  the  intellectual  modula- 
tions of  the  human  soul.  Still,  I  am  a  very 
poet  in  mv  enth.usiisn:  of  the  pas>ioD.  The 
welfare  and  hapi)iness  of  the  beloved  object  is 
the  fust  and  inviolate  sentiment  that  jurvades 
mv  soul  ;  and  whatever  pleasures  I  might  wish 
for,  or  whatever  might  be  the  raptures  they 
woulil  give  me,  yet,  if  they  iuterfrre  with  that 
first  principle,  it  is  having  these  pleasures  at  a 
disli(uiest  price  ;  and  justice  forbids,  and  gene- 
rosity diMi.iins  the  purchase! 

Despairing  of  my  owu  powers  to  give  you 
variety  enough  in  Knglish  songs,  I  have  been 
turning  over  old  collections,  to  pick  out  songs 
ol  which  the  me  isure  is  something  similar  to 
what  I  want  ;  and  with  a  little  alteration,  so  as 
\.o  suit  the  rhyme  of  the  air  exactly,  to  give  you 
Jiein  for  your  work,  ^\'hl're  the  songs  have 
Jiitheito  been  but  little  noticed,   tjor  have  ever 


been  set  to  music,  I  think  the  sliift  .1  fair  o»«s. 
A  song,  which,  under  the  same  iist  verse,  yor 
will  find  in  Ramsay's  Tea- Tab' ;  Miscellany,  I 
have  cut  down  fur  an  EnglisL  dtess  to  your 
Dainty  Davie,  as  follows  . — 

{Cliloe,p.  19G  ) 

You  may  think  meanly  of  this,  bul  take  a 
look  at  the  bombast  original,  and  you  will  be 
surprised  that  I  have  maile  so  much  of  it.  I 
have  finished  my  song  to  Rotlieniurche's  Runt; 
and  you  have  Clarke  to  consult,  as  to  the  set  ot 
the  air  fcr  singing. 

(Lassie  u-i'  the  lint-white  lochs,  p.  203.) 

This  ])iece  has  at  least  the  merit  of  being  a 
regular  pastoral  :  the  vernal  morn,  the  summer 
nonn,  the  autumnal  evening,  and  the  winter 
night,  ate  regularly  rounded.  If  ycm  like  it, 
well:    if  not,  I  will  insert  it  in  the  .Museum. 

1  am  out  of  temper  that  yon  should  set  so 
sweet,  so  tender  an  air,  as  Deil  tali  the  wars, 
to  the  foolish  old  verses.  Yuu  talk  of  the  silli- 
ness of  Saw  i/e  nil/  father  ;  by  heavens,  the 
odds  is,  gold  to  brass  !  Besides,  the  old  song, 
though  now  pretty  well  model  nlzed  into  the 
Scottish  l.mguage,  is  oiiginally,  atnl  in  the  ear- 
Iv  editions,  a  bungling  low  imitatum  of  the 
Scottish  manner,  by  that  genius  Tom  D'Urfey  ; 
so  has  no  pretensions  to  be  a  Scotti-h  produc- 
tion. There  is  a  juetty  English  song  by  She- 
ridan in  the  Duenna,  to  this  air,  which  is  out 
of  sight  superior  to  D'Urfey 's.     It  begins, 

"  When   sable   night   each   drooping   plant  re- 
storing." 

The  air,  if  I  understand  the  expression  of  it 
properly,  is  the  very  native  language  of  simpli- 
city, tenderness,  and  love.  I  have  again  gone 
over  my  song  to  the  tune  as  fiiliows.* 

Now  for  my  English  song  to  iVa/icy'ji  to  the 
Greenwood,  &c. 


(Maria's  Dwell. ur,,  p.  250.) 

There  is  an  air,  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  de- 
light,  to  which  I  wrote  a  song  tint  you  wii 
find  in  Johnson.  Ye  b'lnhs  and  braes  o' Ifinnn 
Dnon  ;  this  air,  I  think,  might  find  a  place  a- 
mong  your  hundred,  as  Lear  says  of  his  knights. 
Do  you  know  the  history  of  the  air  ?  It  is  cu- 
rious enough.  A  good  many  years  ago,  Mr 
James  Miller,  writer  in  your  good  town,  a  gen- 
tleman whom  possibly  you  know,  was  in  coin, 
pany  with  our  friend  Clarke  ;  and  talking  o. 
Scottish  music.  Miller  expressed  an  ardent  am- 
bition to  be  able   to  comj)Osc  a  Scots  air,     Mr 


*  See  the  sonj:  in  its  first  and  best  dress  iu  p  Hi 


4 IV 


Clarke,  parti/  by  way  of  joke,  toM  him  tn  keep  '  more  nacclian.il i.in  than  amorous  in  its  n.itute, 
to  tlie  black  keys  of  tlie  liarpsii-liord,  and  jire-  i  anrj  rei-iminii'mls  it  to  you  to  ni.iti-li  tiit  liir  ae- 
lerve  s.ome  kind  of  rhyme  ;  and  he  would  in-  '  coniinjjiy.  I'ray  did  it  ever  (pci-nr  to  you  how 
fcillilily  i-oinpose  a  .Scot"  n\r.      Cert.iiu  it  is  that,  !  peculiarly  well  the  Scott;^h  airs  are  ail.ipted  for 


in  a  frw  days,  Mr.  Miller  proiluced  the  rinli 
nients  of  an  air,  which  iMr.  Clarke,  with  some 
to'jches  and  corrections,  fashioned  into  the  tune 
in  question.  Ritson,  you  know,  has  the  same 
story  of  the  lilack  htys ;  hut  this  account 
which  I  liave  ju>t  ijiven  you,  Mr.  Clarke  in- 
formed me  of,  several  years  at;o.  Ni.w  to  show 
you  how  difficult  it  is  to  trace  the  origin  of  our 
airs,  I  have  heard  it  rei)cateiily  asserted  that  this 
was  an  Irish  air  ;  nay,  1  met  with  an  Irish  gen- 
tleman who  affirmed  he  had  heard  it  in  Ireland 
among  the  old  women  ;  while,  on  the  uther 
Land,  a  Countess  informed  me,  that  the  first 
person  who  introduced  the  air  info  this  country, 
WHS  a  baronet's  lady  of  her  acquaititance,  who 
took  down  the  notes  from  an  itinerant  jiiper  in 
the  Isle  of  Man.  How  difficult  then  to  ascer- 
tain the  truth  respecting  our  poesy  and  music  ' 
I,  myself,  have  lately  seen  a  couple  of  ballads 
Buug  thiough  the  streets  of  Dimifties,  with 
my  name  at  the  head  of  them  as  the  author, 
though  jt  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen 
them. 

I  thank  you  for  admitting  Craiyie-burn- 
U'ood ;  and  I  shall  take  cjre  to  furnish  you  with 
a  new  chorus.  In  fact,  the  chorus  was  not  my 
%vork,  but  a  part  of  some  old  verses  to  the  air. 
If  I  can  catch  mvself  in  a  more  than  ordinarily 
prooitious  moment,  I  shall  write  a  new  Craigie- 
burn-woiid  altogether.  My  heart  is  much  in 
the  theme. 

I  am  ashamed,  my  dear  fellow,  to  make  the 
request ;  'tis  dunning  your  generosity  ;  but  in 
a  moment,  when  I  had  forgotten  whether  I  was 
rich  or  poor,  I  promised  Chloris  a  copy  of  your 
songs.  It  wrings  my  honest  pride  to  write  you 
this  ;  but  an  ungracious  request  is  doubly  so 
by  a  tedious  apology.  To  make  you  some  a- 
menils,  as  soon  as  I  have  extracted  the  neces- 
sary information  out  of  theui,  I  will  return  you 
Ritson's  volumes. 

The  la<ly  is  not  a  little  proud  that  she  is  to 
make  so  distinguished  a  figure  in  your  collection, 
and  I  aiK  not  a  little  proud  that  I  have  it  in 
my  power  to  please  her  so  muih.  Lucky  it  is 
for  yeur  pat:;;:;ce  that  my  paper  is  done,  for 
when  1  am  m  a  scribbling  humour,  1  know  not 
when  to  ffive  over. 


verses  in  the  form  of  a  dialogue?  The  first 
part  of  the  air  is  generally  low,  and  suited  for 
a  man's  voice,  and  the  second  part  in  many  in- 
stances cannot  be  sung,  at  concert  pitch,  but  by 
a  female  voice.  A  song  thus  |>erfurmeil  makes 
an  agreeable  variety,  but  few  of  our'*  are  .writ- 
ten in  this  form  :  I  wi«h  you  would  think  of  it 
in  some  of  those  that  remain.  The  only  one  of 
the  kind  you  have  sent  me,  is  admltable,  and 
will  be  an  universal  favourite. 

Your  verses  for  liut/ienuirc/ie  are  so  sweetly 
pastoral,  and  your  serenade  to  Chloris,  for  JJtd 
tali  the  ivars,  so  passionately  tender,  that  I  have 
sung  myself  into  rajitures  with  theui.  Your 
song  for  Ml/  hilginij  is  on  tlie  culil  ijnninil,  is 
likewise  a  diamond  of  the  first  water  ;  I  am 
quite  dazzled  and  delighted  by  it.  Some  of  your 
Chlorises  I  suppose  have  flaxen  hair,  from  your 
jwrtiality  for  tliis  colour  ;  else  we  dilTer  about 
it;  for  I  should  scarcely  conceive  a  woman  to 
be  a  beauty,  on  reading  that  she  bad  lint-whtc 
locks  ! 

Farewell  thou  stream  that  tclnding  flows,  I 
think  exceileiit,  but  it  is  mux'h  too  serious  to 
come  after  Nancy  :  at  least  it  would  seem  an 
incongruity  to  provide  the  same  air  with  merry 
Scottish  and  melancholy  English  verses  !  The 
moie  that  the  two  sets  of  verses  resemble  each 
other  in  their  general  character,  the  better. 
Those  you  have  manufactured  for  Dainty 
Davie,  will  answer  charmingly.  I  am  happy 
to  find  you  have  begun  your  anecdotes  :  I  care 
not  how  long  they  be,  for  it  is  impossible  that 
any  thing  from  your  pen  can  be  tedious.  Let 
me  beseech  you  not  to  use  ceremony  in  telling 
me  wlieu  you  wish  to  present  any  of  your  friends 
with  the  songs:  the  next  carrier  will  bring  you 
three  copies,  and  you  are  as  welcoiiie  lo  twenty 
as  to  a  iiiuch  of  snutL 


No.  LXIII. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 


MT  GOOD  SIR, 


]5//j  Noremlier,  1794. 


Slsc'E  receiving  your  last,  I  have  had  ano- 
ther mtervlew  with  Mr.  Clarke,  and  a  loag  con- 
iulcation.      lie  thinks   the  (Jaltdoniun.  Hunt  is 


No.  LXIV. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

19/A  NiivemhLr,  1791. 
Yoi;  see,  my  dear  Sir,  what  a  punctual  cor- 
respondent I  am  ;  though  indeed  you  may  thank 
yourself  for  the  tedium  of  my  letters,  as  you 
liave  so  fl  ittertd  me  on  my  horsemanship  with 
mv  favouriie  hobby,  and  have  praised  the 
grace  of  his  ambling  so  much,  that  1  am  ncirce- 
iy  ever  olT  his  back.  For  instance,  this  mor- 
ning, though  a  keen  blowing  frost,  in  my  "a'.k 
before  breakfast,  1  finished  my  duet  wliicii  you 
were  pleased  to  praise  so  much.  Whether  I 
have  uniformly  succeeded,  1  will  not  say  ;  but 
here  it  ii  for  you,  though  It  is  nut  an  Lour  old. 


418 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


(  OPhilly,  happy  he  tliat  day,  p.  220.) 

Tell  me  honestly  liow  you  like  it  ;  and  point 
out  whatever  you  think  faulty. 

I  am  much  pleased  with  your  idea  of  singing 
our  songs  in  alternate  stanzas,  and  regret  that 
you  did  nut  hint  it  to  me  sooner.  In  those  that 
remain,  I  shall  have  it  in  my  eye.  I  remember 
vour  objections  to  the  name  Philly  ;  hut  it  is 
the  common  abbreviation  of  Phillis.  Sally,  the 
only  other  name  that  suits,  has,  to  my  ear,  a. 
vulgarity  about  it,  which  unfits  it  for  any  thing 
except  burlesque.  The  legion  of  Scottish  poe- 
tasters of  the  day,  whom  your  brother  editor, 
Mr.  Ritson,  ranks  with  me,  as  my  coevals,  have 
always  mistaken  vulgarity  for  simplicity  ;  where- 
as, simplicity  is  as  vnwcn.  eloigns e  from  vulgarity 
on  the  one  hand,  as  from  affected  point  and  puer- 
ile, conceit  on  the  other. 

I  agree  with  you  as  to  the  air,  Craigie-hurn- 
wood,  that  a  chorus  would  in  some  degree  spoil 
the  effect,  and  shall  certainly  have  none  in  my 
projected  song  to  it.  It  is  not  however  a  case 
in  point  with  Rothieinui'chie  ;  there,  as  in  Ruy^s 
Wife  of  Aldivalloch,  a  chorus  goes,  to  my  taste, 
well  enough.  As  to  the  chorus  going  first,  that 
is  the  case  with  liny's  Wife,  as  well  as  Itnthie- 
murcliie.  In  fact,  in  the  first  part  of  both  tunes, 
the  rhyme  is  so  peculiar  and  irregular,  and  on 
that  irregularity  depends  so  much  of  their  beau- 
ty, that  we  must  e'en  take  them  with  all  their 
wilHness,  and  humour  the  verse  accordingly. 
Leaving  out  the  starting  note,  in  both  tunes,  has, 
I  think,  an  effect  that  no  regularity  could  coun- 
terbalance the  want  of. 


Try 

and 

Cmiipare 
uil/i 


{'o 


Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch. 
lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  lucks. 


{  Roy's  wife  of  Aldivalloch. 

\  Lassie  wi'  the  lint-white  locks. 


Does  not  the  tameness  of  the  prefixed  syllable 
strike  you  ?  In  the  last  case,  with  the  true 
furor  of  genius,  you  strike  at  once  into  the  wild 
originality  of  the  air  ;  whereas  in  the  first  insi- 
pid nieHujd,  it  is  like  the  grating  screw  of  the 
pins  before  the  fiddle  is  brought  into  tune.  This 
is  my  taste ;  if  I  am  wrong,  I  beg  paidun  of  the 
eogiinsceiiti. 

The  Caledonian  Hunt  is  so  charming,  that 
It  woulil  make  any  subject  in  a  song  go  down  ; 
but  p.ithos  is  ceitairily  its  native  tongue.  Scot- 
ti-li  Uacclianalians  we  certainly  want,  though  the 
few  we  have  are  excellent.  For  instance,  Tud- 
lir.  Ituvic  is,  for  wit  and  humour,  an  unpaialleled 
composition  ;  and  Andrew  and  his  ciitty  t/un  is 
ttie  work  of  a  master.  13y  the  way,  are  you  not 
quite  vexed  to  think  that  those  men  of  genius, 
fur  Kuch  they  certainly  were,  who  composed  our 
fine  .Scottish  lyrics,  should  be  unknown  !  It  has 
given  ine  many  a  l:eart-ache.  Apropos  to  IJac- 
clianalian  songs  in  Scottish  ;  I  composed  one 
yi  sierdjy  for  an  a.r  I  like  much — J^uiiips  o' puj 


(  Contented  wi'  little,  ond  cantie  wt    tnair,  9 
197.) 

Since  yesterday's  penmanship,  I  have  framea 
a  couple  of  English  Stanzas,  by  way  of  an  Eng 
lish   song  to  Roys  wife.      You  will  allov/  raa 
that  in  this  instance,  my  English  corresponds  in 
sentiment  with  the  Scottish. 

(  Canst  thou  leave  me  thus,  my  Katy  ?  p.  196.) 

Well  !   I  think  this,  to  be  done  in  two  or  three 

turns  across  my  room,  and  with  two  or  three 
pinches  of  Irish  Blackguard,  is  not  so  far  amiss. 
You  see  I  am  determined  to  have  my  quantum 
of  applause  from  somebody. 

Tell  my  friend  Allan  (for  I  am  sure  that  we 
only  want  the  trifling  circumstance  of  being 
known  to  one  another,  to  be  the  best  friends  on 
earth),  that  I  much  suspect  he  has,  in  his  jifctes, 
nnstaken  the  figure  of  the  stock  and  horn.  I 
have,  at  last,  gotten  one  ;  but  it  is  a  very  rude 
instrument.  It  is  composed  of  three  parts  ;  the 
stock,  which  is  the  hinder  thigh-bone  of  a  sheep, 
such  as  you  see  in  a  mutton-ham  ;  the  horn, 
which  is  a  common  Highland  cow's  horn,  cut 
off  at  the  smalltTend,  until  the  aperture  be  large 
enough  to  admit  the  stock  to  be  pushed  up 
through  the  horn,  until  it  be-held  by  the  thicker 
end  of  the  thigh-bone  ;  and  lastly,  an  oaten 
reed  exactly  cut  and  notched  like  that  wliicb 
you  see  every  shepherd- boy  have,  when  the 
corn  stems  are  green  and  full-grown.  The  reed 
is  not  made  fast  in  the  bone,  but  is  held  by  the 
lips,  and  plays  loose  in  the  smaller  end  of  the 
stock  ;  while  the  stock,  with  the  horn  hanging 
on  its  larger  end,  is  held  by  the  hands  in  play- 
ing. The  stock  has  six  or  seven  vcntiges  on  the 
upper  side,  and  one  back-ventige,  like  the  com- 
mon flute.  This  of  mine  was  made  bya  man 
from  the  braes  of  Athole,  and  is  exactly  what 
the  shepherds  wont  to  use  in  that  country. 

However,  either  it  is  not  quite  properly  bored 
in  the  holes,  or  else  we  have  not  the  art  of  blow- 
ing it  rightly  ;  for  we  can  make  little  of  it.  H 
IMr.  Allan  chooses,  I  will  semi  him  a  sight  oS 
mine  ;  as  I  look  on  myself  to  be  a  kind  of  bro- 
ther-brush with  him.  "  Priile  in  Poets  is  nae 
sin,"  and,  I  will  say  it,  that  I  look  on  Mr.  Al- 
lan and  Mr.  ]5urns  to  be  the  only  genuine  and 
real  painters  of  Scottish  costume  in  the  worU 


No.  LXV. 

MF    THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

2Sth  Noremher,  1794. 
I  ACKNowi.EncE,  niv  dear  Sir,  you  are  not 
oidy  the  most  punctual,  but  the  most  delectable 
correspondent  I  ever  met  with.  To  attempt 
flattering  you  never  entered  my  head  ;  the  truth 
Is,  I  look  back  with  surprise  ul  my  iinpudencc. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


419 


in  RO  h-0]U€ntl_v  nibbling  at  lines  and  couplets 
»f  your  ineomparable  lyrics,  for  which,  perhajis. 
if  you  hud  served  me  right,  you  would  have 
cat  me  to  the  devil.  On  the  contrary,  how- 
ever, you  have  ail  along  condescended  to  invite 
my  criticism  with  so  much  courtesy,  that  it 
ceases  to  be  wonderful,  if  I  have  sometimes 
given  myself  the  airs  of  a  reviewer.  Your  last 
budget  demands  unqualified  praise  :  all  the  sOngs 
are  charming,  but  the  duet  is  a  chief  d'ceuvre. 
Lumps  of  pudding  shall  certainly  make  one  of 
my  family  dishes;  you  have  cooked  it  so  capi- 
tally, that  it  will  please  all  palates.  Do  give 
U8  a  few  more  of  this  cast,  when  you  find  your- 
self in  good  spirits  :  these  convivial  songs  are 
more  wanted  than  those  of  the  amorous  kind, 
of  vvhich  we  have  great  choice.  Besides,  one 
does  not  often  meet  with  a  singer  capable  of 
giving  the  proper  effect  to  the  latter,  while  the 
former  are  easily  sung,  and  acceptable  to  every 
body.  I  participate  in  your  regret  that  the  au- 
thors of  some  of  our  best  songs  are  unknown  ;  it 
is  provoking  to  every  admirer  of  genius. 

I  mean  to  have  a  picture  painted  from  your 
beautiful  ballad,  The  Soldier's  return,  to  be  en- 
graved for  one  of  my  frontispieces.  The  most 
interesting  point  of  time  appeai-s  to  me,  when 
she  first  recognizes  her  ain  dear  Willy,  "  She 
giiz'd,  she  redden'd  like  a  rose."  The  three  lines 
immediately  following,  are  no  doubt  more  im- 
pressive on  the  reader's  feelings  ;  but  were  the 
painter  to  fix  on  these,  then  you'll  observe  the 
animation  and  anxiety  of  her  countenance  is 
gone,  and  he  could  only  represent  her  fainting 
iu  the  soldier's  arms.  But  I  sulunit  the  matter 
to  you,  and  beg  your  opinion. 

.'^llan  desires  me  to  thank  you  for  your  ac- 
curate description  of  the  stock  and  horn,  and 
for  the  very  gratifying  compliment  you  pay  liiui 
in  considering  him  worthy  of  standing  in  a  uiche 
by  the  side  of  Burns  in  the  Scottish  Pantheon. 
He  has  seen  the  rude  instrument  you  describe, 
so  docs  not  want  you  to  send  it ;  but  wishes  to 
know  whether  you  believe  it  to  have  ever  been 
generally  used  as  a  musical  pipe  by  the  Scottish 
shepherds,  and  when,  and  in  what  part  of  the 
country  chiefly.  I  doubt  much  if  it  was  capa- 
ble of  any  thing  but  routing  and  roaring.  A 
friend  of  mine  says,  he  renuinbers  to  have  heard 
one  in  his  younger  days  (made  of  wood  instead 
of  your  bone),  and  that  the  sound  was  abomin- 
able. 

Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  return  any  books. 


Jacobite  song,  in  the  Museum,  to  There' II  never 
be  peace  till  Jamie  comes  hame,  would  not  so 
well  consort  with  Peter  I'indar's  excellent  love- 
song  to  that  air,  I  have  just  liaiued  for  you  th» 
following  : 

{My  Nannie's  awa,  p.  212.) 

IIow  does  this  please  you  ?  As  to  the  point 
of  time  for  the  expression,  in  your  proposed 
print  from  my  Sndger's  return  :  It  must  cer- 
tainly be  at — "  She  gazed."  The  interesting 
dubiety  and  suspense,  taking  possession  of  her 
countenance  ;  and  the  gushing  fondness,  with 
a  mixture  of  roguish  playfulness  in  his,  strike 
me,  as  things  of  which  a  n!::ster  will  make  a 
great  deal.  In  great  haste,  but  in  great  tru\h, 
yours. 


No.  LXVI. 
THE  POET  TO  MR.  THO.AISON. 

December,  179i. 
fr  is,  I  assure  you,  the  pi  ide  of  my  heart  to 
do  any  thing  to  forward,  or  add  to  the  value  of 
four  book  :  anJ  as  I  agree  with  you  that  the 


No.  LXVII. 
THE  S.\ME  TO  THE  SAME. 

t/anuarT/,  1795. 

I  FEAR  for  my  songs:  however,  a  few  mty 
please,  yet  originality  is  a  coy  feature  in  coni'- 
position,  and  in  a  multiplicity  of  efli'orts  iu  the 
same  style,  riisappeirs  altogether.  For  these 
three  thousand  years,  we  poetic  folks  have  bo<!u 
describing  the  spring,  fur  instance  ;  and  as  the 
spring  continues  the  same,  there  must  soon  be 
a  saineness  in  the  imagery,  &c.  of  these  said 
rhyming  folks. 

A  great  critic,  Aiken  on  songs,  says,  that 
love  and  wine  are  the  exclusive  themes  for  song 
writing.  The  following  is  on  neither  subject, 
and  consequently  is  no  song  ;  but  will  be  al- 
lowed, I  think,  to  be  two  or  three  pretty  good 
prose  thoughts,  inverted  into  rhyme. 

(A  man's  a  man  for  u   that,  p.  67.) 

I  do  not  give  yon  the  foregoing  song  for  your 
book,  but  merely  by  way  of  vice  la  bar/atelle  ; 
for  the  piece  is  not  really  poetry.  How  will 
the  following  do  for  Craigie-burn-woodf 

{Su-cet  fa's  the  eve  on  Craiyie-burn,  p.  224.) 

Farewell !   God  bles*  you. 


No.  LXVIIL 
IMR.  THO.MSON  TO  THE  POET. 

MY  DEAR  SIR,     Edinburgh,  SVith  Jan.  iV95 

1  THANK  you  heartily  for  Navnie's  awa,  as 
well  as  for  Craiyie-burn,  whirh  I  tlmik  a  very 
co2:v;ly  pair.     Your  obscrvntiun  on  the  .l.Jhcul- 


420 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


ty  of  original  writing  in  a  number  of  efforts,  in 
the  same  style,  strikes  me  very  forcibly  ;  and  it 
has  again  and  again  excited  my  wonder  to  find 
you  continually  surmounting  this  difficulty,  in 
the  many  delightful  songs  you  Lave  seat  me. 
Your  rive  la  bagatelle  song,  I^or  a  that,  shall 
nndoubtedly  be  included  in  my  list. 


So.  LXIX. 

THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

February,  1793. 
Hebz  is  another  trial  at  your  favourite  air. 

(  O  let  me  in  this  ae  niyhl,  and  Answer, 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  wiil  do. 


No.  LXX. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

Ecclefei-hitn,  7th  Feb.  1795. 

MY  DEAR  TH03IS0.V, 

You  cannot  have  any  idea  of  the  jjreilica- 
ment  in  which  I  write  to  you.  In  tlie  cour."* 
of  my  duty  as  supervisor  (in  which  capacity  I 
have  acted  of  late)  I  came  yesternight  to  this 
unfortunate,  wicked,  little  villace.  I  have  gone 
forwarri,  but  snows  of  ten  feet  deep  have  im- 
pede<i  my  prrigress  :  I  have  tried  to  "  gae  hack 
the  gate  1  cam  again,"  but  the  same  obstacle  I 
has  shut  me  up  within  insuperable  buis.  To  add 
to  uiy  misfortune,  Kince  dinner,  a  scraper  has 
been  torturing  catgut,  in  sounds  that  would 
hive  insulted  the  dying  agonies  of  a  sow,  under 
the  hands  of  a  butcher,  and  thinks  himself,  on 
tljat  very  account,  exceeding  good  company.  In 
lact,  I  have  Ix-en  iu  a  dilemma,  either  to  get 
drunk,  to  forget  these  miseries  ;  or  to  hang  my- 
self, to  get  rid  of  them  :  like  a  prudent  man, 
(a  character  congenial  to  my  every  thought, 
word,  and  deed),  I,  of  two  evils  have  chosen 
the  least,  and  am  very  drunk,  at  y<iur  service  !• 

I  wrote  you  yestero'ay  from  Dumfries.  I 
had  ni)t  time  then  to  tell  you  all  I  wanted  to 
»ay  ;  and  heaven  knows,  at  present,  I  have  not 
capacity. 

Do  you  know  an  air — I  am  sure  you  must 
know  it,  We'll  yang  nae  mair  to  yon  tmcn  :  I 
think,  in  slowish  time,  it  would  make  an  excel- 
lent wjng.  I  am  highly  delighted  with  it ;  and 
if  you  should  think  it  worlliy  of  your  attention, 
I  have  a  fair  dame  in  my  eye  to  whonn  I  would 
eODsecrate  it. 


•  Tlic  baril  inusl  have  Ix-cn  ti|>»y  inilccd,  to  abuse 


svcct  (jv  ■fccliaM  at  tliit  rate, 


As  I  am  just  going  to  bed,  I  vrish  you  a  good 
night. 


No.  LXXI. 

JIR.   THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

25th  February,  1795. 

I  HAVE  to  thank  you,  my  dear  Sir,  for  two 
epistles,  one  containing  Let  me  in  this  ae  niyht  ; 
and  the  other  from  Ecclefechan,  proving,  that 
drunk  or  sober,  your  "  mind  is  never  muddy." 
You  have  displayed  great  address  in  the  above 
song.  Her  answer  is  excellent,  and  at  the  same 
time  takes  away  the  indelicacy  that  otherwise 
would  have  attached  to  Lis  entreaties.  I  like 
the  song  as  it  now  stands  very  much. 

I  had  hopes  you  would  l)e  arrested  some  dayi 
at  Ecclefechan,  and  be  obliged  to  beguile  the 
tedious  forenoons  by  song  making.  It  will 
give  me  pleasure  to  receive  the  verses  yos  ia- 
tend  for,   O  teat  ye  wha'a  in  yon  toicn  9 


No.  LXXIl. 
THE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

May,  1795. 
(  The  Woocllarh,  p,  237.) 

Let  me  know  your  very  first  leisure  how  jrob 
like  this  song. 

(Lony,  long  the  ntyht,  p.  207  ) 

How  do  yoM  like  the  foregoing  ?  The  Irish 
air,  Humours  of  Glen,  is  a  great  favourite  o. 
mine,  and  as,  except  the  silly  studfin  the  Poor 
Stiltlier,  there  are  not  any  decent  verses  for  it; 
I  have  written  for  it  as  follows  :  — 

(  Their  grovet  o'  sweet  myrtle  let  foriign  lanJt 
rtckon,  p    195.) 

{' Twos  na  her  bonnle  blue  ee  teat  my  ruim, 
p.  237.) 

Let  me  hear  from  you. 


No.  LXX  in. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

You    must  not  think,   my  good   Sir,  that  I 
have  any  intention  to  enhance  the  value  of  my 


s;;ft,  when  I  s.iv,  in  justice  to  tlio  incjcnioiis  and 
wnrthv  artist,  th:it  tlu-  desij^n  and  oxociition  of 
The  Cotler's  Salunliti/  Nii/ht  is,  in  my  opi- 
nion, one  of  the  happiest  productions  of  Allin's 
P'^ncII.  I  shiul  he  grievously  disai)poliited  if 
vou  t».e  not  quite  ])l(MseiI  with  it. 

1  tie  figure  intended  for  your  [jortrait,  I  think 
itril<iiigly  like  you,  as  f.;r  as  I  can  renieni!)er 
your  phir.  This  should  make  the  piece  irih-r- 
esting  to  your  family  every  way.  Tell  nie 
whether  Mrs.  Burns  finds  you  out  among  the 
figure!). 

I  cannot  express  the  feeling  of  admiration 
with  which  I  have  rea<l  your  pathetic  Adilress 
ti>  the  Woodlark,  your  ele-iant  Pdiicgyric  on 
Cahdonia,  and  your  affutting  verses  on  C/iln- 
rjs'  illness.  Every  rejieatcd  peiusal  of  these 
gives  new  delight.  The  other  song  to  Ladilie 
lie  near  me,  though  not  equal  to  these,  is  very 
pleasiiig. 


No.  LXXIV, 

THE  rOFT  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

(How  cruel  nre  the  parents,  p.  20i. ) 

{Mark  yondtr pomp  of  custlij  fasliion,  p.  21 1.) 

Well !  this  is  not  amiss.  You  see  how  I 
answer  your  orders  :  your  tailor  could  not  he 
more  punctual.  I  am  just  now  in  a  high  fit 
of  poetizing,  provided  that  the  strait-jacket  of 
criticism  don't  cure  me.  If  you  can  in  a  p'lst 
or  two  administer  a  little  of  the  intoxicating 
potion  of  your  applause,  it  will  raise  your  hum- 
ble servant's  phienzy  to  any  height  you  want. 
I  am  at  this  moment  "  holding  high  converse" 
with  the  iMuses,  and  have  not  a  word  to  throw 
away  on  such  a  prosaic  dog  as  you  are. 


No.  LXXV. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SA.ME. 

Maij,  1795. 
Ten  thousand  thanks  for  your  elegant  pre- 
Bent  ;  though  I  am  ashamed  of  the  value  of  it, 
Deing  hestowed  on  a  man  who  has  not  hy  any 
means  merited  such  an  instance  of  kindness.  I 
have  shown  it  to  two  or  three  judges  of  thf 
first  ahilitit's  here,  and  they  all  agree  with  me 
i-n  classing  it  as  a  fiist-rjte  production.  My 
phiz  is  "  sae  ken<^|K'ckle,'*  that  the  very  joiner's 
apprentice  whom  .Mrs.  Burns  employed  tohieak 
up  the  parcel  (I  was  out  of  town  that  (lay) 
knew  it  at  once.  M,y  oiost  grateful  ccmipli- 
ments  fo  Allan,  who  his  hon(iMre<l  my  rustic 
wuse  so  much  with   his   masterly  pencil.      Oue 


strange  coincidence  is,  that  the  little  one  who 
is  making  the  felonious  attempt  on  the  cat's  tail 
is  tlw  most  striking  likeness  of  an  "  ill-ileedie-, 
d — n'd,  wee,  rumhle-garie,  urchin"  of  mine, 
whom,  from  that  Jiropensltv  to  witty  wicked- 
ness and  manfu'  nvschief,  uhich,  even  at  tvvj 
days  auld,  I  foresaw  would  form  the  strikin;" 
features  of  his  ilisposition,  I  named  Willie  Nicoll, 
after  a  cettain  friend  of  mine,  who  is  one  of  the 
masters  of  a  grammar-school  in  a  city  which 
shall  he  nameless. 

Give  the  enclosed  epigram  to  my  much- 
valued  friend  Cunningham,  and  tell  him  that 
on  Wednesday  I  go  to  visit  a  frienil  of  his,  to 
whom  his  friendly  partiality  in  speaking  of  nie, 
in  a  manner  introduced  ine — I  inean  a  well 
known  military  and  literary  character,  Colonel 
Dirom. 

Yon  do  not  tell  me  how  you  liked  my  tws 
laat  songs.      Are  they  condemned  ? 


No.  LXXVI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

\3th  May,  1795 
It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  find  that  you 
are  all  so  well  satisfied  with  Mr.  Allan's  pro- 
duction. The  chance  resendil mce  of  your  little 
fellow,  whose  promising  disposition  a])pe  ired  so 
very  early,  and  sugu'ested  whom  he  should  he 
named  after,  is  curious  enough.  I  am  acquaint- 
ed with  that  person,  who  is  a  prodigy  of  learn- 
ing and  genius,  and  a  pleasant  fellow,  though 
no  saint. 

You  really  make  me  hliish  when  you  tell  me 
you  have  not  merited  the  drawing  from  me.  I 
do  not  think  I  cin  ever  repny  yon,  or  sufficient- 
Iv  c>teem  and  lesnect  vou  fiir  the  liheral  and 
kinil  manner  in  winch  you  have  entered  into 
the  spirit  of  iny  undertaking,  which  could  not 
have  been  perfected  without  you  ;  So  I  beg  you 
wouhl  not  make  a  fool  of  me  again,  hy  speaking 
of  obligation. 

I  like  your  two  last  songs  very  much,  and 
am  happy  to  find  you  are  in  such  a  high  fit  ol 
poetizing.  Long  may  it  last.  Claike  has  maile 
a  fine  pathetic  air  to  Mallet's  sujierlative  ballad 
of  William  and  Muryniet,  and  is  to  give  it  ta 
me,  to  be  enrolled  among  the  elect. 


No.  LXXVII. 

THE  POET  TO  MH,  THOMSON. 

Irf  Wliislle  mtd  ni  came  to  ye,  my  lad,  tliS 
Iieiation  of  that  line  is  tiresome  to  my  ei» 
Here  goes  what  I  think  is  an  iuiurovement  • 


422 


BURNS'  WORKS. 


O  whUtle,  anil  m  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 

0  whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  ye,  my  lad  ; 

Tho*  father,  and  mother,  and  a'  shonld  gae  mad, 
Thy  Jeany  will  venture  wi'  yej^my  lad. 

In  fact,  a  fair  dame  at  whose  shrine  I,  the 
Priest  of  the  Nine,  offer  up  the  incense  of  Par- 
nassus ;  a  diime  whom  the  Graces  have  attired 
in  witchcraft,  and  whom  the  Loves  have  arm- 
ed with  lightning,  a  Fair  One,  herself  the  he- 
roine of  the  song,  insists  on  the  amendment ; 
and  dispute  her  commands  if  you  dare  ! 

(  O  this  is  no  my  air.  lassie,  p.  238.) 

Do  you  know  that  you  have  roused  the  tor- 
pidity of  Clarke  at  last?  He  has  requested  me 
to  write  three  or  four  songs  for  him,  which  he 
is  to  set  to  music  himself.  The  enclosed  sheet 
contains  two  songs  for  him,  which  please  to 
present  to  my  valued  friend  Cunningham. 

1  enclose  the  sheet  open,  both  for  your  in- 
»pection,  and  that  you  miy  copy  the  song,  O 
bonnie  was  yon  i-osie  brier.  1  do  not  know 
whether  I  am  right  ;  but  that  song  plea^es  me, 
and  as  it  is  extremely  probable  that  Clarke's 
newly  roused  celestial  spaik  will  soon  be  smoth- 
ered in  the  fogs  of  indolence,  if  you  like  the 
song,  it  may  go  as  Scottish  verses,  to  the  air  of, 

1  wish   my  hire  wus   in  a  mire;   and  poor  Er- 
skine's  English  lines  may  follow. 

I  enclose  you  For  a'  that  and  a'  that,  which 
was  raver  in  print :  it  is  a  much  superior  soi:g 
to  mine.  I  have  been  told  that  it  was  com- 
posed by  a  lady. 


(^Now  Sprtng  has  clnd  the  t/rove  in  green,  p. 

214..) 

(  O  bonnie  was  yon  rosy  brier,  p.  216.) 

Written  on  the  blank  leaf  of  a  copy  of  the  last 
eilitionof  my  |)oenis,  prisonteil  to  the  lady,  whom, 
in  so  nianv  fictitious  reveiies  of  passion,  but  with 
the  most  ardent  sentiuients  of  real  friendship,  I 
have  so  often  sung  under  the  name  of  Chloris  : 

'Tis  Friendship's  pledge,  my  young,  fair  friend. 

Nor  ti.ou  the  gilt  refuse. 
Nor  witn  unwilling  ear  attend 

The  moralizing  muse. 

Since  thou,  in  all  thy  youth  and  charms, 

Mu"t  bid  the  world  ailieu, 
(A  world  'gainst  peace  in  constant  arms) 

To  join  the  friendly  few. 

Since  thy  gay  morn  of  life  o'ercast. 

Chill  came  the  tempest's  lour  ; 
(And  ne'er  misfortune's  eastern  blast 

Did  nip  a  fairer  (lower). 

Since  life's  gay  scenes  must  charm  no  more, 
btill  much  IH  left  behiad  ; 


Still  nobler  wealth  hast  thou  in  stora. 
The  comforts  of  the  mind  f 

Thine  is  the  self-approving  glow, 
On  conscious  honour's  part ; 

And,  dearest  gift  of  heaven  below, 
Thine  friendship's  truest  heart. 

The  joys  refined  of  sense  and  taste, 
With  every  muse  to  rove ; 

And  doubly  were  the  poet  blest 
These  joys  could  he  improve. 


Une  bagattUe  de  famitie. 


No.  LXXVIII. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POE'l. 

MY  BEAR  SIR,  Edinburgh,  3d  Aug.  179fx 

This  will  be  delivered  to  you  by  a  Dr.  Brian- 
ton,  who  has  read  your  woiks,  and  pants  foi 
the  honour  of  your  acquainti'.nce.  I  do  no 
know  the  gentleman,  but  his  friend,  who  applied 
to  me  for  this  introduction,  being  an  excellent 
young  man,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is  worthy  of  all 
acceptation. 

My  eyes  have  just  been  gladdened,  and  my 
mind  feasted,  with  your  last  packet — full  of 
pleasant  things  indeed.  What  an  imagination 
is  yours  !  It  is  superfluous  to  tell  you  that  I 
am  delighted  with  all  the  thiee  songs,  as  well  as 
with  your  elegant  and  tender  verses  to  Chloris. 

I  am  sorry  you  should  be  induced  to  alter 
O  whistle  and  III  come  to  ye,  my  lad,  to  th( 
prosaic  line.  Thy  Jeany,  will  venture  wi'  ye  my 
l<i<l.  I  niii»t  be  pcnuifed  to  say,  that  I  do  cjt 
think  the  latter  either  reads  or  sings  so  well  as 
the  f  irnie".  I  wish,  therefore,  you  wiiuld  in  my 
name  petition  the  charming  Jeany,  vvhuever  she 
be,  to  let  the  line  remain  unaltered.* 

I  should  be  happy  to  see  Mr.  Clarke  produce 
a  few  airs  to  be  joined  to  your  verses.  Every 
liodv  regrets  his  writing  so  very  little,  as  every 
biiilv  aeknowlcdges  his  ability  to  write  well. 
I':.iy,  was  the  resolution  formed  coolly  before 
dinner,  or  was  it  a  midnight  vow  maile  over  a 
bowl  of  punch  with  the  bard  ? 

I  shall  nnt  fail  to  give  Mr.  Cunningham  what 
you  have  sent  him. 

1*.  S. — The  lady's  Fur  a  that  and  a'  that  is 
sensible  enough,  but  no  mure  to  be  compared  to 
yours  than  I  to  Hercules. 


•  The  Editor,  who  has  hc.ird  the  heronieof  this  song 
line  <t  hcr'.cll'  iti  the  \erv  spirit  ol  uri'h  sinipliiity  tliat 
it  rcqiiiies,  thiiikt  Mi.  'rhmnsoii's  |>etitiou  unii«Joj 
able  — Cl  iiKii;. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


423 


No.  LXXIX 
THE  POET  TO  ?.IR.    niOMSON. 

ENGLISH  SONG. 
Tune—"  Let  me  In  this  ae  night." 

Forlorn,  my  love,  no  comfort  near, 
Far,  far  from  thee,  I  wander  here  ; 
Fur,  far  from  thw,  the  fate  severe 
At  which  I  most  repine,  love. 

O  weri  thou,  love,  but  near  me. 
Hut  neiir,  nenr,  near  me.  ,- 
How  kindly  thou  woutdst  cheer  me, 
And  mingle  sit/hs  with  mine,  hue. 

Around  me  scowls  a  wintry  sky. 
That  blasts  each  Inid  of  hope  and  joy  ; 
And  shelter,  shade,  nor  hiinie  have  I, 
Save  in  these  arms  of  thine,  love, 
O  tcert,  §-c. 

Cold,  alter'd  friendship's  cruel  part, 

To  poison  fortune's  ruthless  rial  t — 

Let  nie  not  break  thy  faithful  heart. 

And  say  that  fate  is  mine,  love. 

O  wert,  Sf'c. 

Rut  dreary  tho'  the  moments  fleet, 
O  let  me  think  we  yet  shall  meet  ! 
That  only  ray  of  solace  sweet 
Can  on  thy  Chioris  shine,  love. 
O  wert,  Sfc. 

How  do  you  like  the  foregoing  ?  I  have 
written  it  within  this  hour  ;  so  much  for  the 
tpeed  of  my  Pegasus  ;  but  what  say  you  to  his 
bottom  f 


No.  LXXX. 

THE  SA.ME  TO  THE  SAME. 

^Last  May  a  braw  w  oer  cam  down  the  lany 
ylen,  p.  20(5.  ) 

FRAGMENT. 
TuHt—"  The  Caledonian  Hunfs  delight." 

Why,  why  tell  thy  lover, 

Bliss  he  never  must  enjoy  ; 
Wliy,  why  undeceive  him. 

And  give  ail  his  hopes  the  lie. 
O  wiiy,  while  fincy,  rajitured.  slumbers, 

Chliiris,  Chioris  all  the  theme, 
Why,  why  wouhKt  thou,  cruel, 

Wake  thy  lover  from  his  dream. 


Such  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  rhy.ne  uf  tr.is 
air,  that  I  find  it  iuipossible  to  make  anuthei 
stanza  to  suit  it. 

I  am  at  present  quite  occujiicd  with  the  charm- 
ing sensations  of  the  toothache,  so  have  not  • 
word  to  spare. 


No.  LXXXI. 

MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET. 

MV  nEAR  SIR,  Sd  June,  179.=;. 

Your  English  verses  to  Let  me  in  Ihin  at 
niijht,  an  tender  and  beanfifiil  ;  ami  your  bal- 
lad to  the  "  Lothian  lassie"  is  a  master- piece 
for  its  humour  and  naivete.  The  fri^Mnent  Car 
the  Caledonian  Hunt  is  (juite  suited  to  the  ori- 
ginal measure  of  the  air,  and,  as  it  plagues  you 
so,  the  fragment  must  content  it.  I  would  ra- 
ther, as  I  said  before,  have  had  Bacchanalian 
words,  had  it  so  pleaseil  the  pott  ;  but,  never- 
theless, for  what  we  have  received,  Lord  uiakt 
us  thankful  \ 


No.    LXXXH. 

THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

blh  Feb.  1796. 
O  Rohhy  Burns  are  ye  s/i-e/.iriy  yet  ? 
Or  are  ye  ivaukii.g,  1  would  wit  ? 

The  pause  you  have  made,  my  dear  Sir,  ig 
awful  I  Am  1  never  to  hear  fioiu  you  ajrain  ? 
I  know  and  I  lanieut  how  much  you  have  been 
afflicted  of  late,  but  I  trust  that  returning  health 
and  spirits  will  now  enable  you  to  resume  the 
])eii,  and  delight  us  with  your  musings.  I  have 
still  about  a  dozen  Scotch  and  Irish  airs  that  I 
wish  "  married  to  immortal  verse."  We  have 
several  true  born  Iiishmen  on  the  Scottish  li>t ; 
hut  they  are  now  uaturalizrd,  and  reckoned  our 
own  good  SLiibjects.  Indeed  we  have  noiie  bet- 
ter. I  believe  I  beloie  toM  you  that  I  have  been 
much  urgeil  by  some  fnejids  to  publish  a  col- 
'ection  of  all  our  favourite  aiis  and  scurgs  in  oc- 
tavo, embillished  with  a  number  of  etchings  by 
our  ingenious  friend  AUati ;  what  is  your  opi« 
nion  of  tku  ? 


No.  LXXXin. 

THE  POET  TO  JIR.  THO.MSOX. 

Fel'riiary,   1796. 
Many  thanks,   my  dear  Sir.   for  \our  hand- 
Miine,  elegant  present  to  Mrs.  B .  and  foi 


424 


mj  fcinaJning  yol.  r.f  P.  P.C(!ar. — I'ctcr  is  a 
deligJitful  fulliiw,  anil  a  first  favourite  of  mine. 
1  am  nmi'li  pleased  with  your  idea  of  jHitillsh- 
in<;  a  collection  of  our  songs  in  octavo  with 
etchinejs.  I  am  extremely  willing  to  lend  eve- 
ry a^^istance  in  my  power.  The  !ri<h  airs  I 
ghall  ch.-'erfully  undertake  the  tas>k  of  finding 
verses  for. 

I  have  already,  you  know,  equipt  three  with 
words,  aivd  the  other  day  I  strung  up  a  kinri  of 
rhapsody  to  another  Hibernian  melody,  which  1 
admire  much. 

(//fy/ijr  a  lass  wi'  a  tocher,  p.  23S.) 

If  tliis  will  do,  you  have  now  fnur  of  my 
liish  engat^enipnt.  In  my  hy-past  songs,  I  dis- 
like one  thing ;  the  name  Chloris — I  meant  it 
as  tiie  fictitious  name  of  a  certain  larly  ;  hut, 
on  second  thoughts,  it  is  a  high  incongruity  to 
have  a  Gnek  appellation  to  a  Scottish  pastoj-al 
ballad.  —  Of  this,  and  some  things  cIst',  in  my 
uext :  1  have  more  amendments  to  piopose. — 
Wliat  you  once  mentioned  of  "  flaxen  locks" 
is  jii^t  :  they  cannot  enter  into  an  e/ei/aiit  lie- 
•triplion  of  beauty.  Of  this  also  again — God 
hlfss  vou  I  * 


BURNS'  WORKS. 

'  Nj.  LXXXV. 


No.  LXXXIV. 
MU.  TIIO.MSON  TO  TIIE  POET, 

Your  Ilejj  for  n  Inns  wi'  a  tocher,  is  a  most 
eicellcnt  song,  and  wltti  you  the  subject  is 
Boiiietliing  new  indeiil.  It  is  tl*j  first  time  1  have 
Seen  yon  debasing  the  god  of  soft  desire,  into  an 
amateur  of  acres  and  guineas. — 

I  am  happy  ti>  fi)id  yj  approve  of  my  pro- 
poseil  octavo  cditinn  Allan  has  desigTied  and 
etched  about  twcn'.y  plates,  and  I  am  to  Iiave 
my  choice  of  theiu  for  that  work.  Indep.'n- 
deiitly  of  the  Ilogarlhian  humour  with  which 
they  abouml,  tlmy  exhibit  the  tharicter  and 
conlnme  of  the  Scottish  peasantry  with  inimi- 
table felicity.  In  this  respect,  he  himself  says, 
they  will  far  exceed  the  aipiatinta  plates  he  did 
f(.r  the  (jciitle  Shepherd,  because  m  tiie  efchiiig 
he  sees  dcaily  wLat  he  is  doing,  imt  not  so 
with'  the  aijuatinta,  which  he  could  not  manage 
to  bis  mind 

The  Dutch  boors  of  O^tade  are  scarcely  more 
characlcri-tic  and  natural  thaa  the  Scottisii 
figured  in  those  etchings. 


•  (»iit  l'"Ot  never  mplAimil  what  name  he  wnnlj 
hft  iuudllutiM  lui  I  til.iiis.— .Vu(r  by  Mi.  T'/iunuim. 


TIIE  POET  TO  MR.  THOMSON. 

^prll,  1706. 
.\las,  my  dear  Thomson,  I  fear  it  will  b» 
some  time  ere  I  tune  mv  lyre  a^ain  !  "  Hy 
Babel  streams  1  have  sat  and  wept,"  almost  ever 
since  I  wrote  you  last:  I  have  only  known  ex- 
istence by  the  pressure  of  the  heavy  hand  ol 
sickness,  and  have  counted  time  by  the  reper- 
cussions of  pain  !  Rheumatisui,  cold,  and  fever 
have  formeil  to  me  a  terrible  combination.  I 
close  my  eyes  in  misery,  and  open  them  with- 
out hope.  I  look  on  the  vernal  clay,  and  say, 
with  pour  Ferguson — 

"  Say  wheiefore  has  an  all-indulgent  Heaven 
"  Light  to  the  comfortless  and  wretched  given  ?^ 

This  will  be  delivered  to  vou  by  a  Mrs.  Hy- 
slop  landlady  of  the  Globe  Tavern  here,  which 
for  tnese  many  years  has  been  mv  lioicff,  and 
where  our  frienil  Clarke  and  I  have  had  many 
a  merry  squeeze.  1  am  highly  djlighted  with 
Mr.  Allan's  etchings.  Wno'd  and  iwirritd 
anil  a'  is  admirable  !  The  yroiiphig  is  beyond 
all  praise.  The  expression  of  the  fi^^ures,  con- 
formable to  the  story  in  the  ball  id,  is  absolutely 
faultless  perfection.  I  next  admire  Turnim- 
spikc.  What  I  like  least  is,  Jenni)  snid  to 
Jitckj/.  Besides  the  feuiale  being  in  her  ap- 
pearance   if  you  take  her  stoo|>- 

ing  into  the  account,  she  is  at  le.ist  two  inches 
taller  th  in  hei  lover.  Poor  Cleghorn  !  I  sin- 
cerely sympathize  with  liim  !  Happy  I  aiB 
to  think  that  he  yet  has  a  well-grounded 
hope  of  health  and  enjoyment  in  this  wurlil. 
As  for  uie — but  that  is  a  •  •  •  •  sub- 
ject ! 


No  LXXXVI. 
MR.  THOMSON  TO  THE  POET 

4/A   Uray,  ITOG. 

I  NKEn  not  tell  yon,  my  good  Sir,  whit  con 
cern  the  re-e  pt  of  your  last  gave  me,  and  hviw 
much  I  sympatlii/.e  in  your  siilferings.  But 
do  licit,  I  beseech  you,  g.ve  yourself  up  to  de- 
sjjofidency,  nor  speik  the  l.m^nage  of  de- 
sjiair.  The  vigour  of  your  constitution  I  trust 
will  soon  set  you  oi  yoiii  feet  again  ;  and  tlier? 
it  is  to  be  hoped  you  will  see  the  wisdom  and 
the  necessity  of  taking  due  care  of  a  lite  so  va- 
luable to  your  family,  to  your  friends,  and  tu 
the  world. 

TrriHting  Oiat  your  next  will  briri','  agreeable 
account' of  your  cmiv  cii'scence,  and  leturning 
^oud  kjiiiitt,  1  remain,  with  kincere  regard 
yoiirt. 

J*.  S.  Mrs,  Il/slnp  I  d'i'ilit  hilt  derne'ed  tba 
gold  tuA  to  you  in  gund  condittuu. 


CORRESPONDENCE. 


425 


No.  LXXXVII. 

THE  POET  TO  MH.  TIIOMSOX. 

Kr  riEAa  sir, 

I  ONCH  mentioned  to  yoi.  nn  air  wliich  I  hiv(,' 
ong  ailinln  d — flcrt's  n  hmltli  to  them  t/nu's 
cnca,  /linei/,  but  I  f'lirjiet  if  you  took  any  notice 
ol"  it.  I  have  just  l)een  trying  to  suit  it  wi'li 
verses  ;  and  I  iieg  leave  to  rccomniend  the  air 
to  your  attention  once  more.  1  have  only  be- 
gun it. 


(Here's  a  health  to  ane  J  lu'e  dear,  p.  20i.) 


No.   LXXXVIII. 
THE  SAME  TO  THE  S.\ME. 

This  will  be  delivered  by  a  Mr.  Lewars,  a 
young  fellow  of  uneomnion  merit.  As  he  wili 
be  a  day  or  two  in  town,  you  will  have  leisure, 
if  you  choose,  to  write  me  by  him  ;  and  if  you 
have  a  spire  half  hour  to  spend  with  him,  I 
nhall  ])laeo  your  kindness  to  my  account.  I 
hav?  CO  copies  of  the  songs  I  have  sent  you, 
and  I  have  taken  a  fancy  to  review  them  all, 
and  possibly  may  mend  some  of  them  ;  so  when 
you  have  comj)lete  leisure,  I  will  thank  you  for 
either  the  originals,  or  copies.  •  I  had  rather 
be  the  author  of  five  well-written  songs  than  of 
ten  otherwise.  I  have  great  hopes  that  the  ge- 
nial influence  of  the  a])i)roaching  summer  will 
set  me  to  rights,  but  as  yet  I  cannot  boast  of 
returning  health.  I  have  now  reason  to  believe 
that  my  complaint  is  a  flying  gout :  a  sad  busi- 
ness ! 

Do  let  me  know  how  Cleghorn  is,  atid  re- 
member me  to  him. 

Tliis  should  have  been  delivered  to  you  a 
month  ago.  1  am  still  very  poorly,  but  should 
4ke  much  to  hear  from  you. 


pounds.      A  cruel of  a  1  abcrdasher, 

to  whom  I  owe  an  account,  taking  it  into  hit 
head  that  I  am  dying,  has  commenced  a  pro- 
cess, and  will  iotallablv  put  me  into  jail.  Do, 
for  God's  sake,  solid  me  that  sum,  and  that  by 
return  of  post.  Forgive  me  tiiis  earne^tnena, 
but  the  horrors  of  a  jail  have  made  me  hail  di:»- 
tracted.  I  do  not  ask  all  this  gratuitously  ;  for, 
upon  returning  health,  I  hereby  promise  and  en- 
gage to  furnish  you  with  five  pounds  worth  ot 
the  neatest  song  i,eiilus  yon  have  seen.  1  tried 
my  hand  on  "  riotliieimiu.  le"  this  morning. 
The  measure  is  s(>  diffi<-i!it,  that  it  is  iiiipossible 
to  infuse  much  genius  into  tlie  lines;  they  are 
on  the  other  side.      Forgive,  foigive  me  ! 

(^Fairest  maid  on  I^nvon  Hanki,  p.  200.^ 


No.  XC. 


No.   LXXXIX. 

THE  SA.ME  TO  THE  SAME. 

BrotP.  on  the  Sohiwj  frith,  \2th  Juh,,  1796. 

AFTEa   all   my   boasted    indejienderce,   curst 
aecessity  compels  me  to  implore  ycu  for   five 


•  It  is  ncoiilf^s  to  say,  that  this  revisal  Uumi  did 
"Jut  Uvc  t'j  prnorin. 


MR.   THOMSON  TO  THE  POET 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  )  4//l  Jiihj,    1796. 

Ever  since  I  received  your  melancholy  letter 
l)y  Mrs.  Hyslop,  I  have  been  ruminating  in 
what  manner  I  could  endeavour  to  alleviate 
your  sufferings.  Again  and  again  1  thought  of 
a  pecuniary  offer,  but  the  recollection  of  luie  of 
your  letters  on  this  sulject,  and  the  fear  of  of 
fending  your  independent  spirit,  checked  my  re 
solution.  1  thank  you  heartily,  therefore,  for 
the  frankness  of  your  letter  of  the  12th,  and 
with  great  pleasure  enclose  a  draft  for  the  wiy 
sum  I  pioposed  sending.  Would  I  were  the 
Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  but  for  oue  day, 
for  your  sake. 

Pray,  my  good  Sir,  is  it  not  possible  for  you 
to  muster  a  volume  of  poetry  ?  If  too  much 
trouble  to  you  in  the  piesent  state  of  your 
health,  some  literary  friend  might  be  found 
here,  who  would  select  ami  arrange  from  your 
manuscripts,  and  take  upon  him  the  task  oi 
Editor.  In  the  nieantiaie  it  could  be  advertis- 
ed to  be  published  by  subscription.  Do  not 
shun  this  mode  of  olitiiniiig  the  value  of  your 
labour  ;  remember  Pope  published  the  Iliad  by 
subscription.  Think  of  this,  my  dear  Hums, 
and  do  not  reckon  me  intrusive  W'*h  my  ad- 
vice. You  are  too  well  conv-.,ced  of  the  re- 
spect and  fricnrishiji  I  bear  you,  to  imjiute  any 
thing  1  say  to  an  unworthy  motive.  Yours 
faithfully. 

The  verses  to  "  Rotniemurchie"  will  answel 
finely.  I  am  happy  tu  bee  you  can  titill  tua< 
your  lyre 


GLOSSARY. 


The  ch  and  gh  have  always  the  guttural  sound.  The  sound  of  the  E'  c\\s]\  di]>hthcrig  oo,  H 
commonly  spelled  oit.  The  I'rencii  //,  a  sound  which  often  occurs  in  ilie  Scottish  language, 
is  marked  (w,  or  ui.  The  a  in  genuine  Scottish  words,  except  when  forming  a  dipiuiiotic, 
or  followed  hv  an  c  mute  after  a  single  consonant,  sounds  generally  like  the  liroud  Englisll 
a  in  u-all.  The  Scottish  dii)htho::g  tr,  always,  and  ra,  very  often,  sound  like  the  French  < 
masculine.     The  Scottisli  diphthong  cy^  sounds  like  the  Latin  ci. 


A',  All 

Aback,  away,  aloot 

Abeigh,  at  a  shy  distance 

A  boon,  above,  up 

A  bread,  abroad,  in  sight 

A  breed, in  breadth 

Addle,  putrid  water,  &c. 

Ae,  one. 

Art",  oft':  Aff  loof,  unpremeditated 

Afore,  before 

A  ft,  oft 

Aften,  often 

A  gley,  off  the  right  line ;  wrong 

Ablins,  perhaps 

Ain,  own 

Airle-penny,  Airles,  earnest  monej 

Aim,  iron 

Aith,  an  oath 

Aits,  oats 

Aiver,  an  old  horse 

Ai/le,  a  liot  cinder 

A  lake,  alas 

A  lane,  alone 

Akwart,  awkward 

Amaist,  almost 

Aniang,  among 

An',  and  ;  if 

Ance,  once 

Ane,  one;  and 

Anent,  over  against 

Anither,  another 

Ane,  ashes 

Asklent,  asquint;  aslant 

Asteer,  abroad ;  stirring 

Athart,  athwart 

Aught,  possession  ;  as.  In  a'  my  aught,  in  all 
mv  possession 

Auld  lang  syne,  olden  time,  days  of  other 
years 

Auld,  old 

Ai'l(!f:.rran,  or,  auld  farrant,  sagacious,  cun- 
ning, prudent 

a: 


Ava,  at  all 

Awa',  away 

Awfu',  awful 

Awn,  the  beard  of  barley,  oatr.,  &c. 

Awnie,  bearded 

Ayont,  beyond 

B 

BA',  ball 

Backets,  ash  boards 

Backlins,  coming ;  coming  back,  returning 

Back,  returning 

Bad.  did  bid 

Baide,  endured,  did  stay 

Baggie,  the  belly 

Bainie,  having  large  bones,  stout 

Bairn,  a  child 

Bairntime,  a  family  of  children,  a  brood 

Haith,  both 

Ban,  to  swear 

Bane,  bone 

I?ang,  to  beat ;  to  strive 

Bardie,  diminutive  of  bard 

Baiefit,  barefooted 

l?armie,  of,  or  like  bann 

Hatch,  a  crew,  a  gang 

{{atts,  bots 

I'audrons,  a  cat 

IJauld,  bold 

Buwk,  bank 

IJaws'nt,  having  a  white  stripe  down  the  face 

i*>e,  to  let  be  ;  to  give  over  ;  to  cease 

l$ear,  barley 

lieastie,  diminutive  of  beast 

Beet,  to  add  fu6l  to  fire 

Ikld,  bald 

Iklyve,  by  and  by 

Me?i,  into  the  spence  or  parlour  ;  a  spence 

IJenlomond,  a  noted  mountain  in  Duuibartoiv 

shire 
F?ethankit,  grace  after  meat 
lUnik,  a  book 
Uicker,  a  kind  of  wooden  dish  ;  a  short  race 


GLOSSARY. 

Bie,  or  Bield   shelter 

Breef,  an  invulnerable  or  irresistible  spcD 

Hicn,  wealthy,  plentiful 

Breeks,  breeches 

Piifj.  to  buikl 

Brent,  smooth 

B'i'^'gin,  buiiciing;  a  house 

Brewin',  brewing 

fiigfjit,  built 

Brie,  juice,  liquid 

Bi  1,  a  bull 

Brig,  a  bridge 

I'illie,  a  brother;  a  young  fellow 

Brunstane,  brimstone 

Hing,  a  heap  of  grain,  potatoes,  &c. 

Brisket,  the  breast,  the  bosom 

I'irk,  birch 

Brither,  a  brother 

Birken-shaw,    Birchen-wood-shaw,    a    small 

Brock,  a  badger 

wood. 

Brogue,  a  hum  ;  a  trick 

Birkie.  a  clever  fellow 

Broo,  broth  ;  a  trick 

Birring,  the  noise  of  partridges,  &c.  when  they 

Broose,  broth ;  a  race  at  country  weddings 

spring 

who  shall  first  reach  the  bridegrooms's  house 

Bit,  crisis,  nick  of  time 

on  returning  from  church 

Bizz,  a  bustle,  to  buzz 

Browster-wives,  ale-house  wives 

B!a>tie,  a  shrivelled  dwarf;  a  term  of  contempt 

Brugh,  a  burgh 

Blastit,  blasted 

Bruilzie,  a  broil,  a  combustion 

Blate,  basliful,  sheepish 

Brunt,  did  burn,  burnt 

Blather,  bladder 

Brust,  to  burst ;  burst 

Bl.tdd,  a  flat  piece  of  any  thing ;  to  slap 

Buchan-bullers,  the  boiling  of  the  sea  among 

Blaw,  to  blow,  to  boast 

the  rocks  of  Buchan 

Bleerit,  bleared,  sore  with  rlieuni 

Buckskin,  an  inhabitant  of  Virginia 

Bleerit  and  blin',  bleated  and  blind 

Bught,  a  pen 

Bleezing,  blazing 

Biightin-time,  the  time  of  collecting  the  sheep 

Blcllum,  an  idle  talking  fellow 

in  the  pens  to  be  milked 

Blether,  to  talk  idly  ;  nonsense 

Euirdly,  stout  made  ;   broad  made 

Bleih'rin',  talking  idly 

Bum-clock,  a  humming  beetle  that  flies  in  the 

Blink,  a  little  while  ;  a  smiling  look  ;  to  look 

sunmier  evenings 

kindly  ;  to  shine  by  fits 

Bumming,  humming  as  bees 

Blinker,  a  term  of  contempt 

Bummle,  to  blunder 

Bliiikin,  smirking 

Bunmiler,  a  blunderer 

Blue-gown,  one  of  those  beggars  who  get  an- 

Bunker, a  window-seat 

nually,  on  tlie  king's  birth-da/,  a  blue  cloak 

Burdies,  diminutive  of  birds 

or  gown,  with  a  badge 

Bure,  did  bear 

Bluid,  Idood 

Burn,  water,  a  rivulet 

liluntie,  a  sniveller,  a  stupid  person 

Buinewin,  i.  e.  burn  the  wind,  abhcksmlth 

I'lype,  a  shred,  a  large  piece 

Burnie,  diminutive  of  burn 

liock,  to  vomit,  to  gush  intermittently 

Buskie,  bushy 

Bocked,  gushed,  vomited 

Buskit.  dressed 

Bodle,  a  small  gold  coin 

Busks,  dresses 

Bt'gles,  spirits,  hobgol.lins 

Bussle,  a  bustle  ;  to  bustle 

Bonnie  or  bonny,  handsome,  beautiful 

Buss,  shelter 

Bonnock,   a  kind  of  thick  cake  of  bread,  a 

But,  hot,  with  ;  without 

sm;ill  jannock,  or  loaf  made  of  oat  meal 

I$ut  an'  ben,  tlic  country  kitchen  and  parlouf 

I)Oord,  a  board 

By  himsel,  lunatic,  distracted 

Boortree,  the  shrub  elder ;  planted  much  of 

Byke,  a  bee-hive 

old  in  hedges  of  barn-yards,  &c. 

By  re,  a  cow-stable ;  a  sheep-pen 

Boost,  behaved,  must  needs 

Bore,  a  hole  in  the  wall 

c 

Botch,  an  angry  tumour 

\^ 

Bousing,  di inking 

CA  ,  to  call,  to  name ;  to  drive 

Bow-kail,  cabbage 

Ca't,  or  ca'd,  called,  driven  ;  calved 

I'owt,  bended,  crooked 

Cadger,  a  carrier 

Brackens,  fern 

Cadie.  or  Caddie,  a  person  •  a  young  fellotr 

Brae,  a  declivity  ;  a  precipiece;  the  slope  of  a 

Caff,  chaff 

hiil 

Caird,  a  tinker 

Braid,  broad 

Cairn,  a  loose  iiea]<  of  stones 

Btamdg't,  reeled  forward 

Calf-ward,  a  small  enclosure  for  calves 

Braik,  a  kind  of  harrow 

Callan,  a  boy 

I'raiiidge,  to  run  rashly  forward 

Caller,  fresh  ;  sound  ;  refreshing 

lirak,  broke,  made  insolvent 

Canie,  or  cannie,  gentle,  mild  ;  dextcrCHU 

Branks,  a  kind  of  wooden  curb  for  horsci 

Canniiic,  dexterously ;  gently 

B:-a.-.li,  a  mddcn  illne-s 

Cantie,  or  canty,  chterful.  merry 

Brats,  coarse  clothes,  rags,  &c. 

(■anirip.  a  charm,  a  spell 

Brattle,  a  short  race ;  hurry;  fury 

Cajie-stane,  c(i))e-stonc ;  kcy-stnne. 

Braw,  (ine,  liai  dM)me 

(^areerin,  cheerfully 

iJrawly,  or  braw.jie,  very  well !  finely ;  heartily 

Carl,  an  old  man 

IJraxie,  a  morliid  shee]) 

Carlin,  a  utoul  old  woman 

lUcastic,  diniiiuitivc  of  breast 

('arte*,  cards 

Breastit,  did  spring  up  or  forward 

Caudron,  n  cauldron 

Brecka.'i,  lern 

Lauk  uti'  keel,  chalk  and  red  cluf 

(2J 

GLOSSARY. 


Cauld,  coll! 

t'aup,  a  wooden  drinking  vessel. 

Cesses,  taxes 

("banter,  a  part  of  a  bagpipe 

C'liii]),  a  ])crson,  a  fellow  ;  a  blow 

C'Ii;iup,  a  stroke,  a  blow 

Chcckit,  cheeked 

f 'licep,  a  cliir]' ;  to  chirp 

('hicl    or  checl,  a  young  fellow 

C'hinila.  or  cliinilie,  a  fire-grate,  a  fire-place 

Cliimla  lug,  tne  fireside 

Chittcring,  shivering,  trembling 

Chockin',  choking 

Chow,  to  chew ;  Cheek  for  chow,  side  by  side 

Chuffie,  fat-faced 

Clachan,  a  small  village  about  a  church;  a 

hamlet 
Claise,  or  claes,  clothes 
Chiith,  cloth 
Claithing,  clothing 

Claivers,  nonsense  ;  not  speaking  sense 
Clap,  clapper  of  a  mill 
Clarkit,  wrote 

CI  ish,  an  idle  tale,  tiie  story  of  the  day 
Clatter,  to  tell  idle  stories  ;  an  idle  story 
Claught,  snatched  at,  laid  hold  of 
Claut,  to  clean  ;  to  scrape 
Clautcd,  scraped 
Clavers,  idle  stories. 
Claw,  to  scratch 
Cleed,  to  clothe 
Clceds,  clothes 
Cleekit,  having  caught  _ 
Clinkin,  jerking  ;  clinking 
Clinkumbell,  he  who  rings  the  church-bell 
Clips,  shears 

Clishmaclaver,  idle  conversation 
Cloik,  to  hatch  ;  a  beetle 
(  lockin,  hatching 

Cloot,  the  hoof  of  a  cow,  sheep,  &c 
('lootie,  an  old  name  for  the  JJevil. 
Clour,  a  bump  or  swelling  after  a  blow 
Cluds,  clouds 
Coaxin,  wheedling 
Coble,  a  fishing  boat 
Cockornony,  a  lock  of  hair  tied  upon  a  girlV 

hcad  ;  a  cap 
Coft,  bought 
tog,  a  wooden  dish 
Coggie.  dmiinutive  of  cog 
Coila,  from  Kyle,  a  district  of  Ayrshire ;  so 

called,  saith  tradition,  from  Coil,  or  Coilus, 

a  Pictish  monarch 
Collie,  a  general  and  sometimes  a  particular 

name  for  country  curs 
Colliohangie,  quarrelling,  an  uproar 
Commaun,  command 
Cood, the  cud 

Coof,  a  blockhead  ;  a  ninny 
Cookit,  appeared  and  disappeared  by  fits 
Coast,  did  cast 
Coot,  the  arikle  or  foot 
Codtie,   a  wooden  kitcJien  dish : — also,   those 

fowls  whose  legs  are  clad  with  feathers  are 

said  to  be  cootie 
Corbies,  a  species  of  the  crow 
Core,  corps  ;  party  ;  clan 
Corn't,  fed  with  oats 
Cotier,  the  inhabitant  of  a  cot-house,  or  cot- 

tagcr 
Couthie,  kind,     fing 


Covo,  a  cnv? 

Cowe,  toterrify;  to  keep  under,  to  lop;  frigh:_ 

a  brand*  of  fur/e,  broom,  &c. 
Cow]),  tc  barter;  fi  tumble  over;  a  gang 
Cowpit,  '.umbled 
Cowrin',  cowering 
Cowt,  a  colt 
Cozie,  snug 
Co/ily,  snugly 
Crabbit,  crabbed,  fretful 
Crack,  conversation  ;  to  converse 
Crackin',  conversing 
Craft,  or  croft,  a  held  near  a  house  (in  old 

husbandry) 
Craiks,  cries  or  calls  incessantly  ;  a  biri 
Crambo-clink,  or  crambo-jingle,  rhymes,  dog 

grel  verses 
Crank,  the  noise  of  an  ungreased  wheel 
Crankous,  fretful,  captious 
Cranriuch,  the  hoar  frost 
Crap,  a  crop  ;  to  crop 
Craw,  a  crow  of  a  cock  ;  a  rook 
Creel,  a  basket ;  to  have  one's  wits  in  a  crecw, 

to  be  crazed  ;  to  be  fascinated 
Creepie-stool,  the  same  as  cutty-stool 
Creeshie,  greasy 

Crood,  or  croucl,  to  coo  as  a  dove 
Croon,  a  hollow  and  contmued  moan  ;  to  make 

a  noise  like  the  continued  roar  of  a  bull ;  to 

hum  a  tune 
Crooning,  humming 
Crouchie,  crook-backed 
Croose,  cheerful ;  courageous 
Crousely,  cheerfully ;  courageously 
Crnwdio,  a  comjiosiiion  of  oat-meal  and  boil- 
ed water,  sometimes  from  the  broth  of  beef. 

mutton,  &c. 
Crowdie-time,  breakfast  time 
Crowlin',  crawling 

Crummock,  a  cow  with  crooked  horns 
Crump,  hard  and  brittle  ;  spoken  of  bread 
Crunt,  a  blow  on  the  head  with  a  cudgel 
Cuif,  a  blockhead,  a  ninny 
Cunmiock,  a  sliort  stall"  with  a  crooked  head 
Curchie,  a  courcesy 
Curler,  a  player  at  a  game  on  the  ice,  practis. 

ed  in  Scotland,  called  curlinc; 
Curlie,  curled,  whose  hair  falls  naturally  ia 

ringlets 
Curling,  a  well  known  game  on  the  ice 
Curniurriiig,  murnmring  ;   a  slight  rumbling 

noise 
Curiiin,  the  crupper 
Cusl.at,  the  dove,  or  wood-pigeon 
(  uity,  short.-,  a  spoon  broken  in  the  middle 
(  utty -stool,  tlie  stool  of  repentance 


DAD  DIE,  a  father 

Dafhn,  merriment ;  foolishness 

Daft,  merry,  giddy  ;  foolish 

Daimt-n,  rare,  now  and  then  ;  jitaimen-icket 

an  ear  of  corn  now  and  then. 
Dainty,  pleasant,  good  humoured,  agreeable 
l)f;ise,  dacz,  to  stupify 
Dales,  plains,  valleys 
Darkliiis,  darkling 
DauJ,  to  thrash,  to  abuse 
Daur,  to  dare 
Daurt,  dare*' 


GLOSSARY. 


Daurg,  or  daurk,  a  day'*  labour 

Davoc,  David 

Dawd,  a  large  piece 

Dawtit,  or  dawtet,  fondled,  caressed 

Dearies,  diminutive  of  dears 

Dearthtu',  dear 

Deave,  to  deafen. 

Deil-ma-care  !  no  matter  1  for  all  that ! 

Deleerit,  delirious 

Descrive,  to  describe 

Di^'ht,  to  wi])e  ;  to  clean  com  from  chafF 

Diijlu,  cleaned  from  chaff 

l)inff,  to  worst,  to  push 

Dink,  neat,  tidy,  trim 

Dinna,  do  not 

Dirl,  a  slight  tremulous  stroke  or  pain 

Dizen,  or  dizz'n,  a  dozen 

Doited,  stupi^ied,  hebetated 

Dolt,  stupihed,  crazed 

Donsie,  unlucky 

Dool,  sorrow  ;   to  sing  dool,  to  lament,   to 

mourn 
Doos,  doves 
Dorty,  saucy,  nice 

Douce,  or  douse,  sober,  wise,  prudent 
Doueeiy,  soberly,  prudently 
Douglit,  was  or  were  able 
Doup,  backside 

Doup-skel|ier,  one  that  strikes  the  tail 
Dour  and  din,  sullen  and  shallow 
Doure,  stout,  durable  ;  sullen,  stubborn 
Dow,  am  or  are  able,  can 
DowfF,  pitliless,  wanting  force 
Dowie,  worn  with  grief,  fatigue,  &c.  half  a- 

sleep 
Downa,  am  or  are  not  able,  cannot 
Doylt,  stupid 

Dozent,  stujiified,  impotent 
Drap,  a  drop  ;  to  drop 
Draigle,  to  soil  by  trailing,  to  draggle  among 

wet,  &c. 
Drapping,  dropping. 

Drauiiting,  drawling;  of  a  slow  enunciation 
Dreep,  to  ooze,  to  drop 
Dreigh,  tedious,  long  about  it 
Dribble,  drizzling;  slaver 
Drift,  a  drove 
Droddum,  the  breech 
Drone,  part  of  a  bag]iipe 
Droon-runipl't,  tliat  droops  at  the  crupper 
DrouKit,  wet 
D.'iiuiiting,  drawling 
Drouth,  tliirst,  drought 
Drucken,  drunken 
Drunily,  muddy 
Druniniock,  meal  and  water  nci'xed  inan^ 

state 
Drum,  pet,  sour  humour  • 

Dub,  a  small  i)()nd 
Duds,  rags,  clothes 
Du'die,  ragged 

Dung,  worsted  ;  pushed,  driven 
Diluted,  beaten,  boxed 
l)-.i.sh,  to  pu>h  as  a  ram,  &c. 
Dusht,  pushed  by  a  ram,  ox,  &c 


E'E,  the  eye 

E'en    the  eyes 
E'ening,  evening 


£ 


(4) 


Eerie,  frighted,  dreading  spirits 

Eild,  old  age 

Elbuck,  the  elbow 

Eldritch,  ghastly,  frightful 

Eller,  an  elder,  or  church  officei 

En',  end 

Enbrugh,  Edinburgh. 

Eneugli,  enough 

Especial,  especially 

Ettle,  to  try,  to  attempt 

Eydent,  diligent 


FA',  fall ;  lot ;  to  fall 

Fa's  does  fall ;  water-falls 

Faddom't,  fathomed 

Fae,  a  foe 

Feam,  foam 

Faiket,  unknown 

Fairin',  a  fairing  ;  a  present 

Fallow,  fellow 

Fand,  did  find 

Farl,  a  cake  of  oaten  bread,  &c 

Fash,  trouble,  care ;  to  trouble,  to  care  fc( 

Fasht,  troubled 

Fasteren-e'en,  Fasten's  Even 

Fauld,  a  fold  ;  to  Ibid 

Faulding,  folding 

Faut,  fault 

Faute,  want,  lack 

Fawsont,  decent,  seemly 

Veal,  a  field  ;  smooth 

Fearfu',  frightful 

Feart,  frighted 

Feat,  neat,  spruce 

Fecht,  to  fight 

Fechtin',  fighting 

Feck,  many,  plenty 

Fecket,  an  under  waistcoat  with  sleeves 

Feckfu',  large,  brawny,  stout 

Feckless,  puny,  weak,  silly 

Feckly,  weakly 

Feg,  a  fig 

Feide,  feud,  enmity 

Feirrie,  stout,  vigorous,  healthy 

Fell,  keen,  biting;  the  flesh  immediately  un- 
der the  skin  ;  a  field  pretty  level,  on  the  sid« 
or  top  of  a  hill 

Fen,  successful  struggle ;  fight 

Fend,  to  live  comfortably 

Ferlie,  or  ferley,  to  wonder ;  a  wonder ;  a  term 
of  contempt 

Fetch,  to  pull  by  fits 

Fetch't,  pulled  intermittently 

Fidge,  to  fidget 

Ficl,  soft,  smooth 

Ficnt,  fiend,  a  petty  oath 

Fier,  sound,  healthy  ;  a  broUier  :  a  friend 

Fisslc,  to  make  a  rustling  noise  ;  to  fidget ;  a 
bustle 

Fit,  a  foot 

Fittic-lan',  the  nearer  horse  of  tlie  hindmost 
pair  in  the  plough 

Fizz,  to  make  a  hissing  noise,  like  fermenta- 
tion 

Flainen,  flannel 

Flcech.  to  supplicate  in  a  flattering  manner 

Flccch'd,  su|)]dicatcd 

Flccchin',  supjiUcating 

Fiecsh,  a  fleece 


tiLOSSAUy. 

Flc?,  a  kick,  a  random  stroke 

fiet,^  a  child,  a  young  one 

Fletlicr,  to  decoy  by  fair  words 

iiiaist,  a  ghost 

Fletlicriii',  fl;ittering 

;}ie,  to  give  ;  gied,  jjave  ;  gien,  giren 

Flev,  to  scare,  to  frighten 

Giftie,  diminutive  of  gift 

riitclicr,  to  flutter,  as  young  nestlings  when 

(Jiglets,  playful  girls 

tlieir  dam  approaches 

riillie,  diminutive  of  gill 

Flinders,  shreds,  broken  pieces,  splinters 

Gilpey,  a  half  grown,  half  informed  boy  01 

Flini,'in'-tree,  a  piece  of  timber  hung  by  way 

girl,  a  romping  lad,  a  hoiden 

of  i);irtition  between  two  horses  in  a  stable  ; 

Gimmer,  a  ewe  from  one  to  two  years  old 

a  Hail 

Gin,  if;  against 

Flisk,  to  fret  at  the  yoke 

Gipsey,  a  young  girl 

Fli.>ket,  fretted 

Girn,  to  grin,  to  twist  the  features  in  rage, 

Flitter,  to  vibratt  like  the  win  B  of  small 

agony,  &c. 

birds 

Girning,  grinning 

Flittering,  fluttering,  vibrating 

OliZ,  a  periwig 

Flunkie,  a  servant  in  livery 

Glaiket,  inattentive,  foolish 

Fod;;eI,  S(]uat  and  plump 
Foord,  a  tord 

(ilaive,  a  sword 

Gawky,  half-witted,  foolish,  romping 

Forbears,  forefathers 

Glaizie,  glittering  ;  smooth  like  glass 

Forbye,  besides 

Glaum,  to  snatch  greedily 

Forfairn,  distressed;  worn  out, jaded 

Glaum'd,  aimed,  Sriiatchcd 

Forfoughten,  fatigued 

Gleck,  sharp,  ready 

Forgather,  to  meet,  to  encounter  with 

Gleg,  sharp,  ready 

Forgie.  to  forgive 
Forjesket,  jaded  with  fatigue 

Gleib,  glebe 

Glen,  a  dale,  a  deep  valley 

Fotlier,  fodder 

Gley,  asquint;  to  squint;  a-gley,  off  at  a  Side, 

Fou,  full ;  drunk 

wrong 

Foughten,  troubled,  harassed 

Glib-gabbet,  smooth  and  ready  in  speech 

Fouiii,  plenty,  enough,  or  moretlian  enough 

Glint,  to  peep 

Fow,  a  bublid.  &c.  ;  also  a  pitch-fork 

Glinted,  peeped 

Frae,  from ;  off 

Glintin',  peeping 

Framinit,  strange,  estranged  from,  at  enmity 

Gloamin',  the  twilight 

with 

Glowr,  to  stare,  to  look ;  a  stare,  a  look 

FreatJi,  froth 

Glowred,  looked,  stared 

Fnen".  friend 

Glunsh,  a  frown,  a  sour  look 

Fu',  full 

Goavan,  looking  round  with  a  strange,  inquir. 

Fud,  the  scut,  or  tail  of  the  hare,  cony,  &c. 

ing  gaze  ;  staring  stu  lidly 
Go  wan,  the  flower  of  t  le  wild  daisy,  hawk- 

F'ufl",  to  blo'.v  intermittently 

Fufl"t,  dill  blow 

weed,  &c. 

Fuimie,  full  of  merriment 

Gowany,  daisied,  abounding  with  daisies 

Fur,  a  furrow 

Gowd,  gold 

Furm,  a  form,  bench 

Gowft",  the  game  of  golf;  to  strike  as  the  bat 

Fyke,  trifling  cares;  to  piddle,  to  be  in  a  fuss 

does  the  ball  at  golf 

about  trifles 

Gowft" 'd,  struck 

Fyle,  to  soil,  to  dirty 

Gowk,  a  cuckoo ;  a  term  of  contempt 

Fyl't,  soiled,  dirtied 

Gowl,  to  howl 

Grane,  or  grain,  a  groan  ;  to  groan 

G 

Grain'd  and  grunted,  groaned  and  grunted 

Graining,  groaning 

GAT?,  the  mouth  ;  to  speak  boldly,  or  pertly 

Graip,  a  pionged  instrument  used  for  cleaning 

(iaberlun/.ie,  an  old  man 

stables 

Gadsman,  a  nlougliboy,  the  boy  that  drives  the 
horses  in  tiie  plough 

Graith,  accoutrements,  furniture,  dress,  gear 

Grannie,  grandmoUier 

Gae,  to  go  ;  gaed,  went ;  gaen,  or  gane,  gone; 

Grape,  to  grope 

gaun,  going 

Grapit,  groped 

Gact,  or  i,'ate,  way,  manner;  road 

Grat,  wept,  shed  tears 

Gairs,  triangular  pieces  of  cloth  sewed  on  the 

(ireat,  intimate,  familiar 

bottom  of  a  gown,  &.C. 

Grce,  to  agree ;    to  bear  tlie  gree,  to  be  dedd. 

Gang,  to  go,  to  walk 

edly  victor 

Gar,  to  make,  to  force  to 

Gree't,  agreed 

Gar't,  forced  to 

Greet,  to  shed  tears,  to  weep 

Garten,  a  g.itter 

(ircetin',  crying,  weeping 

Gash,  wise,  sagacious;  talkative;  to  ojnverse 

(irii)pet,  catched,  seized 

Gasliin',  conversing 

Groat,  to  get  the  whistle  of  one's  grojt,  to  j.laj 

Gaucy,  j:iny,  large 

a  losing  game 

Gaud,  a   ilough 

Gear,  ric  les  ;  goods  of  any  kind 

Grousome,  loathsomely  grim 

G'rozet,  a  gooseberry 

Geek,  to  toss  the  head  in  wantonness  ;i  scorn 

(irumph,  a  grunt;  to  grunt 

(Jed,  a  iiike 

(>rum])liie,  a  sow 

Gentles,  great  folks,  gentry 

Grun',  ground 

(Jenty,  elegantly  formed,  nea ' 

Grur.stane,  a  grindstone 

Geordie,  a  guinea 

1  Gruntlc,  die  pliiz  ;  a  grunting  noiaa 

(5) 

j 

GLOSSARY' 


Grunzic,  moutk 

(rrushie,  thick  ;  of  rtiiiving  growth 

Guile,  the  Supreme  Being    good 

fiuid,  gcod 

Guid-niornin',  good  morrow 

Guid-e'en,  good  evening 

Guidnian  and  guidwife,  the  master  and  mis- 
tress of  the  house ;  young  guidman,  a  man 
newly  married 

Guid-willie,  liberal ;  cordial 

Guidfather,  guidniother,  father-in-law,  and 
mother-in-law 

Gully,  or  gullie,  a  large  knife 

Gundie,  muddy 

Gusty,  tasteful 

H 

If  A',  hall 

Ila'-P.ible,  tlie  great  bible  that  lies  in  the 
hall 

Hae,  to  have 

Haen,  had,  the  participle 

Kaet,  tint  haet,  a  petty  oath  of  negation;  no- 
thing 

Hatfet,  the  temple,  the  side  of  the  head 

Ilafflins,  nearly  half,  partly 

Hag,  s  scar,  or  gulf  in  mosses,  and  moors 

Haggis,  a  kind  of  pudding  boiled  in  the  sto- 
mach of  a  cow  or  sheep 

Hain,  to  spare,  to  save 

Hain'd,  spared 

Hairst,  harvest 

Haith,  a  petty  oath 

Haivers,  nonsense,  speaking  without  tliought 

Hal',  or  hald,  an  abiding  place 

Hale,  whole,  tight,  healthy 

Haly,  holy 

Haine,  home 

Hallun,  a  particular  partition-wall  in  a  cot- 
tage, or  more  properly  a  seat  of  turf  at  the 
outside 

Flallowmas,  Hallow-eve,  the  31st  of  October 

Hamely,  homely,  affable 

Han',  or  haun',  hand 

Hap,  an  outer  garment,  mantle,  plaid,  &c.  to 
wrap,  to  cover  ;  to  hop 

Happer,  a  hopper 

Ha))pin',  hop))ing 

Ha])  step  an'  louj),  hop  skip  and  leap 

Harkit,  hearkened 

Ham,  very  coarse  linen 

Hash,  a  fellow  tliat  neither  knows  how  to  dress 
nor  act  w'th  propriety 

Hastit,  hastened 

Haucl.  to  hold 

Haughs,  low  lying,  rich  lunds;  ralleyg 

Haurl,  to  drag;  to  peel 

liauiiin,  pechn-g 

Haverel,  a  half  witted  person  ;  half  witted 

Havins,  good  manners,  decorum,  good  Bcns* 

Ilawkie,  a  cow,  properly  one  with  a  white  face 

lleapit,  lieajied 

Hcalsome,  liealthfal,  wholcscme 

Hearse,  hoarse 

Hear't,  hear  it 

Heather,  heath 

Hcch  !  oh  !  strange  ! 

Hecht,  jironiised  ;  to  foretell  something  thmt  U 
to  be  got  or  given  ;  foretold  ;  the  thing  fore- 
told ;  offered 

Heckle,  a  board,  in  which  arc  fixed  a  number 

(6» 


of  sliarp  pms,  used  in  dressing  hemp,flax 

&.C. 

Heezc,  to  elevate,  to  raise 

Helm,  the  rudder  or  helm 

Herd,  to  tend  flocks  ;  one  who  tends  flocks 

Herrin,  a  herring 

Herry,  to  plunder  ;  most  properly  to  plunJei 
birds'  nests 

Hcrrynicnt,  plundering,  devastation 

Hersel,  herself;  also  a  herd  of  cattle,  ot  any 
sort 

Het,  hot 

Heutjh,  a  crag,  a  coalpit 

Hilcli,  a  liobble;  to  halt 

Hilchin,  haliinsj 

Hmisel,  hintseif 

Hincy,  honey 

Hing.  to  hiing 

Hirjjle,  to  walk  crazily,  to  creep 

Hirsel,  so  many  cattle  as  one  person  can  attend 

Hastie,  dry;  cnaiiped;  barren 

Hitch,  a  loop,  a  knot 

Ilizzie,  a  hussy,  a  young  girl 

Hoddin,  the  motion  of  a  sage  countryman  rid- 
ing on  a  cart-horse ;  humble 

Hog-score,  a  kLnd  of  distance-line,  in  curling, 
drawn  across  the  rink 

Hog-shouther,  a  kind  of  horse-play,  by  just 
ling  with  the  shoulder  ;  to  justle 

Hool,  outer  skin  or  case,  a  nut-shell ;  a  peas- 
cod 

Hoolie,  slowly,  leisurely 

Hoolie  !  take  leisure,  stop 

Hoord,  a  hoard ;  to  hoard 

Hoordit,  hoarded 

Horn,  a  spoon  made  of  horn 

Homie,  one  of  the  many  names  of  the  devil 

Host,  or  hoast,  to  cough  ;  a  cough 

Hostin',  coughing 

Hosts,  coughs 

Hotch'd,  turn'd  topsyturvy  ;  blended,  mixed 

Houghmagandie,  fornication 

Iloulet,  an  owl 

Housie,  diminutive  of  house 

Hove,  to  heave,  to  swell 

Hoved,  heaved,  swelled 

Howdie,  a  iriidwifa 

Howe,  hollow  ;  a  hollow  or  dell 

Howebackit,  sunk  in  the  back,  spoken   of  a 
horse,  &c. 

Ilowfl",  a  tippling  house  ;  a  house  of  rescri 

Howk,  to  dig 

llowkit,  digged 

Howkin,  digging 

Howlet,  an  owl 

H  oy,  to  urge 

Hoy't,  urg£d 

Hoyse,  to  pull  upwards 

Hoyte,  to  amble  crazily 

llughoc,  diminutive  ot  Hugh 

Hurcheon,  a  hedgehog 

liurdies,  the  loins  :  the  srupper 

llushion,  a  cushion 


r,  in 

kker,  an  car  of  com 

ler-oe,  a  great-grandchild 

Ilk,  or  ilka,  each,  every 

lli-willie,  ill-natured,  malicious,  niggardly 

Ixtgine,  genius,  ingenuity 


GLOSSARY. 

Ingie,  (irt ;  fire-place 
Ise,  I  shall  or  will 

Kyle,  a  district  in  Ayrshire 

Kyte,  the  belly 

Uher,  other ;  one  anolhsr 

Kvihc,  to  discover ;  to  show  one'a  sell 

J 

J  AD.  j.ule  ;  also  a  familiar  ti;rtn  among  coun- 

L 

IjADDIE,  diminutive  of  lad 

try  folks  for  a  g'cUly  young  girl 
Tank,  to  ilally,  to  trifle 

I/iggcn,  t!ie  angle  between  ilie  side  and  MU 

torn  of  a  wooden  di»h 

Jiiukin',  triHini;,  (iallyin;^ 

Laigh,  low 

Juup,  a  JL'rk  of  water  ;  to  jerk  as  aqitatcd  wa- 
1            ter. 

Jaw,  coarse  raillery  ;  to  pour  out ;  to  shut,   lo 

Lairing,  wading,  and  sir.King  in  snow,  mud, 

<!vc. 
Laith,  loath 

jerk  as  water 

Laithfu',  bashful,  sheejiish 

Jerkinct,  a  jerkin,  or  short  grown 

Lallans,   tlie  Scottish  dialect  of  the  English 

Jillet,  a  jilt,  a  giddy  girl 

language 

Jimp,  to  j mill) ;  slender  in  tlie  waist;  hand- 

Lamljje, diminutive  of  lamb 

some 

Lanipit,  a  kind  of  shcll-iish,  a  limpit 

Jiinps,  easy  stays 

Lan',  land  ;   estate 

Jink,  to  dodge,  to  turn  a  comer ;  a  sudden 

Lane,  lone  ;    my  lane,  thy  lane,  &c.    mysell 

turning  ;  a  corner 

alone,  &c. 

Jiiiker,  that  turns  quickly  ;  a  gay  sprightly 

Lanely,  lonely 

girl  ;  a  wag 

Lang,  long ;  to  think  lang,  to  long,  to  weary 

Jinkin',  dodging 

Laj),  did  leap 

Jirk,  a  jerk 

Lave,  the  rest,  the  remainder,  tlie  others 

Joctelcg,  a  kind  of  knife 

I^averock,  the  lark 

Jouk,  to  stoop,  to  how  the  head 

liawin,  shot,  reckoniiig,  bill 

Jow,   to  jow,  a  verb  which  includes  both  the 

Lawlan',  lowland 

swinging  motion  and  pealing   sound  of  a 

Lea'e,  to  leave 

large  bell 

Leal,  loyal,  true,  faithful 

Jundie,  to  justle 

Lea-rig,  grassy  ridge 

Lear,  (i)ronounced  lare),  learning 

K 

Lee-lang,  live-long 

Lcesome,  ])leasant 

KAE,  a  daw 

Leeze-me,  a  |  hrase  of  congratulatory  endear. 

Kail,  colewort ;  a  k.nd  of  broth 

ment ;  I  am   hapjiy  in  tliee,   or  proud  oi 

Kail-runt,  the  stem  of  colewort 

tlice 

Kain,  fowls,  &c.  paid  as  rent  by  a  farmer 

I^eister,  a  three-prong'd  dart  for  striking  tish 
Leugli,  did  laugh 

Kebbuck,  a  cheese 

Keckie,  to  giggle  ;  to  titter 

l>eiik,  a  look  ;  to  look 

Keek,  a  peep,  to  peep 

iiibbet,  geldetl 

Keljjies,  a  sort  of  mischievous  spirits,  said  to 

Lift,  the  sky 

haunt  fords  and  ferries  at  night,  especially 

Lightly,  snceringly  ;  to  sneer  at 

in  storms 

Lilt,  a  ballad  ;  a  tune;  to  sing 

Ken,  to  know  ;  kend  or  kcnn'd,  knew 

Limnier.  a  kept  mistress,  a  strumpet 

Kennin,  a  small  matter 

Lim])'t,  limped,  hobbled 

Kenspeckle,  well  known,  easily  known 

Liiik,  to  trip  along 

Ket,  matted,  hairy  ;    a  fleece  of  wool 

Linkin',  tripping 

Kilt,  to  truss  up  the  clothes 

Linn,  a  waterfall ;  a  precipiccc 

Kinrmer,  a  young  girl,  a  gossip 

Lint,  tlax 

Kin,  kindred  ;    kin',  kind,  adj. 

Lint  i"  the  bell,  flax  in  flower 

King's-hood,  a  certain  part  of  the  entrails  of 

Lintwhite,  a  linnet 

an  ox,  &c. 

l,oan,  or  loanin',  the  place  of  milking 

Kintra,  country 

Loof,  the  pahu  of  the  hand 

Kintra  cooser,  country  stallion 

Loot,  did  let 

Kirn,  the  harvest  suuper  ;  a  ciiurn 

J,ooves,  plural  of  loof 

Kirsen,  to  christen,  or  baptize 

lioun,  a  fellow,  a  ragamuffin  ;  a  woman  of 

Kist,  a  chest ;  a  shop  counter 

easy  virtue 

Kitchen,  any  thing  that  eats  villi  bread  ;   to 

Loup,  jump,  leap 

serve  for  soup,  gravy,  (Sec- 

1/Owe,  a  .'lame 

Kith,  kir.dred 

l><)win',  Haiiiing 

Kittle,  to  tickk  ;  ticklkh  ;  lively,  apt 

liowrie,  abbre\iation  of  Lawrence 

Kittlin,  a  young  cat 

lAiwse,  to  loose 

Kiutile.  to  cudilie 

1/OWs'd,  Wsed 

Kiuttlin,  cuddling 

Lug,  the  ear ;  a  handle 

Knaggie,  like  knags,  or  points  of  rocks 

Lugget,  having  a  handle 

Knap,  to  stnkc  smartly,  a  smart  blow 

Lu^gie,  a  «n;aU  wooden  dish  wi-Ji  ahandia 

Knajipin-banuuer,   a  hammer  used  for  break- 

Lum, the  cinii:ney 

ing  stones 

Luncii,  a  large  piece  of  cheese,  flesh,  <Sui 

Knowe,  a  small  round  hillock 

iiuntj  a  cuiun-.n  of  smoke;  to  sitioko 

Knutl,  a  il«arf 

Liiijua",  smokini' 

Lyart,  of  a  uiixetl  colour,  giaj 

liye,  ccrs 

(7^ 

[                                                                                                                           1 

GLOSSARY. 


M 

MAE.,  more 

IVlair,  more 

Maist,  most,  almost 

Mciisdy,  mo?t]y 

Mak,  to  make 

JNiakin',  making 

Mailen,  a  farm 

ftlallie,  IMoUy 

Jiang,  amoiis 

J\Janse,  the  parsonage  house,  where  the  minis- 
ter lives 

Manteele,  a  mantle 

i\lark,  marks.  (This  and  several  other  nouns 
which  in  English  require  an  s  to  form  the 
p;iiral,  are  in  Scotch,  like  the  words  sheep, 
deer,  the  same  in  both  numbers.) 

IMarled,  variegated;  spotted 

]\Iar's  year,  tlie  year  1715 

Washlum,  meslin,  mixed  corn 

Mask,  to  masli,  as  malt,  &c. 

J\Iaskin-pat,  a  tea-|>ot 

I\]aud,  maad,  a  plaid  worn  by  shepherds,  &c. 

]\iaukin,  a  hare 

i^Jaun,  must 

IMavis,  the  tiurush 

]Maw,  to  mow 

31awin',  mowing 

I\leerc,  a  mare 

IVJeikle.  meickle,  much 

IVIelancholious,  mournful 

Welder,  corn,  or  grain  of  any  Icind,  sent  to 
the  mill  to  be  ground 

I\Iell,  to  meddle.  Also  a  mallet  for  pounding 
barley  in  a  stone  trough 

IMelvie,  to  soil  with  meal 

Men',  to  mend 

JMense,  good  manners,  decorum 

i\ienseless,  ill-bred,  rude,  impudent 

IMessin,  a  small  dog 

Midden,  a  dunghill 

M  idden-hole,  a  gutter  at  the  bottom  of  a  dung- 
hill 

Mim,  prim,  affectedly  meek 

fllin',  mind;  resemblance 

IMind't,  mind  it;  resolved,  intending 

Minnie,  mother,  dam 

J\livk,  miikcst,  dark,  darkest 

Misca',  to  abuse,  to  call  names 

Misca'd,  abused 

IMisIear'd,  mischievous,  unmannerly 

Misteuk,  mi.stook 

IMither,  a  mother 

JMixtie-maxtie,  confusedly  mixed 

iMoistify,  to  moik.en 

Mony,  or  monie,  many 

JMools,  dust,  earth,  the  earth  of  the  grave  ;  to 
rake  i'  the  mools  ;  to  lay  in  the  dust  I 

RIoo]),  to  nil»hle  as  a  sheep 

J\loorlan',  of  or  belonging  to  moors  i 

fllorn,  the  next  day,  to-morrow 

IMou,  tiie  mouth 

Moudiwort,  a  mole 

Mousic,  diminutive  of  mouse 

Miukle,  or  mickle,  great,  big,  much 

Miisie,  dmiinutive  of  muse 

Mu.slin-kail,  broth,  composed  simply  of  water, 
siallfd  barky,  and  greens 

Mutchkin,  an  English  i)int 

Mysel,  11)}  self 

8) 


N 

NA,  no,  not,  n;T 

Nae,  no,  not  any 

Naething,  or  naithing,  nothing 

Naig,  ahorse 

Nane,  none 

Nappy,  ale ;  to  be  tipsy 

Negleckit,  neglected 

Neuk,  a  nook 

Niest,  next 

Nicve,  the  fist 

Nievefu',  handful 

Niffer,  an  exchange ;  to  exchange,  to  birt«' 

IViger,  a  negro 

Nine-tail'd-cat,  a  hangman's  whip 

Nit,  a  nut 

Norland,  of  or  belonging  to  the  north 

Notic't,  noticed 

Nowte,  black  cattle 


0%of 

Ociiils,  name  ofa  range  of  mountains  in  Clack< 

mannon  and  Kinross-shires 
()  haith,  O  faith  !   an  oain 
Ony,  or  onie,  any 
Or,  is  often  used  for  ere,  before 
Ora,   or  orra,    supernumerary,    that  can  b( 

spared 
O't,  ofit 

Ourie,  shivering ;   drooping 
Oursel',  or  oursels,  ourselves 
Outlers,  cattle  not  housed 
Owre,  over  ;  too 
Owre-hip,  a  way  of  fetching  a  blow  with  the 

liammer  over  the  arm 


PACK,  intimate,  familiar;  twelve  stone  ol 

wool 
Painch,  paunch 
Paitrick,  a  partridge 
Pang,  to  cram 
Parie,  speech 
Parritch,  an  oatmeal  pudding,  a  well-knowo 

Scotch  dish 
Pat,  did  put ;  a  pot 
Pattle,  or  pettle,  a  plough-staff 
Paughty,  proud,  haughty 
Pauky,  or  i)awkie,  cuumng,  sly 
Pay't,  paid  ;  beat 
Pcch,  to  fetch  the  breath  short,  as  in  an  asth. 

ma 
Pechan,  the  crop,  the  stomach 
Peelin'   peeling,  the  rind  of  fruit 
Pet,  a  u  "mesticated  sheep,  &c. 
I'ettle,  to  cherish  ;  a  plough-staff 
Philabcgs,  short  petticoats  worn  by  the  Iligh« 

landmen 
Ph  raise,  fair  spcehes,  flattery  ;  to  flatter 
I'hraisiii',  fi.ittery 
Pibroch,  Highland  war  music  adapted  tc  the 

bagi)ipe 
Pickle,  a  small  quantity 
Pine,  pain,  uneasiness 
Pit,  to  ))ut 
Placard,  public  proclamation 


GLOSSARY. 


PlacK,  an  old  Scotch  coin,  the  third  part  of  a 
Scotch  penny,  twelve  of  which  nuke  an 
iMiL'lish  penny 

Plackless,  pennyless,  without  money 

Platie,  diminutive  of  phite 

Plew.  or  jjlcu^li,  a  plough 

Pliskie,  a  trick 

Poind,  to  seize  cattle  or  goods  for  rent,  as  the 
laws  of  Scotland  allow 

Poortuh,  poverty 

Pou,  to  ])ull 

Pouk,  to  pluck 

Poiissie,  a  hare,  or  cat 

Pout,  a  poult,  a  chick 

Pou't.  did  pull 

Powthery,  like  powder 

Pow,  the  head,  the  skull 

Pownie,  a  little  horse 

Powther,  or  pouther,  powder 

Preen,  a  pin 

Prent,  to  print ;  print 

Prie,  to  taste 

Prie'd,  tasted 

Prief,  proof 

Prig,  to  cheapen  ;  to  dispute 

Priggin,  cheapening 

Prnrisie,  demure,  precise 

Propone,  to  by  down,  to  propose 

Provoses,  provosts 

Puddock-stool,  a  musheroom,  fungus 

Pund,  pound ;  pounds 

Pyle,— a  pyle  o'  cafF,  a  single  grain  of  chaiF 


QUAT,  to  quit 
Quak,  to  quake 
Quey,  a  cow  from  one  to  two  years  old 

R 

RAGWEED,  the  herb  ragwort 

Raible,  to  rattle  nonsense 

Pair,  to  roar 

Raize,  to  madden,  to  inflame 

Kam-feczl'd,  fatigued;  overspread 

Ram-stam,  thoughtless,  forward 

Raploch,  properly  a  coarse  cloth ;  but  used  as 

an  adnoun  for  coarse 
Rarely,  cxceLcntly,  very  well 
Rash,  a  rush  ;  rash-buss,  a  bush  of  rushes 
Ratton,  a  rat 

Raucle,  rash  ;  stout ;  fearless 
Jiaught,  reached 
Raw,  a  row 
Rax,  to  stretch 
Ream ,  cream  ;  to  cream 
Reaming,  brimful,  frothing 
Reave,  rove 
Reck,  to  heed 
Red';,  counsel  ;  to  counsel 
Rod.  wat-shod,  walking  in  blood  over  the  shoe. 

to^is 
ReJ-wud,  stark  mad 
Ree,  half  drunk,  fuddled 
Reck,  smoke 
Reekin',  smoking 
Reekit,  smoked ;  smoky 
Reniead,  rem,xly 
Requite,  requited 
Rest,  to  stand  restive 
Restit.  stood  restive    stunted ;  withered 

(9) 


Restricked  restricted 

Rew,  to  rej  ent.  to  compassionate 

Rief,  reef,  plenty 

Rief  randies,  sturdy  beggars 

Rig,  a  ridge 

Higwiddie,  rigwoodie,  the  rope  or  chain  tha 
crosses  the  saddle  of  a  horse  to  support  the 
spokes  of  a  cart ;  spare,  withcted,  sapless 
Rin,  to  run,  to  melt 
Rinnin',  running 
Rink,  the  course  of  the  stones ;  a  term  in  curl* 

ing  on  ice 
Rip,  a  handful  of  untlirashed  corn 
Riskit,  made  a  noise  like  the  tearing  of  roots 
Rockiii',  spinning  on  the  rock,  or  distaff 
Rood,  stands  likewise  for  tlie  plural  roods 
Roon,  a  shred,  a  border  or  selvage 
Roose,  to  praise,  to  commend 
Roosty,  rusty 

Roun',  round,  in  the  circle  of  neighbourhood 
Roupet,  hoarse,  as  with  a  cold 
Routhie,  plentiful 
Row,  to  roll,  to  wrap 
Row't,  rolled,  wrappeil 
Rowte,  to  low,  to  bellow 
Routh,  or  routh,  plenty 
Rowtin',  lowing 
Rozet,  rosin 
Rung,  a  cudgel 
Runkled,  wrmkled 

Runt,  the  stem  of  colewort  or  cabbage 
Ruth,  a  woman's  name;  the  book  so  caileo 

sorrow 
Ryke,  to  reach 

S 

SAE,  so 

Saft,  soft 

Sair,  to  serve  ;  a  sore 

Sairly,  or  sairlie,  sorely 

Sair't,  served 

Sark,  a  shirt ;  a  shift 

Sarkit,  provided  in  shirts 

Saugh,  the  willow 

Saul,  soul 

Saumont,  salmon 

Saunt,  a  saint 

Saut.  salt,  adj.  salt 

Saw,  to  so* 

Sawin',  sowing 

Sax,  six 

Scaith,  to  damage,  to  injure ;  injury 

Scar,  a  cUfi' 

Scaud,  to  scald 

Scauld,  to  scold 

Scaur,  ipt  to  be  scared 

Scawl,  a  scold  ;  a  termagant 

Scon,  a  cake  of  bread 

Sconner,  a  loathing  ;  to  loatlie 

Scraich,  to  scream  as  a  hen,  partridge,  &Ct 

Screed,  to  tear  ;  a  rent 

Scrieve,  to  glide  swiftly  along 

Scrievin,  glccsomely ;  swiltly 

Scrimp,  to  scant 

Scrimpet,  did  scant;  scanty 

See'd,  did  see 

Seizin',  seizing 

Sel,  self;  a  body's  $el,  one's  self  alone 

Sell't,  did  sell 

Sen',  to  send 

Sent',  I,  &c.  sent,  or  did  send  it ;  send  it 


UJ.OSSARY. 

Servan',  scrvanj 

Snnppcr,  to  stumble,  a  stumble 

Settlin',  seuling;  to  get  a  settlin',  to  be  fright- 

Snash, abuse,  Billingsgate 

ed  into  quietness 

Snaw,  snow  ;  to  snow 

Sets,  sets  off,  goes  airav 
Shachled,  distorted  ;  sliapeless 

Snaw-broo,  melted  snow 

Snawie,  snowy 

Shaird,  a  shied,  a  shard 

Sneck,  snick,  the  latch  of  a  door 

Shangan,  a  stick  cleft  at  one  and  for  putting 

Sned,  to  lop,  to  cut  off 

the  tail  of  a  dog,  &c.  into,  by  way  of  niis- 
cliicf,  or  to  frighten  him  away 

Sneeshin,  snuff 

Sneeshin-mill,  a  snuff-box 

Shaver,  a  humorous  v/ag  ;  a  barber 

Snell,  bitter,  biting 

Shaw,  to  show  ;  a  small  wood  in  a  hoUow 

Snick-drawing,  trick-contriving,  ciuftv 

Sheen,  bright,  shining 

Snivtle,  to  laugh  restrainedly 

Sbeep-shank;    to  think  one's  self  nae  aheep- 

Snood,  a  ribbon  for  binding  the  hair 

shank,  to  be  conceited 

Snool,  one  whose  spirit  is  broken  with  oppres. 
sive  slavery  ;  to  subinit  tamely,  to  sneak 

Sherra-moor,  slieriff-moor,  the  famous  battle 

fought  in  the  rebellion,  A.D.  1715 

Snoove,  to  go  smoothly  an-d  constantly  ;   tf 

Sheugh,  a  ditch,  a  trench,  a  sluice 

sneak 

Shiel,  a  ditch,  a  trench,  a  sluice 

Snowk,  to  scent  or  snuff,  as  a  dog,  &c. 

Shiel,  a  shed 

Snowkit,  scented,  snuffed 

Shill,  shrill 

Sonsie,  having  sweet,  engaging  looks  ;  lucky 

Shog,  a  shock ;  a  push  off  at  one  side 

jolly 

Shool,  a  shovel 

Soom,  to  swim 

Shoon,  shoes 

Sooth,  truth,  a  petty  oath 

Shore,  to  offer,  to  threaten 

Sough,  a  heavy  sigh,  a  sound  dying  on  th« 

SJior'd,  offered 

ear 

Shouther,  the  shoulder 

Sou])Ie,  flexible ;  swift 

Shure,  did  shear,  shore 

Souter,  a  shoemaker 

Sic,  sucli 

Sowens,  a  dish  made  of  oatmeal;  the  seeds  o 

Sicker,  sure,  steady 

oatmeal  so^ired,  &c.  flummery 

Sidehns,  sidelong,  slanting 

Suwp,  a  spoonful,  a  small   quantity  of  an 

Siller,  silver ;  money 

thing  liquid 

SinuDcr,  summer 

Sowih,  to  try  over  a  tune  with  a  low  whistle 

Sin.  a  son 

•Sowiher,  solder  ;  to  solder,  to  cement 

Sin',  since 

Spae,  to  prophesy,  to  divine 

Skaitli,  see  sraith 

Spaul,  a  limb 

Sltellum,  a  wortlilcss  fellow 

Spuirge,  to  dash,  to  soil,  as  with  mire 

Skelp,  to  strike,  to  siap  ;  to  walk  witn  a  smart 

Spaviet,  having  the  spavin 

trijiping  step  ;  a  smart  stroke 

Spean,  spane,  to  wean 

Skelpic-limmer,  a  reproachful  term  in  female 

Speat,  or  spate,  a  sweeping  torrent,  after    Jtifl 

scolding 

or  thaw 

Skelpiu',  stepping,  walking 

Spcei,  to  cliinb 

Skiegii,  orskcigh,  proud,  nice,  highmettled 

S])encc,  the  country  prrlour 

Skinldin,  a  small  ])ortion 

Spier,  to  ask,  to  inquire 

Skirl,  to  shriek,  to  cry  shrilly 

3])ier't,  inquired 

Skirling,  shrieking,  crying 

Si)liitter,  a  splutter,  to  splutter 

Skirl't,  shrieked 

Spleughan,  a  tobacco-pouch 

Sklent,  slant ;  to  nm  aslant,  to  deviate  from 

Sjilore,  a  frolic  :  a  noise,  riot 

truili 

Sprackle,  s])rachle,  to  clamber 

Sklented,  ran,  or  hit,  in  an  oblique  direction 

Sjirattle,  to  scramble 

Skoulh,  freedom  to  converse  without  restraint ; 

Spreckled,  spotted,  speckled 

range,  scope 

Spring,  a  quick  air  in  music;  a  Scottish  reel 

Skriegii,  a  scream  ;  to  scream 

Sjirit,   a  tough-rooted  plant,  something  liki 

Skyrin',  shining;  making  a  groat  show 

rushes 

Skyte,  force,  very  forcible  motion 

Sprittie,  full  of  spirits 

Shic,  a  sloe 

Spunk,  (ire,  mettle;  wit 

Slade,  did  slide 

Sjumkie,  mettlesome,  fiery ;  will-o'wisp,  or  ig. 

Slap,  a  g;ite  ;  a  breach  in  a  fence 

nis  fatuus 

Slaver,  saliva  ;  to  emit  saliva 

Spurtle,  a  sticJc,  used  in  making  oatmeal  jnid 

Slaw,  slow 

ding  or  jioriidge 

Sice,  siy  ;  slecst,  sliest 

Squad,  a  crew,  a  ])arty 

Sleekit,  sleek  ;  sly 

Squatter,  to  fiuttcr  in  water  as  a  wild  duck 

Sliddry,  slip  lery 

Siy  )c,  to  full  over,  as  a  wet  furrow  from  the 

Sijuattle,  to  sprawl 

Siiucel,  a  scream,  a  screech;  to  scream 

p  ougli 

SLaehcr,  to  st.igger 

Slyj.'.t,  lell 

Stack,  a  rick  ot  corn,  hay,  &c. 

Sma',  small 

Staggie,  the  cihiiinulive  of  stag 

Snieddum,  dust,  powder;  mettle,  sense 

St;'.!  wart,  strong,  ^tout 

Snudily,  a  sniitiiy 

Stan',  to  stand  ;  siaii't,  did  stand 

Smoor,  to  smother 

Stane,  a  sii.ne 

SinoorM,  Mnolhcred 

Stan  ;,  an  acute  i>ain  ;  a  twinge;  to  stmg 

Snioutic,  suiiitty,  obscene,  uply 

St.-ii,  u  did  siiiik  ;  %  pool  of  standing  wiier 

Sniytric.  a  luiiuer  us  coUeciion  of  s'nall  indi- 

Slap,  Ml']) 

viil  juU 

Stiltk.  slout 

vjuijojjAitr. 


Etartio,  to  run  as  cattY>  stiinyr  hv  the  gad-fly 

Siaiiiiirel.  a  blockhoati ;  lialf-witted 

Staw,  did  s'cal;  to  surfeit 

Stecli,  to  cram  ilie  belly 

Stechin,  Craiiur.iiifj 

Sfetk,  10  shut;  asiitch 

Steer,  to  molest;  to  stir 

Steeve,  firm,  compacted 

SieiUtill 

Step,  to  rear  as  a  horse 

Stcn't,  reared 

Stents,  tiibiite;  dims  rf  an v  kind 

Stey,  steep  ;  steyest,  steepest 

Stibhle,    stubble;  st.bble-riir,    the    reaper    in 

harvest  who  takes  the  lead 
Stick  an'  stow,  totally,  altosrethcr 
Siile,  a  crutch;  to  halt,  to  limp 
Stnnfiart,  the  eighth  part  of  a  Winchester 

bushel 
Stirk,  a  cow  or  bullock  a  year  old 
Stock,  a  plant  or  root  of  colewort,  cabbage, 

Stockin,  a  stocking-;  Throwing  the  stockin, 
when  the  bride  and  bridecroom  are  put  into 
bed,  and  the  candle  out,  the  former  throws  a 
storking  at  random  among  the  company, 
and  the  person  whom  it  strikes  is  the  next 
that  will  be  married 

Stoiter,  to  stagger,  to  stammer 

Siooked,  made  up  in  shocks  as  corn 

Stoor,  sounding  hollow,  stiong,  and  hoarse 

Slot,  an  ox 

Stoiip,  or  slowp,  a  kind  of  jug  or  dish  with  a 
handle 

Stour,  dust,  more  particularly  dust  in  motion 

Siowlins,  by  stealth 

Stown,  stolen 

Stoyte,  to  stumble 

Straek,  did  strike 

Strae,  straw;  to  die  a  fair  strae  heath,  to  die 
m  bed 

Strai.k,  did  strike 

Straikit,  stroked 

Strappm',  tall  and  handsome 

Straught,  straight,  to  straighten 

Streek,  stretched  tight;  to  stretch 

Str;ddlc,  to  straddle 

Stroan,  to  spout,  to  piss 

Studdie,  an  anvil 

Stumpie,  diniimitive  of  stump 

Strunr,  spirituous  liquor  of  any  kind ;  to  walk 
sturdily;  hufi;  sullcnness 

Stud;  corn  or  pulse  of  any  kind 

Sturt,  trouble;  to  molest 

Sturtm,  frighted 

Sucker,  susjar 

Sud,  should 

Sugh,  the  continued  rushing  noise  of  wind  or 
water 

Soutnron,  southern;  an  old  name  for  the  Eiig- 
li:'li  nation 

Swaiid,  sward 

Swall'd,  swelled 

Swank,  stately,  jolly 

Swankio,  or  swankcr,  a  tight  strapping  young 
ffllow  or  girl 

Swap,  an  exchange  ;  to  barter 

Swarf,  to  swoon  ;  a  swoon 

Swat,  did  sweat 

Swatch,  a  sample 

Swats,  drink;  good  ale 


Swcitcn,  sv.-cating 

Sweer,  l;i/.y,  averse  ;  dead-swcer,  extremely  a. 

verse 
Swoor,  swore,  did  swear 
!>winge,  to  beat ;    to  whip 
Jjwiri,  a  curve  ;  an  eddying  blast,  or  pool  ;  a 

knot  in  wood 
vSwirlie,  knaggie,  full  of  knots 
Swith,  get  away 
Switlier,  to  hesitate  in  choice;  an  irresolute 

Wavering  in  choice 
Syne,  since,  ago  ;  then 


TACKETS,  a  kind  of  nails  for  driving  into 

the  heals  of  shoes 
Tae,  a  toe ;    three  tae'd,  having  three  prongs 

Tiiirge,  a  target 

Tak,  totake;    takin,  taking 

Tanitall.in,  the  name  of  a  mountain 

I'angle,  a  sea-weed 

Tap,  the  lop 

Tajjeiless,  heedless,  foolish 

Tarrow,  to  murmur  at  one's  allowance 

Tarrow't,  murmured 

Tarry-brceks,  a  sailor 

Taukl,  or  laid,  tolil 

Taui)ie,  a  foolish,  thoughtless  young  person 

Tajited,  or  tauue,  matted  together ;    spoken 
of  hair  or  wool 

Tawie,  that  allows  itself  jieaceably  to  be  hand, 
led  ;  spoken  of  a  horse,  cow,  &,c. 

Teat,  a  small  r,uanti  y 

Teen,  to  provoke  ;  y  ovocation 

Tedding,  spreading  .  fter  the  mower 

Ten. hours  bite,   a  s.ight  feed  to  the  horses 
while  in  the  yoke,  in  the  forenoon 

Tent,  a  field-pulpit ;  liced,  caution  ;  to  t;ike 
heed  ;  to  tend  or  herd  cattle 

Tentie,  heedful,  cautious 

Tentlcss,  lieedless 

Teugh,  tough 

Thack,  thatch  ;  tliack  an'  rape,   clothing  ne- 
cessaries 

Thae,  these 

Thairms,  small  guts  ;  fiddle-strings 

'I'hankit,  thanked 

Theekit,  Uutched 

Thegiilier,  together 

Theniscl,  themselves 
Thick,  intimate,  familiar 

Thieveless,  told,   dry,  spited  ;    spoken  of  a 

person's  demeanour 
Thir,  these 
Thirl,  thrill 

Thirl  d,  thrilled,  vibrated 
Thole,  to  suffei,  to  endure 
'Jihowf,  a  thaw  ;  to  thaw 
Thowlcss,  slack,  lazy 
Thrang,  throng  ;  a  crowa 
'i'lirap|)ie,  throat,  windpipe 
Thrave,  twenty-four  sheaves  or  two  shocks  oi 

corn  ;  a  considerable  number 
Thraw,  to  sjiraiii,  to  twist;  to  contradict 
'I  hrawin,  twisting,  &c. 
Thrawn,  si)r;jned,  twisted  ;  contnulicted 
Threap,  to  maintain  by  dint  of  assertion 
Threshin,  thrashing 
Threteen,  thirteen 
Thristle,  thistle 
Througli,  to  go  on  with  ;  to  make  out 


GLOSSARY 

riiroutlier,  pell-mell,  confusedly 

Tlivul,  to  make  a  loud  intcnuittent  noise 

Tliiimnit,  tliumped 
Thysfl,  tliyself 

\VA\  waU  ;  wa'a,  wall* 

Tili't,  to  it 

W'abster,  a  weaver 

Timmer,  timber 

Wad,  would  ;  to  bet ;  a  bet,  a  pledge 

Tijie,  to  lose;  tint,  lost 

Wadna,  would  not 

U'inkler,  a  tinker 

Wae,  wo ;  sorrowful 

Tii.t  die  gate,  lost  the  way 

A\'aefu',  woful,  sorrowful,  wailing 

Tijf,  a  ram 

W'aesucks  !  or  waes  me  !  alas  !  O  the  pitv 

Tippence,  twopence 

Waft,  the  cross  thread  that  goes  from  tlie  shut 

'I  irl,  to  rayke  as  light  noise ;  to  uncover 

tie  through  the  web  ;  woof 

Tirlin,  uncovering 

Wair,  to  lay  out,  to  expend 

Tither,  the  other 

M'ale,  choice  ;  to  choose 

Tittle,  to  wliisper 

M'aled,  chose,  chosen 

Tittlin,  whispering 

Walie,  ample,  large,  jolly  ;  also  an  intarjea 

Tocher,  marriage  portion 

tion  of  distress 

Tod,  a  fox 

Wame,  llie  belly 

Toddle,  to  totter,  like  the  walk  of  a  child 

Wamefu',  a  belly-full 

Toddlin,  tottering 

Wanchancie,  unlucky 

Tooni,  empty,  to  empty 

Wanrestfu',  restless 

Toop,  a  ram 

Vi'ark,  work 

Toun,  a  hamlet ;  a  farm-house 

Wark-lume,  a  tool  to  work  with 

Tout,  the  blast  of  a  horn  or  trumpet ;  to  blow 

War],  or  warld,  world 

a  horn,  &c. 

^\'arlock,  a  wizard 

Tow,  a  rope 

\Varly,  worldly,  eager  on  amassing  wealth 

lowmond,  a  twelvemonth 

\\  arran,  a  warrant;  to  warrant 

Towzie,  rough,  shaggy 

Wars.t,  worst 

Toy.  a  very  old  fashion  of  female  head-dress 

^\^arst^d  or  warsl'd,  wrestled 

Toyte,  to  lottur  like  old  age 

Wastrie,  prodigality 

Transniugritied,  transmigrated,  metamorphos- 

AVat,  wet ;  I  wat,  I  wot,  I  know 

ed 

^\'ater-brose,  brose  made  of  meal  and  watei 

Trashirie,  trash 

simply,  without  the  addition  of  milk,  but- 

Trews, tiowsers 

ter,  &.C. 

'I'rickie,  fuU  of  tricks 

Wattle,  a  twig,  a  wand 

Trig,  spruce,  neat 

Wauble,  to  swing,  to  reel 

Trimly,  excellently 

Waught,  a  draught 

^\'aukit,  thickened  as  fullers  do  cloth 

'J'row,  to  believe 

Trowth-  triitli.  a  petty  oath 

M'aukrife,  not  apt  to  sleep 

Tryste,  an  apjxiintment ;  a  fair 

Waur,  worse  ;  to  worst 

Trysted,  appointed ;   To  tryste,  to  make  an 

\\'aur't,  worsted 

appointment 

W'ean,  or  weanie,  a  child 

Try't,  tried 

Wearie,  or  weary ;  many  a  weary  body,  many 

Tug,  raw  liiie.  of  which  m  old  times  plough- 

a  different  person 

traces  were  ireqaently  made 

Wei-sor  ,  wcasand 

Tulzie,  a  quarrel ;  to  quarrel,   ofgW 

Wiivi/f'  the  stocking.     See  Stocking 

Twa,  two 

W.>e,  titi.e;    Wee  things,  little  ones;   Wee 

Twa-three,  a  few 

bit,  a  small  mat  ter 

'Twad,  it  would 

^Vecl,  well ;  Werlfare,  welfire 

Twal,   tv/elve ;    twal-penn;e  worth,   a  small 

Weet,  rain,  wetness 

quantity,  a  penny-worth 

Weird,  f;ite 

N.IJ   One  jienny  English  is  12d  Scotch 

We'se,  we  shall, 

Twin,  to  ])art 

^\'ha,  who 

Tyke,  a  dog 

Whaizle,  to  wheeze 

U'halpit,  whelped 

Whang,  a  leattiern  string  ;  a  piece  of  cneese, 

U 

UNCO,  strange,  uncouth ;  very,  very  great, 

prodigious 
Uncos,  iicv.'s 

bread,  &c. ,  to  give  the  strappado 
Whare,  where;  \Y'hare'er,  wherever 

Wlieep,   to  fly  nimbly,  jerk  ;   penny-wheep, 

UtiKftm'd,  unknown 

small  beer 
^^'hase,  whose 
M'liatreck,  nevertheless 
^Vhid,  the  motion  of  a  hare,  running  but  not 

friglnrd  ;  a  lie 
Whuidm  .  running  as  a  hare  or  cony 
\\'bigmeiceries,  w'lmiis,  fancies,  crotchets 

Ur.siikcr,  unsure,  unsteady 

Unskaiili'd,  undamaged,  unhurt 
Unwceiing,  unwitu^t'/j  unknowingly 
llpo',  ujK.'n 
Urcliin,  a  iiedgehog 

V 

\\'hingm'.  crying,  complaining,  fretting 

Whirligigi'Tns,  useless  ornamtnts,  triting  ap. 

VAP'RIN,  vapouring 

pcndagcs 

Vera,  very 

\\  hissle,  a  whistle  !  to  whislift 

V'irl.  a  ring  round  a  column,  Ace 

A\'hist,  si'cnre;   to  hold  oneV  whisht,  to  be 

Vittle,  corn  of  all  kinds,  food 

silent 

(12^ 

■                 ■ 

GLOSSARY 


W^hi«ik.  to  sweep,  to  lash 

Whivkit,  lashed 

\\'liittcr,  a  hearty  draught  of  liquor 

\\"lniii-stanc,  a  whin-stone 

W'hyles,  whiles,  sometimes 

\Vi\  with 

Wicht,  wight,  powerful,  stroEg;  invinlive ; 
of  a  superior  genius 

\Vii-k,  to  strike  a  stone  in  an  oblique  direc- 
tion ;   a  term  in  curling 

\^■il•kL•r,  willow  (the  smaller  sort) 

\\"w\,  a  small  wliirlpocl 

\\  itie,  a  diminutive  or  endearing  term  for 
wife 

Wilyart,  bashful  and  reserved  ;  avoiding  so- 
ciety or  appearing  awkward  in  it,  wild,  ti- 
mid, strange 

Wimple,  to  meander 

\\"imprt,  meandered 

M'im))liii',  waving,  meandering 

V\'in,  to  win,  to  winnow 

iVin't,  winded  as  a  bottom  of  yam 

iVin',  wind  ;    ^\'in's,  winds 

U'inna,  will  not 

\\'innock,  a  window 

Winsome,  hearty,  vaunted,  gay 

Wintle,  &  staggering  motion ;  to  Stagger,  to 
reel 

Winze,  an  oath 

Wiss,  to  wish 

\Vithoinen,  without 

M'izen'il,  hide-bound,  dried,  shrunk 

Woiiner,  a  wonder  ;  a  contemptuous  appella- 
tion 

Wons,  dwells 

V\'oo\  wool 

Woo.  to  court,  to  make  love  to 

Woodie,  a  rone,  raore  properly  one  nuade  of 
wulies  or  willows 

Woor-l)  ih.  tlie  garter  knotted  b«lcw  the  knot 
»iili  a  coupk  of  loop« 

(IS) 


^^'ordy,  worthy 

\\"orsct,  worsted 

\Vow,  an  exclamation  of  pleaiurt   jj   west 

dor 
\\"rack,  to  teaze,  to  vpr 
Wraith,  a  s])irit,  or  gnost ;  an  apparition  «x. 

actly  like  a  living  j)erson,  whose  appeara  -,« 

is  said  to  forbode  the  person's  approactli.  (» 

death 
Wrang,  wrong;  to  wrong 
AVreetii,  a  drifted  heap  of  snow 
AYud,  mad,  distracted 
\\'umble,  a  wimble 
Wyle,  to  beguile 
^^'yliecot,  a  HanncI  vest 
'Wyte,  blame  ;  to  blame 


Y 

VAD,  an  old  mare ;  a  worn  out  horse 

Ve ;  this  pronoun  is  frequently  used  for 

Yearns,  longs  much 

■^'earlings,  born  in  the  same  year,  coevaU 

Year  is  used  both  for  singular  and  plural 

Yearn,  earn,  an  eagle,  an  ospray 

Yell,  barren,  tliat  gives  no  milk 

\'erk,  to  lash,  to  jerk 

Yerkit,  jerked,  lashed 

■^'estieen,  yesternight 

Yett,  a  gate,  such  as  is  usually  at  the  381 

into  a  farm-yard  or  Held 
Yill,  ale 
\'ird,  earth 

^'okin',  yoking ;  a  bout 
^'ont,  beyond 
Yoursel'  yourself 
Yowe,  a  ewe 

Yowie,  diminutiye  of  yoTW 
Yuk,  Clmstm&a 


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